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“Excuse me?” Ava splutters.
Fucking hell, mate, shut the fuck up, or it’ll be the missus making a mess of you.
But he’s right. Historically, every woman to walk the rooms of The Manor are usually fair game. “I suggest you fuck off now,” I warn him calmly, working to relax my muscles, at the same time ensuring I keep Ava on my lap for everyone’s sake.
I watch as Chris slopes off, tail between his legs, and Ava peeks back at me. “Murderous?” she asks, much calmer than I know she feels.
“Deadly,” I growl, worshipping her face, hoping every man left in the bar sees it.
“Are all the women fair game?”
And here we go again. Little Miss Curious who so desperately doesn’t want to be curious. “You don’t join The Manor if you aren’t sexually adventurous.”
Her face screws up slightly, her gaze passing across the bar where what remaining members there are downstairs all laugh and chat, kiss and stroke. “How much is the membership?”
I smile to myself. Miss O’Shea is about to comprehend just how wealthy herold manis. “Why, do you want to join?” I ask, biting at her neck.
“I might.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, lady. Forty-five.”
“A month?”
“No,” I say, laughing. “Grand a year.”
“Shit,” she breathes, pushing the side of her face onto my mouth, squirming when I nibble at her ear and flex myself up.
“Mouth.”
She becomes stiff on my lap, trying to push back the building lust, like it would be forbidden to get turned on in my manor. It’s too late for that. Then she stills, and I know exactly what’s coming. “Does Kate pay that?”
“What doyouthink?” It would be anarchy if any paying members found out others were, to put it bluntly, getting their kicks for free.
“Sam. Sam paid.”
“At mate’s rates, of course.”
“I wish you had refused.”
“Ava, what Sam and Kate do is their business.”And Drews at the moment, apparently.
“How many members are there?”
I study the back of her head, amused by her twenty questions. It’s a conversation I never dared dream I’d have with Ava and be as comfortable as this. I need to see her face. Her eyes. So I direct her head back to my shoulder, waiting for her to look up at me. “Someone is very nosey, considering they hate the place.”
She shrugs as I peck at her cheek. “I’m not nosey.”
No, not at all. Just curious, and I like it. Perhaps one day she might even accept The Manor. Perhaps not. Would it be such a terrible thing if she didn’t? I consider her flat tummy. This is no place for a child. This isn’t even a place for the father of a child, especially one who’s married. Or a mother, for that matter. And, as Coral and Mike have proven, it’s no place for a couple. So what the fuck am I doing here? I look around the bar. I see Carmichael lounging on a velvet couch in the far corner, a drink in one hand, a woman in the other. He was like a piece of the furniture. Lived the life seamlessly. Except he didn’t need to depend on alcohol to do it.
“At the last count,” I say quietly. “I think Sarah said fifteen hundred-ish.” There were five hundred members when Carmichael died. “But they’re not all active at the moment. Some we don’t see from one month to the next, some of them meet people and start a relationship, and others take a break from the whole scene.”
“Is the restaurant and bar included?”
“No. The bar and restaurant are a separate entity. Some members eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner here four or five times a week. I wouldn’t be making much money if I included all meals and drinks in with their memberships. They have accounts they settle on a monthly basis.” I’m done talking about The Manor. But I know Ava is far from done. She wants more, but she’ll never admit it. “Turn around, I need to see you.” I help her to face me, and the moment I have her eyes, eyes that I’ve always found so expressive, so telling, I see it straightaway. Undisputed interest. “Would you like to see upstairs?” Or have I got this wrong? I don’t know. Not even her slight loss of breath tells me. So I wait, pensive and nervous, while Ava stares at me. She’s trying to decide—not if she wants to see it, I can see now quite clearly that she does. She’s deciding if she should admit it. She wants to know who I was when she walked into my office and my life. I could show her every square inch of this place and she still wouldn’t know who I was then. Not until I tell her. Who I am, where I’ve been, what I’ve seen.
What I’ve done.
“Okay,” she eventually says, so very quietly, as if ashamed to admit it. I can only nod, wondering if I’ve made another stupid error of judgment, like bringing her here this evening. This could go one of two ways.
