Prologue
Theo
London, Four Years Ago
THE CONNAUGHT GLITTERS, as always, with the kind of opulence London does best.
Gilt mirrors, candlelight refracting off crystal and champagne towers dripping gold. The kind of place that makes a man like me look exactly what the tabloids call me—a billionaire playboy, loose with his money and even looser with his libido.
If only they knew how selective I was with expending both. How only the very best of the best were allowed within arm’s length, never mind in my conference room or in my bed. But to be fair, I have had more than my fair share of the finer things the world once liked to withhold—for a time—from me.
I always succeeded in seducing and claiming those finer things, of course.
The chase and eventual capitulation was part and parcel of the challenge.
And when I was done, bored, jaded, irritated and downright incandescent with all that winning, I had very little qualms about excising the current plaisir du jour from my life, even if some of them proved more challenging than others…
My phone vibrates against the linen-draped table again.
Speaking of the she-devil…
Don’t keep ignoring me. We need to meet. Please. It’s urgent.
Urgent. It’s always urgent. Always a riddle. Always a conundrum wrapped in a ludicrously solvable puzzle.
Tamara was rich, spoilt and had been born believing she was one-of-a-kind.
I disagreed with her own inflated opinion.
End of story.
But apparently not for her.
She refuses to go away or divulge why she’s been sending me variations of the same message, as if the mystery will keep me dancing to her tune.
One month ago, when my attraction to her had still been simmer-hot, I would’ve run, no, perhaps strolled to her.
Tonight, I drain my whisky instead and silence the phone, setting it face down.
Then I look up for something, anything, to take my mind off the dark mood that’s seething like banked embers beneath my skin.
My gut clenches when I see a woman walking towards me.
It’s not quite a gut-punch. No, those I save for when I have to deal with the liars and treacherous faithless who dare to cross my path.
Those who come within a whisker of reminding me of my past. Of the mother who made promises with the ease of breathing and yet broke them every single time, and the father who was too mired in his own misery to do anything about it.
But she captivates my attention all the same. I feel the kind of visceral clench that most definitely focuses my brain, my eyes, on more…rousing parts of my body.
She doesn’t belong in this decadent lounge and yet she owns it.
A crimson silk dress like that on a woman should look at best like a cliché and at worst gaudy, but on her it looks the opposite.
Her posture is so straight it could slice through glass and she moves as if the chandeliers shine for her alone. Regal. Untouchable.
It’s almost grimace-worthy that I know almost every female here tonight in some capacity or other, so I know she’s not an actress or one of the many bottom-feeders who cling to the A-list crowd.
But clearly, she was here for this VIP after-premiere party held by the Hollywood director extraordinaire, Ashon Biney—who also happens to be my cousin.
My presence in London for another of his mega-box office hits was a mere coincidence. Although his capitalising on my presence to bend my ear about joining his vision for building an Africa-based movie studio to rival the best of them, wasn’t so much of a coincidence.
I cross the floor towards the woman before my reasoning fully engages. Right along with the reminder that I’m supposed to have sworn off women post-Tamara. At least for a season. Maybe a month.
‘Looking for anyone in particular?’ I ask her, voice easy, mask in place. ‘Or do you always look that regal when you’re about to eviscerate random people?’
She turns and her gaze slams into mine. Cool. Dismissive. Her mouth curves in a line that says she’s measured me up in a second and found me wanting.
And I… Damn it, I shouldn’t be intrigued, but I am.
‘Only if they plan on wasting my time. But I live in hope and often give the benefit of the doubt.’ Her eyes linger on mine and I curb a smile when I see she’s having a hard time looking away. ‘Have you seen Ashon Biney?’ she asks.
A different kind of clench threatens. One fuelled entirely by flashes of jealousy.
‘Why would you be looking for my cousin?’ I ask, sharper than I intended, about a second before I remember Ashon’s earlier offhand remark about making time for a Ghanaian cultural curator working on the studio project.
He’d said it would be a way of focusing his lens on the rich cultural treasures to be found on the African continent to bring on board even more international eyes and investment.
I’d half-listened, but had I just met that Ghanaian cultural curator? Now, every detail matters.
‘Ah, you must be the infamous Theodore Biney.’ Her tone is velvet over a blade and her dark brown eyes gleam for a moment before she successfully dulls them.
‘I’ve heard you’re particularly passionate about your projects.
Shame about the other rumours I’ve heard.
