The Mister Read online

  “Well, I might be pregnant,” she says.

  What? I blanch.

  “Kit. Not you. You’re too bloody careful.”

  Damn right. The ground seems to shift beneath my feet.

  Kit’s heir!

  Could this be any more complicated?

  “Well, if you are, we’ll figure out what to do,” I reply, feeling at once a moment of relief that all this responsibility might pass to Kit’s child, but also a sudden and overwhelming sense of loss.

  The earldom is mine. For now.

  Shit. Could this be any more confusing?

  Chapter Three

  My phone buzzes as I’m in the back of a black cab on my way to the office. It’s Joe.

  “Mate,” he says. “How’s it going?” He sounds somber, and I know he’s referring to my frame of mind since Kit’s death. I’ve not seen him since the funeral.

  “I’m surviving.”

  “Fancy a bout?”

  “I’d love to. But I can’t. I have meetings all day.”

  “Earl shit?”

  I laugh. “Yes. Earl shit.”

  “Maybe later in the week? My épée is getting rusty.”

  “Yes. I’d like that. Or perhaps a drink.”

  “Yeah, I’ll see if Tom’s around.”

  “Cool. Thanks, Joe.”

  “No worries, mate.”

  I hang up. My mood morose. I miss being able to do what the fuck I like. If I wanted to fence in the middle of the day, I could. Joe is my sparring partner and one of my closest friends. Instead I have to go into the office and do some bloody work for a change.

  Kit. I blame you.

  * * *

  The music is pounding at Loulou’s. The bass reverberates through my chest. I like it this way. The noise level cuts down on unnecessary conversation. I make my way through the crowd to the bar. I need a drink and a warm, willing body.

  I have spent the last day and a half in tedious meetings with the two fund managers who oversee the considerable Trevethick investment portfolio and the charitable trust; the estate managers from Cornwall, Oxfordshire, and Northumberland; the managing agent who handles the London properties; and with the developer who’s remodeling the three mansion blocks in Mayfair. Oliver Macmillan, Kit’s chief operating officer and his right-hand man, has attended all of them with me. Oliver and Kit had been friends since Eton; they’d both gone to the London School of Economics, until Kit dropped out to fulfill his aristocratic duty following the death of our father.

  Oliver is slight, with a shock of unruly blond hair and eyes of an indeterminate color that miss nothing. I have never warmed to him. He’s ruthless and ambitious, but he knows his way around a balance sheet and can deal with the numerous personnel who answer to the Earl of Trevethick.

  I don’t know how Kit managed it all and held down a fund-manager job in the City. But he was a smart, slick bastard.

  Funny, too.

  I miss him.

  I order a Grey Goose and tonic. Maybe he succeeded because Macmillan had his back, and I wonder if Oliver’s loyalty will extend to me or if he might take advantage of my naïveté while I try to come to terms with all my new responsibilities. I just don’t know. But the fact is, I don’t trust him, and I make a mental note to stay circumspect in my dealings with him.

  The one bright spot in the last couple of days was a call from my agent telling me I have a job next week. I’d taken a great deal of pleasure in telling the old gorgon that for the foreseeable future I would no longer be available for modeling work.

  Would I miss it?

  I wasn’t sure. Modeling could be mind-numbingly boring, but after I was sent down from Oxford, the work had gotten me out of bed and given me an excuse to stay in shape. I also got to meet hot, skinny women.

  I take a slug of my drink and scan the room. That’s what I want now: a hot, willing woman, skinny or otherwise.

  It’s Let’s Fuck Thursday.

  Her raucous laugh catches my attention, and our eyes meet. I see the appreciation and challenge in her gaze, and my cock stirs in anticipation. She has pretty hazel eyes, long brown glossy hair, and she’s drinking shots. What’s more, she looks sensational in the leather minidress and her thigh-high stiletto boots.

  Yes. She’ll do.

