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She appreciated how prompt Anthony was. He’d arrived at exactly 8:34 a.m., which would give them enough time to get to the penthouse in the city of Asher Milton, also known as the Marquis of Brentlywood.
Working for Andrew Symmonds meant she was accustomed to the sight of wealth and luxury. After briefly glancing at the modern architectural design of chrome and marble, Blakely caught an elevator straight up to the penthouse.
If she were easily impressed, she’d be in awe of the fact that Asher owned the entire mammoth building.
As she sat in the back of the sedan limo—a smaller version of a limousine—she envisioned the seating arrangements for the four of them once she procured them and they were on their way to the jet. Two of them would sit opposite her, and one of them would sit next to her.
Sorted.
The building in which Asher Milton lived was on another level. Fine, she found it pretentious and over the top, but she wasn’t there to judge the place where he lived.
After the help desk tried calling him over ten times to let him know he had a guest, Blakely name-dropped the duke’s name, and without waiting for a reply, she caught an elevator and took it up to the penthouse.
Once the engraved steel doors opened, she stepped into a plush lounge area that squeaked it was so clean and so silent.
“Lord Milton,” she called. “I’m Blakely Cohen from the offices of the Duke of Brairbrook. Your father.”
Still met with utter silence, she walked further into the lounge and then whirled around until she found an opaque sliding door.
She knocked. Once. Twice. She announced herself again and then slid the doors open.
The sight before her nearly scarred her eyes. The clear evidence of a party lay scattered everywhere she looked in the vast expanse of the apartment. Ridiculously expensive bottles of alcohol were strewn everywhere, as were clothes. Female clothes.
Oh god.
Were those panties lying around?
“Lord Milton,” she called again, then almost had her skin leave her body when at least five absolutely naked women rose from behind a giant white leather couch, looking as disheveled as the apartment around them.
They whispered at her not to shout again as they held their heads, whimpered, and fumbled around for their clothes and shoes while blaming each other for being late for work.
Serves them right. Who did things like that on a Thursday night, knowing full well they had work the next day? Certainly not her.
But good god. Not only did the apartment reek like a brewery, but Blakely was sure she could taste it in the air around her as well.
“I’m looking for Lord Asher Milton,” Blakely said in her normal voice. She still had a job to do. One of the girls, holding her boobs as she looked for her shoes, pointed in the direction of a bedroom.
Right.
Straightening her jacket yet again, she knocked on the closed door and then had to knock again and again. No answer.
She turned the knob and had no choice but to enter the room. She was met with the profile of a man facing away from her, wearing nothing but a towel hung too low around his waist, with rivers of water zigzagging between the planes, dents, and boulders that made up the muscles in his back.
She may have blinked or taken a breath, but before she could do either again—blink or breathe—she toppled over onto the bed and was pinned down with her wrists restrained above her head in one of his hands.
He was also no longer wearing his towel.
“Well, well, well.” A deep, velvety-accented voice said, his fresh, minty breath coasting over her. This was Asher Milton, the Marquis of Brentlywood himself.
His hair was still soaking wet from his shower, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want to bury her face in his chest so she could inhale more of the scent of his soap, which was undeniably a brand completely outside her pay grade.
No, she meant she wanted to sniff his skin instead of breathing in the air in his apartment because she was certain she had seen alcohol streaming from a marble water feature in his lounge.
An alcohol fountain, to be sure.
“Lord Milton, my name is Blakely—”
“I don’t remember ordering an uptight librarian,” he said, his tone low as his eyes raked up and down her body before he sniffed the skin on her neck. Okay then.