Or are the tales of your playboy ways all lies, Mr Biney? ’
I smile like it doesn’t sting. Like the word shame doesn’t haunt me whether spoken offhandedly or in brutal repudiation. Even after all these years. Even after my mother has been long buried.
Instead I study her closer. I see the glitter of attraction in her eyes she can’t quite hide, despite her recent words.
The extra firm way she grips her clutch.
Maybe a held breath in the hopes that what?
I’ll deny whatever nonsense she’s read in the tabloids about me so she can give into the chemistry I feel pulling taut between us?
‘I don’t tend to dignify rumours with my time. But even if they were true, why settle for marriage vows when so many offer other invitations, Miss…?’
‘Rockson. Tessa,’ she says briskly, a hint of pre-emptory skirmish in her eyes.
The kind that comes from learning the once-bitten-twice-shy lesson.
‘You seem to have an entire toy store of invitations on speed dial.’ She arches a brow, then makes a show of looking around.
‘Since I don’t want to be confused for an appetiser, I’ll be on my way. ’
Even though it’s apparent I’m very likely being judged for another’s sins, the words brand themselves on my skin. She turns to walk away, already dismissing me. Intrigue turns to irritation, then to gauntlets and winning and the need for someone to end up on their knees.
I step into her path, sliding my hands into my pockets. ‘Careful,’ I murmur. ‘That sounds dangerously close to a fake, overexaggerated disinterest. What are you afraid of? Especially since we’re only having a conversation. That you might enjoy yourself?’
‘I’m not afraid of anything. But you singled me out the moment I walked into the room.
What you don’t know is I saw you too, noticed your bored, jaded expression.
So, at the very least, you probably intend to use me to alleviate that ennui.
But you see, I’m no one’s entertainment.
And I don’t deal with playboys.’ Again, there’s a faint edge that whispers at past romantic skirmishes from which she hadn’t escaped unscathed.
And absurdly, another flash of jealousy lances me.
‘I’m far from a boy and I don’t play when it matters.’
‘That sounds far too practiced, even for a man with your smooth sophistication.’
I smile, then enjoy another bout of smug satisfaction when her eyes widen, then drop to my mouth. Lingering there.
‘Is this where I observe your curious interest in me or shall we skip to the good part?’
‘Let’s do neither,’ she snaps. ‘Where’s your cousin? The man I actually came here to see?’
‘Not here any longer. But I know where he’ll be in the morning. I’d be happy to escort you from my suite to his, then.’
Her breath catches and her eyes flick to my mouth once more. Her fingers tighten harder on her clutch and I watch her fight the scenes I’ve planted in her mind. ‘Is that supposed to—’
‘Yes, it is,’ I cut in, catching her wrist. ‘You dislike playboys? Here’s your chance to tame one,’ I say daring her. ‘Take what you want. Use me for whatever itch you need scratched. Kick me out in the morning.’ If you can.
The sensual taunt hangs between us for one second. Two. Three.
For a moment, I think she’ll laugh dismissively.
Throw me a brittle smile, give me the neat speech about self-respect and how we’re strangers, then perform a choreographed exit designed to make me watch.
Instead she meets my gaze, chin held high, weighing pleasure against pride while the room falls to a hush and her skin warms beneath my thumb.
But her pulse beats fast against my fingers. Defiant. Interested.
And she doesn’t walk away.
She stares down at where I’m holding her, still moving my thumb over her smooth skin. Her lips part and her breathing quickens.
‘The idea intrigues you as much as it does me, doesn’t it?’
She doesn’t raise her gaze from my fingers. ‘Using you?’
‘Hmm.’ I press my thumb just that little harder into her flesh.
She barely fights a shudder. Then she licks her bottom lip. ‘Maybe…yes. Men like you…deserve their comeuppance now and then.’
‘You know very little about me, Tessa. But just this once, I’ll allow myself to be lumped in with the great unwashed.’
Her gaze lifts then and clashes with mine. I revel in both the battle and the unadulterated lust in her eyes. ‘If it gets you what you want?’
‘What we both want. Be good enough not to pretend this is all one-sided. Tell me you’re not wet for me right now.’
A strangle sound leaves her throat and her nipples harden against the fabric of her dress.
After an age, she tears her gaze away and looks around the room one more time. ‘He’s really not here?’
‘No. But I am. Very much so. And you already know you’ll regret it if you walk away.’
