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“Oscar Winters.” She names him specifically because, outside of associates, he is my only true friend. Miranda is the only other person close to me, but neither of them know who I truly am.
“Yes,” I gush, “he is my biggest fan. We are practically joined at the hip, and he champions me wherever he goes. He is a huge fashion guru, has a keen eye for new designers, and I’m hoping one day he’ll branch out into the world of fashion,” I say honestly.
“So, does he help with your wardrobe?”
“He’d plan it if he could. Sometimes I come home, and he has rearranged the whole dressing room into seasons. I swear he has OCD.” I laugh, thinking of that particular time when I arrived home to find he had moved the entire room around.
“You two are very close.” Lauren eyes me with a soft smile—her hands clasped together on her narrow knees.
“Yes, god, he will hate me for telling you all this.” I manage to steer it away from my past, and we focus more on future campaigns and my upcoming swimwear shoot. After another hour, we finally call it a day.
I take a moment to nip to the washroom and freshen up. My lipstick is fine, so I touch up my foundation and exit into the lobby. I'm a few steps short of the door when the hairs on my arms raise, and I stop, some sixth sense alerting me I'm not alone. Checking over my shoulder, I look around, finding fairly inconspicuous guests enjoying their lunch or moving about the hotel, but something doesn't feel right. Straightening my back, I walk out of the doors to my car, idling outside. I waste no time in getting in and locking the doors.
“Thanks,” I throw carelessly out the window at the valet, my eyes sweeping the street for someone, a car, anything. I’m shaking, so I take care driving home, circling more than necessary. I do a full detour until I feel I can park up out front. Oscar has gone, and the cleaner has been and let herself back out.
I don't want to allow my thoughts to plague me, but I worry that my past has caught up with me. I keep busy checking perfume samples, and I send an email to Norma, who I'm looking to collaborate with. I head to bed early, conscious I have a casting in the morning.
Chapter Six
My next few days follow the same exhausting pattern. I barely have time to blink. I’ve had no further experiences with feeling as though I’m being followed, but I have ensured to keep a low profile just in case.
“You’re just being paranoid,” I mutter to myself as I head out of Selfridges and make it to my car unscathed. My drive is quiet, and as soon as I get home, I rush inside. I just want to lock myself away and regroup because I feel so out of step at the minute, and it’s playing havoc with my mind. I jog up the stairs and drop all my shopping bags against the ottoman in my dressing room with a tired sigh. I’ve worn myself out with shopping, buying enough new clothes to send Oscar into a frenzy. I change quickly into my favourite boy shorts and camisole before I head downstairs. There is a heap of things I could be doing, but I favour a night on the sofa. I walk into the living room and stop dead. Callan Scott is sitting calmly in my armchair—his knuckles white where he grips the armrests. Our eyes clash in an explosion of confusion, concern, and amusement. I’m so shocked that I hadn't seen the carefully placed gun on the armrest. Swallowing, I stare at him, worry etched on my face, but his gaze glitters in response. He’s enjoying this.
“Come here.” His murmur sends anxiety to spatter over my skin.
“How did you get in here?” I whisper, looking to see if the window is off the latch.
“That’s irrelevant. Come here, Zara.” I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath before walking slowly to him. He doesn't move. His gaze is riveted on my bare skin, and when I finally get to him, my legs are shaking, and my feet trudge like they are in quicksand. Every step feels like fifty, and my heart is showcasing the same exertion.
“I—”
“Don't speak. Kneel.” His stiff finger points to the ground at his feet. His chin juts out, eyes daring me to defy. Kneel? The absolute cheek!
“Excuse me!” I splutter. His big frame fills my chair, making it look fragile and rickety, and the suit he is wearing is William Westmancott. I recognise it a mile off. This man is rolling in cash and apparently rolling in through my door uninvited.
“You heard. Don’t test me,” he warns in a deep tone. Clenching my fists, I slowly lower myself down onto my knees. I’m not graceful. I’m shaking too damn much, and he knows it. I have no doubt in my mind he’s been the cause of my unease all week and that he is the one who has been following me. It’s enough to spark my anger, and I refuse to cower. I hold his stare, my chin lifting with defiance. A small cruel smile pulls at his lips, and he slowly relaxes back into the armchair, making it creak loudly. His breath stutters out on a long, heady exhale, and then silence settles through the house.
I don’t know how much time has passed, whether it’s been ten minutes or an hour. I can't move, and I daren't speak, but I refuse to baulk at his sharp gaze. Callan has run his eyes over my body time and time again. His hands and thighs are tightening and relaxing at irregular intervals, and his breathing is as short and ragged as my own. When his eyes hit low, his brows knit together, and he clears his throat gently. My legs are quivering, and each hair is standing to attention all for him. His big body, those black as night eyes, and the rich, woody aftershave is intoxicating my house. He’s a force, a big, commanding bear of a man, and my lonely little body is soaking up his attention. I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before. My own hands tighten in my lap, and his gaze finally finds my face. By the time he stands, and he does it with such fluid aggression that I gasp, my heart is ready to fly out of my chest. After a beat, nothing happens, and I dare to look up. I’m face to face with his groin area, and I can’t help but notice how aroused he is. Swallowing, I shake my hair out and find icy cold irises staring down at me.
“Is that supposed to be my reward for being such a good girl?” I sneer, my stomach dizzy with butterflies. I have no idea what is happening between this man and me, but I have never experienced the level of cell-deep intensity I have when I am around him. I feel noticed. Truly recognised. Alive. It’s both terrifying and intoxicating for very concerning reasons. This man is dangerous.
“No.” His voice is gruff.
“So what was that, if not foreplay?” I rock back on my knees; my eyebrow lifted pointedly at him. I know my camisole has lifted. I can feel the cool air around my navel and his eyes zone in there. I tug at the hem and grit my teeth, a blush working its way up my neck. “What the hell do you want, Callan?” I snap.
Something about Callan Scott, as intimidating and tough as he is, pulls at a side of me I don’t recognise. My guard, that I have kept up all these years, has dropped as quickly as I’m ready to drop my knickers for him. The realisation leaves me astonished. My ears begin to ring, and my limbs become heavy. Holy shit. I’m actually attracted to this beast of a man. I look at him in confused fascination. All those years of me running from a past are pointless in the face of this beautifully cruel man. He is fear. Whatever I was hiding from before was a mere joke compared to him.
He drops to a crouch, and it takes years of experience not to let myself recoil in front of him, as even lowered, he is a head taller than me. He tips my chin, and those marble eyes give my face a thorough once over, and my mind flashes with images of him unsuited.
“So he told you my name?” Shit.
I want to point out that he has my address, and what is more, he felt he could let himself in, but he shocks me further by saying, “I like my women pliant.” I can't help it—my face scrunches up because I’m so far removed from pliant around him, it’s laughable. He chuckles. “I know,”he adds, frowning deeply and staring at my lips. “So why am I here?” I wanted to ask him the same thing. Excitement flutters around my stomach. His thumb rubs down my cheek to tug my lip, and my tongue, the sneaky devil, dips out and almost catches his digit. He tuts, and I press my lips together. “You intrigue me, Zara Reid, and I can't work out whether that is a good or bad thing.”
I stare up at him and sigh heavily.Intrigued, but not attracted. I’m disappointed, but I fight the impulse to let it show and stop my mouth from turning down.
“May I speak?”
My brow hitches up, and he nods, fighting a smile at my mocking tone.
