One-Night Heirs

CHAPTER THREE

MOSTPEOPLEASSUMED Saint was a risk junkie. Or at the very least, someone who didn’t care about risks so long as he got what he wanted.

That wasn’t true at all. As a child, he had learned to calculate risk very quickly. If he’d wanted to speak to his father, he’d first weighed whether the subject was worth his father’s wrath at having his work interrupted. If he’d tried out for the school play, would it be worth his mother showing up tipsy and making it about her?

Later, when he and his father had found common ground in programming and hardware, his mother had been hurt and jealous. Which would he rather endure? His mother’s heartbreak or his father’s belittling lecture?

Those early consequences had prepared him for the perils in later relationships: the friend who was only a friend because he wanted access to the newest smart phone, or the girl who liked his money more than she liked him, or the people who invited him to parties to elevate their own social standing.

Saint was always aware when people were trying to use him. He often allowed it. There were silver linings: business advantages, amusing entertainments. Sex.

But he had taught those around him to expect very little from him beyond a sarcastic remark and that he would pick up the bill.

This woman beside him in the elevator, with her quirky sense of humor and understated beauty and fiery depths of passion, felt like a gamble he ought to take more time to calculate. His reaction to her was too sharp. Too intense. That kiss had been so hot, so all encompassing, he’d been seared from hairline to toenails.

This wasn’t purely a carnal reaction, though. That was the part making his nerve endings sting with danger. He’d been drawn to her all night—from the first glimpse to his compulsion to leave the gala with her. To learn more about her. To touch her.

She was as puzzling as she was alluring. Both open and closed. That air of mystery, with her refusing to give him her full name, tickled at his well-strung trip wires, but what damage could she possibly do to him if they spent the night together? He didn’t have anything in his room that he wasn’t prepared to lose. He weathered bad publicity like a seasonal storm.

Hell, he was in a small storm right now, he recalled with annoyance, but that fiasco with Julie reminded him to make clear to Fliss that this evening had its limits.

“I’m due in New York first thing in the morning,” he said. “I’ll be leaving for the airport in a few hours, but stay the night. Use the room tomorrow if you want. Visit the spa.”

The gold in her irises tarnished slightly before she blinked it away. “I have to work tomorrow.” Her mouth twitched. “But you’ve very good at this. Very smooth.” She looked down to where she held her purse and gave its clasp a few nervous clicks. “I’ve always wondered how these things were handled. By that I mean, um, I don’t have condoms.” She peeked up at him in question.

“I do.” Always. There was one in his pocket that he’d pulled from his stash out of habit.

Fliss nodded, but her brows pulled into a frown of consternation.

“Second thoughts? That’s fine.” He might actually die if she changed her mind, though. He’d never felt horniness like this. So specific. So beastly. Like there was a creature inside him that would run her to ground if he had to, he needed her so badly.

“No, I want to.” Her cheeks stained that pretty shade of pink that stoked the fire in his gut. “It’s only that I felt swept away a few minutes ago. Now the mood is a little...” She wrinkled her nose. “Logistical. I’m being silly.”

The doors opened, and she stepped out, looking to him to show her the way.

Her befuddling honesty and that phrase always wondered how these things were handled made him realize she didn’t have the experience he did. It provoked a sort of endeared protectiveness in him. As he brought her to the door of his penthouse, he felt almost as though he was initiating a virgin. He wanted to take care with her and meet all her expectations. These sorts of interludes ought to be nothing but pleasure with no reason for regret. He wanted to give her that.

He wanted to give her the best sex she’d ever had so he would remain in her thoughts forever.

And where the hell had that come from?

“Do you want a drink?” He let her in and closed the door, sealing them into a lounge lit only by a table lamp. He threw off his jacket, trying to cool his blood. Patience.

“No, thanks.” She was clicking the clasp on her purse again.

“I don’t do this as often you might think, you know.” Not anymore at least. “It suits me to let people think I’m a slut, but I’m actually quite picky.”

“Which sounds a little like you’re trying to make me feel special. I’ll chose to believe you.” She set her handbag on a side table and wandered past the sofa to the glass doors that led onto the terrace. Outside, recessed lighting cast pools of gold from beneath the hedges that surrounded the patio table and chairs.

“You are special.” He came up behind her and trailed his fingertips down her bare arms, pleased when he heard her breath catch. He was growing addicted to this chemistry that simmered and fizzed between them. It stoked his own arousal, making him twitch and thicken behind his fly. “Do you always react like this?”

“Ha. No.” She hugged herself, rubbing the bumps that had risen on her arms. In the faint reflection on the glass, her gaze sought his. “Do you?” Her voice held challenge. Cynicism.

Her question plucked at one of the razor-thin piano wires he used to protect himself. He did not react like this to every woman he met, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

“If you want to talk because you’re nervous, that’s okay.” He trailed his fingers down her arms again, making her body twitch in a shudder of sensuality. “But I’d rather you let me sweep you away.”

“I am nervous,” she admitted breathlessly, voice thinning to a whisper. “But I do want that.” She started to turn into his arms.

He stopped her.

“Stay like this,” he persuaded, hearing his voice drop into his chest with anticipation.

He drew a line from one side of her neck to the other, scooping her hair onto the front of her shoulder, exposing the bow that secured the haltered front of her gown. He pressed a kiss to her nape.

Such a tiny thing, but it made her shoulders flex. This power he had over her would be heady if there wasn’t such an answering ring of need that crashed like a gong inside him. Sexual aggression had its place, but this wasn’t it. He kept a tight leash on his inner caveman and nuzzled into the fragrance of almonds and peaches that clung in her hair.