  * * *

  It’s two in the morning when I let us both into my flat. I take Leticia’s coat, and she turns immediately and wraps her arms around my neck. “Let’s go to bed, Posh Boy,” she whispers, and kisses me. Hard. No preliminaries. Her coat is still in my hands, and I have to steady myself against the wall to stop us both from falling. Her attack takes me by surprise. Perhaps she’s more pissed than I thought. She tastes of lipstick and Jägermeister—an intriguing combination. I thread my fingers through her hair and tug, freeing my mouth.

  “All good things, sweetheart,” I chide against her lips. “Let me put your coat down.”

  “Fuck my coat,” she says, and kisses me again. All tongue.

  I’d rather fuck you.

  “We’re not going to make it to the bedroom at this rate.” I put my hands on her shoulders and gently push her away.

  “Let me see your place, then, model-slash-photographer-slash-DJ,” she teases, her soft Irish accent a complete contrast to her direct manner. I wonder if she’ll be as forthright in bed as I follow her down the hallway into the drawing room, her heels clicking on the wooden floor.

  “Do you act, too? Great view, by the way,” she says as she glances through the wall of glass that looks out over the Thames. “Nice piano,” she adds, and turns to face me, her eyes alight with excitement. “Have you fucked on it?”

  Lord, she has a foul mouth.

  “Not recently.” I dump her coat on the sofa. “Not sure I want to right now. I’d rather bed you.” I ignore her jibe about my current lack of a stable career. I haven’t told her I have an empire to run. She smiles, her lipstick smudged and no doubt smeared over my mouth. The thought displeases me, and I run my fingers over my lips. She saunters toward me and tugs the lapels of my jacket, forcing me forward.

  “Okay, Posh Boy, show me what you can do.” She puts her hands on my chest and rakes her nails over my sternum to the edge of my jacket.

  Shit! It’s almost painful. She has scarlet talons, not nails, talons that match her lipstick. She slides my jacket off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and starts undoing the buttons on my shirt. The mood she’s in, I’m relieved that she takes her time and doesn’t just rip my shirt open—I like this shirt! Slipping it off me, she lets it fall to my feet and digs her nails into my shoulders. Deliberately.

  “Ah!” I hiss in pain.

  “Cool ink,” she says as her hands travel from my shoulders down my arms and toward the waistband of my jeans, her nails leaving tracks across my stomach.

  Ow! Boy, she’s aggressive.

  I grab her hand and tug her into my arms, kissing her roughly. “Let’s go to bed,” I say against her mouth, and before she can answer, I take her hand and haul her after me to the bedroom. There she pushes me toward the bed and again rakes her nails over my belly as her fingers find the top button of my jeans.

  Fuck! She likes it rough.

  I flinch and catch her hands in front of her in a viselike grip, but in reality I’m avoiding her nails.

  You want to play rough? I can, too.

  “Play nice,” I warn. “And you first!” I release her, moving her away so I have a good view. “Strip. Now,” I order.

  Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she puts her hands on her hips, her mouth set in an amused challenge.

  “Go on,” I urge.

  Leticia’s eyes darken, and she pauses. “Say please,” she whispers.

  I smirk. “Please.”

  She laughs. “I love your posh accent.”

&nbs
p; “It’s just an accident of birth, sweetheart. Keep your boots on,” I add.

  She returns my smirk, reaches behind her, and casually unzips her tight leather dress. Wriggling her hips from side to side, she shimmies out of the dress and lets it slip down the length of her boots. I smile. She looks incredible. Slim, with small, firm breasts, she’s wearing black French knickers and a matching bra and the thigh-high boots. Stepping out of her dress, she sashays toward me with a beckoning, sexy smile and grabs my hand. With surprising force she tugs me to the bed, then places her hands on my chest and pushes me hard so that I sprawl on top of the quilt.

  “Take them off,” she commands, and points to my trousers as she stands over me, placing her feet wide apart.

  “You do it,” I mouth.

  She needs no further prompting and crawls up the bed to sit astride me, grinding down on my crotch. She drags her nails down my abdomen toward my fly.

  Ow!

  Fuck this! She’s dangerous.

