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He wanted Lacey Carstairs to become his mistress. She was smart, engaging and prepared to stand up to him. And their sexual chemistry was off the charts. But he’d never dated anyone long term, just ask Misty. And he did not intend to embark on something he couldn’t control. And at the moment his emotions where Lacey was concerned were a lot more volatile than he was accustomed to. She pushed buttons he had not even realised he had. And there was also the question of their past to handle—which was another novelty.
But, as he punched the button for the basement garage on the lift panel, he found he was reluctant to let her out of his sight.
‘It’s not a problem, I have several cars here,’ he said, deciding not to second-guess his concern on this occasion. It made sense not to let her go until they had agreed a time to meet again. ‘I’ll drive you home myself.’
‘Really, Brandon, there’s no need,’ she said again, becoming almost frantic.
The lift doors swished open on the parking garage. The garage concierge, who had been waiting for them, handed him a key fob.
‘The Mercedes is fuelled and waiting in Bay Six, Mr Cade,’ the man informed him.
‘What’s the address?’ he asked Lacey, taking her elbow again to direct her to the hybrid sports car. Tension rippled through her as they reached the bay.
‘Seriously, Brandon, I can catch a cab.’
The car doors unlocked automatically. He sighed as she stood stubbornly beside the vehicle.
Where was that mulish expression coming from? Because he was beginning to suspect her stubbornness was more to do with a desire to get away from him than anything to do with her sister’s health issues.
She still wanted him, so why was she so determined to push him away?
‘We can either have a stand-off, or you can give me the address. Your choice.’
Her brows lowered. ‘Okay, fine. But I’m not going to invite you in,’ she said.
He opened the passenger door and she climbed into the car. At last. ‘I don’t recall asking you to,’ he said, strapping himself into the driver’s seat.
He had no desire to meet her sister. He was not remotely interested in her domestic situation, other than the gratifying discovery she was not currently dating anyone. But then, he hadn’t expected her to be. There was something strangely innocent about Lacey Carstairs even now—five years after he’d been her first lover—which convinced him she was not the kind of woman who would sleep with more than one man at a time.
And, although he did not like the thought she must have slept with several other men in the intervening years, the sweetness of the girl he’d once known which still clung to her was another big point in her favour. Why he should find it so, he had no idea, because innocence—or even the suggestion of innocence—had never appealed to him before. But again, maybe it was simply Lacey’s novelty value.
‘Okay, as long as that’s understood,’ she said, finally relaxing enough to reel off an address in East London. ‘I don’t want Milly meeting you and putting two and two together to make five hundred,’ she added, as he keyed her address into the car’s GPS.
The device estimated a drive time of thirty minutes—past the Tower of London, through the City and then along the leafy Georgian terraces of Islington before they reached their destination in an up-and-coming neighbourhood he had never visited before. The car purred to life and he headed out of the garage into the morning sunshine and across London Bridge.
Thirty minutes was all the time he needed, he decided, to steamroller over all her objections and get her back in his bed, ASAP.
‘What did you mean, your sister would put two and two together and make five hundred?’
Lacey glanced over at the man she had been trying to ignore ever since she had been forced to climb into his luxury car twenty minutes ago. The question seemed innocuous. But there was nothing innocuous about Brandon Cade. And she was just now beginning to come to terms with that. Her abject panic, as his powerful muscle car cruised through the empty streets of white stucco-fronted Georgian terraces in Islington towards a date with destiny, not so much.
If only she could have texted Milly, ensured she didn’t bring Ruby out of the flat to greet them when they arrived—however slight the chance—she might have been able to stop freaking out. But how could she text her sister when Brandon was sitting right beside her, his intense, all-seeing gaze flicking between her and the road?
‘I just meant, she’d totally assume we were dating,’ she replied, knowing her sister’s misconceptions about her love life were the least of her worries. ‘Milly’s a hopeless romantic and she saw the photos of us last night at the ball. You’d probably be subjected to a half-hour inquisition on your intentions,’ she panic-babbled. ‘And you’ve spent more than enough time and money dealing with my family issues already this morning...’ The panic babble finally hit a dead end.
‘Interesting. I never would have guessed you’d be quite so concerned about disrupting the schedule of an arrogant, overbearing halfwit like myself,’ he mused, sending her a half-smile which made it clear he was teasing her.
She might have found his mockery disarming—might even have been able to see the funny side of the situation—if only she wasn’t so hyper-aware of the height, breadth and precariousness of the house of cards she had constructed over five years...
Even though Brandon was unlikely to meet his daughter today—Ruby would surely still be sleeping?—sweat crawled down her back like the fingers of a corpse.
Brandon had been charming and thoughtful, as well as annoyingly forceful in his determination to take her home—which only made the lies she’d told him, and last night’s booty call, all the more damning.
‘I’m sorry I called you that,’ she said, her contrition complete. Maybe he had deserved it once, but did he really deserve it now? Given all the things she’d kept from him? ‘I apologise.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ he said, surprising her again. ‘I’m sure my business rivals will attest to the fact I’m not a halfwit, but overbearing and arrogant probably aren’t far off the mark. I blame my over-privileged and entitled upbringing myself,’ he said with a harsh laugh, which made her wonder exactly how privileged his upbringing had really been.
She knew, because she’d read everything she could about him once upon a time, that he had grown up in the sole care of his father after his parents’ acrimonious divorce when he’d been only a few months old. He had never wanted for anything, materially speaking, his father having become a media baron long before Brandon—his only child—had been born. But she had often wondered what it must have been like growing up in the care of paid caregivers and in a string of exclusive boarding schools with no mother, no siblings and a father who must have been absent a lot of the time.