The pulse throbs harder at her throat. ‘I’m going to regret this anyway,’ she says, calm as a verdict, even as her nostrils flare and her wrist moves within my hold, not to free herself but to feel more of me. Of my touch. ‘Categorically. Tomorrow, I’ll hate myself for it.’
The certainty pricks somewhere deep inside me where I didn’t think I could feel it. I shrug because it’s nothing. It can’t be anything. I won’t allow it. ‘Then start the regret clock now and give yourself extra time. I’m very considerate like that.’
Her mouth twitches, with annoyance or amusement, I can’t tell. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘Frequently, I’m told,’ I say. ‘But I’m also efficient. My room’s upstairs.’
She exhales, a quiet surrender she tries to disguise as composure. ‘One night,’ she warns, lifting her chin. ‘No promises. No pretending we’re anything except a bad decision out for a good time.’
‘A specialty of mine,’ I murmur, releasing her wrist only to offer my hand.
For an age, she stares at it. Questions flicker over her face.
But she finally takes it, fingers cool and sure.
In the lift we stand apart, joined only by our clasped palms.
She doesn’t look at me until we’re at my penthouse doors, as if checking whether the man she’s choosing is the same one she should avoid.
‘Still time to run,’ I say giving her the option, even as I hold the keycard to the lock and it springs back in decadent welcome.
She licks her lips before that punch of defiance returns. ‘I never run,’ she says, and steps inside.
Undressing becomes its own argument. Her fingers strip off my tie like she’s discarding my armour, while I find the tiny hook at her nape and free the silk, more eager than I’ve been in a long time to discover what’s underneath.
The dress slides down with a sigh, revealing skin that steals words and births unvarnished awe.
She’s hourglass and dark caramel perfection.
From the clean lines of her collarbone to the quiet constellation of a mole near her ribs, to the faint scar at her knee that makes me want to know the story.
From coffee-tipped breasts that defy gravity, to the trimmed hair that guard her sex and the place I want to spend all night exploring, to the tips of her clenched fingers.
Beauty like this should be studied, not rushed, and for one disloyal second I wish I hadn’t drawn a neat border around the night. Then her palms are on my chest, my shirt is open to the sternum and the wish is swallowed by heat.
The night is a blur of red silk and smooth brown skin, sharp tongues and sweeter kisses. A war of wills played out in sheets and shadows, screams and grunts echoing like clashing swords where surrender feels like victory.
Morning comes with yet another clench I refuse to label as regret for the night being over so soon. I ignore the speeding streams of arguments I could mount to prolong this as the shower runs behind the closed bathroom door.
She emerges wrapped in a robe, wet hair tumbling down her back. For one moment she stops, her eyes tracking my bare chest up to my face. I watch as her nipples pebble and she rolls her hips in an unconscious echo of all the filthy things we did to one another.
Oh yes, she’s not nearly as done with me as she’d like to be, either.
‘No good morning for the man who made you scream his name half the night?’ I murmur, half-smile in place, daring her to admit she feels the pull just as intensely as I do.
Her gaze flicks away, armour snapping back into place. ‘Maybe I’m psychic,’ she says coolly, tying the belt of her robe tighter as she moves closer to where we dropped our things on the floor. ‘Because I knew I’d regret this. And look, turns out I was right.’
When her gaze attempts to shutter, I open my mouth. Perhaps to issue another challenge.
But my phone lights up on the nightstand. I don’t reach for it. Because I’m not quite done with Tessa Rockson.
Not until I see her eyes fall on the screen.
Whatever she sees makes her freeze. Her eyes widen in shock.
I deeply resent that twinge of dread in my belly, because I don’t know this woman well enough—except deeply carnally, of course—to be affected by the clear distress she immediately tries to hide.
But I pick up my phone and the two words displayed on there in a text from Tamara numb everything inside me.
I’M PREGNANT.
I never intended to keep this woman in front of me, so I guess it’s better that the very inconvenient thought of prolonging this, whatever it is, is now firmly out of the question.
I reach for my shirt. ‘Forgive me, I need to go. Guess it was fun while it lasted, right?’
The gaze that meets mine is blazing with fury and condemnation, leaving me in no doubt that I’ve just been dropped into a tanker of excess emotional baggage.
Then count yourself lucky for the swift exit.
‘I beg to differ,’ she spits out, eyes sparking fire. ‘You’ve made me complicit in cheating, Mr Biney. Once I wash this very bad taste out of my mouth, I can assure you, you’ll never earn my forgiveness.’