  I sit up suddenly, taking her by surprise, and flip her onto her back, straddling her and pinning her arms down on either side of her head. She struggles beneath me, attempting to buck me off.

  “Hey!” she protests, glaring up at me.

  “I think you need to be restrained. You’re dangerous.” My voice is soft as I gauge her reaction.

  This could go either way.

  Her eyes widen, and I’m not sure if it’s fear or excitement.

  “Are you?” she whispers.

  “Dangerous? Me? No. Not nearly as much as you.” Releasing her, I reach over to the bedside cabinet and from a drawer take out a long silk restraint and a pair of leather cuffs. “Do you want to play?” I ask, holding up both implements. “Your choice.”

  She gazes up at me, pupils large with lust and anxiety.

  “I won’t hurt you,” I reassure her. That’s not my scene. “I’ll just keep you in line.” But the truth is, I’m worried she’s going to hurt me.

  A teasing, seductive smile tugs at her mouth. “The silk,” she says.

  I smile and toss the cuffs onto the floor: dominance as a form of self-defense. “Pick a safe word.”

  “Chelsea.”

  “Good choice.”

  I tie the silk around her left wrist and thread it through the slats of the bed’s headboard, and then, taking her right hand, I deftly tie her right wrist to the other end of the restraint. With her arms outstretched, her nails are rendered harmless, and she looks fantastic.

  “If you really misbehave, I’ll blindfold you, too,” I murmur.

  She squirms. “Will you spank me?” Her voice is less than a whisper.

  “If you play nice.”

  Oh, this is going to be fun.

  * * *

  She comes quickly and loudly. Screaming and straining against the silken straps.

  I sit up between her thighs, my mouth slick and wet, and I flip her over and slap her arse.

  “Hang in there,” I mutter, and slip on a condom.

  “Hurry up!”

  Fuck, is she demanding!

  “As you wish,” I growl, and thrust inside her.

  * * *

  I watch the rise and fall of her breasts as she sleeps. Out of habit I go through my ritual of recalling everything I know about the woman I’ve just fucked. Twice. Leticia. Human-rights lawyer, sexually aggressive. Older than me. Likes to be restrained. Likes it a lot. But forthright, assertive women typically do, in my experience. She’s a biter, screams on orgasm. Vocal. Diverting….Exhausting.

  * * *

  I wake with a start. In my dream I’d been searching for something elusive, a vision that keeps appearing and disappearing, an ethereal vision in blue. Then, just as I’d glimpsed it, I’d fallen into a wide, deep abyss. I shudder.

  What the hell was that about?

  The pallid winter sun seeps through the windows as reflections from the Thames play on the ceiling. What has woken me?

  Leticia.

  Boy, she’s an animal. She isn’t asleep beside me, and I can’t hear anyone in the shower. Perhaps she’s left already. I listen carefully for any noise within the flat.

  It’s quiet. I grin. No awkward small talk. The day is looking up until I remember I have a lunch appointment with my mother and my sister. I groan and pull the covers over my head. They’ll want to discuss the will.

  Bloody hell.

  “The Dowager,” as Kit referred to her, is a formidable woman. Why the fuck she hasn’t gone back to New York, I don’t know. Her life is based there, not here.

  Something clatters to the floor somewhere in the apartment. I sit up.

  Shit. Leticia is still here.

  That means conversation. Reluctantly I haul myself out of bed, drag on my nearest pair of jeans, and go to find out if she’s as wild in broad daylight as she is in the dark.

  I pad down the hallway in my bare feet, but there’s no one in the drawing room or the kitchen.

  What the fuck?

  I turn around at the kitchen entrance and halt. I’m expecting to see Leticia, but a slight young woman stands in the hallway staring at me. Her eyes are large and dark, reminding me of a startled doe, but she’s dressed in a ghastly blue housecoat, cheap overwashed jeans, old trainers, and a blue headscarf that conceals her hair.

  She says nothing.

  “Hi. Who the hell are you?” I ask.

