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She pressed the ignition and the engine of the Bugatti flared powerfully to life. Finn’s lips twitched with happiness as she felt the power and throttle beneath her.
Her fingers glided over the gears as though it were a musical instrument and she its maestro. She glanced into the rear vision mirror to check for oncoming traffic and met the disconcertingly direct stare of Caradoc.
She flicked her gaze away instantly and focussed on the roads. The reliable roads that she knew as well as any London cabbie. It was almost three hours drive to Bagleyhurst but the route was clear and the weather was as good as could be expected at that time of year.
She pointed the car into traffic and took off.
Caradoc scanned his emails as they drove, flicking almost all of them to either Alexi or his right-hand man Jonas to deal with. Caradoc didn’t have time for small problems. He was a big picture man, designed to see the overall shape and make plans accordingly.
And yet he saved some to respond to personally, simply to give him something to do.
He told himself he was trying to keep distracted from the arduous play-acting that would ensue when he arrived at Bagleyhurst. The necessity to show everyone that he was the grieving son when he was, in fact, no such thing.
“Do you know why I am here?”
The question surprised them both. He had no idea he was even thinking it, and yet he heard his mouth articulate the words, and as he was not on his phone, he assumed he must have been speaking to her.
“Yes, sir,” she said, her cheeks once again flushing, this time with guilt. Fascinating. Why should she feel guilty? Gower’s death was no one’s fault but the old man’s. He’d eaten himself to an early grave. He’d drunk himself there too, for good measure, and in case either of those hedonistic delights had failed him, he’d thrown in a cigar most days, just to be certain.
Gower Moore was a notorious entrepreneur; his death was the stuff of public fodder.
She was wearing gloves. They were black and leather, but he could see that her fingers were slim and long. He watched as she splayed them wide and gripped the wheel more tightly. Their eyes locked in the mirror once more and he felt another swift punch of arousal.
Grief could do that
to a man. Especially a man like Caradoc who enjoyed blowing off steam by getting laid.
He hadn’t been at all close to Gower – that was an enormous understatement – but he was still affected by his death. If only for the inconvenience of it all. His emotions had been strained; his concentration pushed. And now? This woman with her haunting eyes and soft, creamy skin was making him want to forget anything but the kind of pleasure his body was capable of feeling.
“I’m sorry about your father.”
His eyes bore into hers until she was obliged to return her attention to the road.
“I’m not sure I am,” he responded, with an honesty that surprised them both.
Her gaze flew to his once more. “You weren’t close.”
“No.” He turned his attention to his window. But he didn’t see the low-lying suburban sprawl of Outer-London.
He saw Gower’s eyes – eyes so like his – glaring at him in displeasure.
Caradoc could remember each and every time he’d met his father. Eight times in his whole life, and the first five encounters had left him with the distinct impression that he had been irredeemably unimpressive.
Only the final three meetings, when Caradoc Moore had firmly established himself on the international money markets as a wunderkind to watch, had Gower shown any kind of paternalistic interest and pride in his own son. Then Caradoc had ceased to be a child no one wanted and had become instead an asset. A man Gower was pleased to speak of and claim as his descendant.
Only after proving himself had Caradoc been worthy of Gower’s love. And by then, it had been the last thing Caradoc had wanted.
In fact, when offered, Gower’s praise had seemed an insult. Caradoc had instinctively shrugged it off. Perhaps, as a young boy, he might have needed that gift.
But not as a powerful, successful, lauded magnate. At twenty-five, Caradoc’s first hedge fund had made him more than two billion dollars and Caradoc had become a name to be feared.
Almost a decade later, he’d ridden the wave of global financial torpor and emerged high on top. His instincts were legendary, as was his determination.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
He flicked his cool gaze back to the driver. “You weren’t.” But he’d bored of the conversation, and it was obvious in his demeanour. He returned to his emails and dealt with yet another simple matter.
The car cruised onwards, and gradually the scenery outside changed.