  Chapter Four

  Zot! He is here, and he is mad.

  Alessia freezes as his blazing green eyes meet hers. Tall, lean, and half naked, he towers over her. His hair is an unruly chestnut mess with gold highlights that glint beneath the chandelier in the hallway. He is as broad-shouldered as she remembers, but the tattoo on his upper arm is far more intricate than she recalls; all she can distinguish is a wing. A smattering of hair on his chest tapers down over a toned stomach. Then resumes beneath his navel and travels farther down into his jeans. The tight black denim is ripped at the knee. But it’s the hard line of his full lips and his eyes, the color of spring, in a handsome, unshaven face that make her look away. Her mouth dries, and she doesn’t know if it’s from nerves or…or…from the look of him.

  He is so attractive!

  Too attractive.

  And he’s half naked! But why is he so mad? Did she wake him?

  No! He will send her away from the piano.

  Panicked, she drops her gaze to the floor as she flounders for something to say and clutches the handle of the broom to keep her upright.

  * * *

  Who the hell is this timid creature standing in my hallway? I’m completely bemused. Have I seen her before? An image from a forgotten dream develops like a Polaroid in my memory, an angel in blue hovering at my bedside. But that was days ago. Could it have been her? And now she’s here, rooted to the hallway floor, her impish face pale, her eyes downcast. Her knuckles grow whiter as she clasps the broom handle tighter and tighter, as if it’s anchoring her to the Earth. The headscarf conceals her hair, and an oversize, old-fashioned nylon housecoat swamps her small frame. She looks totally out of place.

  “Who are you?” I ask again, but in a softer tone, not wanting to alarm her. Wide eyes, the color of a fine espresso and framed by the longest lashes I’ve ever seen, look up at me, then back at the floor.

  Shit!

  One peek from her dark, fathomless eyes and I’m…unsettled. She’s at least a head shorter than me, perhaps five feet five to my six feet two. Her features are delicate: high cheekbones, an upturned nose, clear fair skin, and pale lips. She looks like she needs a few days in the sun and a good hearty meal.

  It’s obvious that she’s cleaning. But why her? Why here? Has she replaced my old daily? “Where’s Krystyna?” I ask, growing a little frustrated at her silence. Perhaps she’s Krystyna’s daughter—or granddaughter.

  She con
tinues to stare at the floor, her brow furrowed. Her even white teeth chew at her upper lip as she refuses to meet my gaze.

  Look at me, I will her. I want to reach forward and tilt her chin up, but as if she reads my mind, she raises her head. Her eyes meet mine, and her tongue darts out, and nervously she licks her upper lip. My whole body tightens in a hot, heavy rush as desire hits me like a demolition ball.

  Fuck a duck!

  I narrow my eyes as annoyance swiftly follows my desire. What the hell is wrong with me? Why does a woman I’ve never met have such an effect on me? It’s irritating. Beneath fine arched brows, her eyes grow wider, and she takes a step back, fumbling with the broom so that it falls from her hands and clatters onto the floor. She bends with easy, economic grace to pick it up, and when she’s standing once more, she fixates on the handle, a slow flush staining her cheeks as she mumbles something unintelligible.

  Bloody hell! Am I intimidating the poor girl?

  I don’t mean to.

  I’m annoyed at myself. Not her.

  Or maybe it’s another reason. “Perhaps you don’t understand me,” I say, more to myself, and I run a hand through my hair as I bring my body to heel. Krystyna’s mastery of English extended to the words “yes” and “here,” which often meant lots of gesticulating on my part when I needed her to undertake tasks that went beyond her usual cleaning routine. This girl is probably Polish, too.

  “I am cleaner, Mister,” she whispers, her eyes still downcast and her eyelashes fanned out above her luminous cheeks.

  “Where’s Krystyna?”

  “She has returned to Poland.”

  “When?”

  “Since last week.”

  This is news. Why the hell did I not know this? I liked Krystyna. She’d cleaned for me for three years and knew all my dirty little secrets. And I never got to say good-bye.