“Can I untie this?” he asked against the strings that dangled against the top of her spine.

“Yes.” The word was a rush of breath.

Slowly, slowly, he drew the tail free, watching her shoulder blades pull together as the loops released. He kissed her nape and the tip of her shoulder and scraped his teeth against the tendons at the base of her neck, then bent lower to suck the skin on the fleshy part of her upper arm.

A shiver and a helpless sound was his reward.

As the front of her gown fell forward, exposing her chest in a translucent reflection of pale gold and shadowed nipples, she brought her arms up to shield herself.

He slid his hands around to cup her breasts for her, very aware of the way she drew in a ragged breath at his possessive action. He involuntarily groaned with possessive pleasure as the weight of the warm swells filled his palms.

“Put your hands on the glass.” His voice was barely working, coming out graveled by the carnal hunger that was gathering inside him.

The position forced her to lean forward slightly, pushing her ass into his fly and settling her breasts more fully into his hands. He could feel her excitement in the way her breaths trembled, and knowing he was causing it sent electric signals of need straight into his groin.

He stepped even closer, covering her as he continued to kiss her nape and slowly massage the firm globes that filled his hands. He played with her nipples until they were so taut his mouth watered with longing to suck on them. Hard.

She made a noise that sounded like pain.

“Too rough?” He stilled his touch.

“No. It’s—I can’t...”

“It feels good?” He smiled against her hairline, blowing softly behind her ear as he returned to lightly pinching and toying with her nipples.

“Yes.” She hung her head as though tortured beyond her bearing. She shifted restlessly, arching her breasts into his hands while pressing her ass deeper into his crotch, rocking with invitation.

Exquisite.

“Are you feeling needy, angel? Do you want my hands under your skirt? Here?” He released one breast to slide his palm down her stomach, then pressed the fall of silk deep into the hot valley between her thighs. When he flexed his grip against her mound, the noise she made was incredibly erotic, making his skin feel too tight to contain him.

“I like my hand here, too,” he assured her in a graveled voice, squeezing in gentle but firm rhythm, enjoying the kinky sensation of trapping her in a vise of pleasure so she shook and wriggled for escape but had nowhere to go.

He nudged her feet open so he could step between them and pressed forward, giving her a firm seat for the grind of her ass against his aching erection while he tongued her earlobe. The sexy noises that emerged from her throat and the rock of her loins against his throbbing sex were an erotic purgatory he could have lived in forever.

“Harder,” she moaned, dropping her hand to cover his.

“Keep your hands on the glass, Fliss. Or I’ll stop.” That was a lie. There was no possible way he wanted to stop. He wanted to fondle her until she broke, but he needed to stay in control. If she started running things, this would be over in a short minute.

He nearly lost it anyway when she dutifully set her hand back on the glass and he glimpsed the way she bit her lips in contrition. Damn, he wanted to kiss that mouth of hers.

But her obedience had granted him permission to continue having his way with her.

With a growled noise of approval, he straightened enough to gather her skirt with both hands until he could burrow beneath the silk to thighs that trembled at his first touch. He stroked all over the warm skin, everywhere that he could reach, from thighs to buttocks to lower back, then forward to her stomach and back down to her thighs.

Her ass wore a V-shaped slash of silver lace held up by three narrow bands of midnight blue strung across her hips. The delicate lace trapped his hand when he slid his touch inside the front. Her plump mound was like holding heaven. She moaned and stepped her feet farther apart, pressing into his touch, all slick and hungry and helpless to her own desires. When she rocked against his fingers, coating them in her essence, he felt omnipotent.

“I want you like this,” he said in a guttural voice he barely recognized. “I want to be inside you right here. Like this.”

He wanted a thousand other things, too. He wanted his mouth here where his fingers were making her whimper. He wanted her tongue in his mouth and her naked body riding his. He wanted their sweaty bodies contorting into every lewd act he could think of, but right now, he needed to be inside her.

Miraculously, she dipped her lower back and lifted her hips with invitation.

“Yes. I want that, too.”

Felicity had thought she was waiting for love. For romance. For commitment and a sense of a future with a man. She didn’t look down on women who engaged in casual sex, but she had never imagined it was for her. Until now.

Until this man made her feel that walking away without seeing where this could go would be cheating herself in some way. Even in the elevator, as she’d recognized how effortlessly he made clear this was a one-night stand, she had sensed that if she didn’t seize this chance to be with him, even for a few hours, she would regret it.

And here she was, regretting nothing, despite behaving in a way that was so flagrant it bordered on debauchery. She was letting him touch her in very intimate ways. He was commanding her to keep her hands on the glass, and she did it because she needed to have sex with him or she would die. Literally die. That was how it felt.

When he removed his hand from her tanga, she moaned in loss. But she could feel the brush of his knuckles against her backside as he released himself from his fly.

The hot weight of his erection sat against the lace that descended into the crease of her buttocks. In the glass, she saw him bite the edge of a small square packet.

“I like your underwear,” he told her as he covered himself with the condom. “You’ll have to bill me for the replacement.”

Before she processed what he meant, the thin cords at her hips snapped and they fell away.

“Oh.” The sad sob in her throat turned into a more carnal “Oh” as he swept his touch all over the flesh he’d bared, reigniting the fires of need inside her.

Then he was guiding the thick crown of his erection to explore those same slick, eager places, seeking her entrance. Prodding.

She bit her lip, tensing. She’d only done this once before, literally once. Would it hurt the same way?

The pressure increased, hinting at discomfort, but she was so wet and he was so gradual, giving light pulses of his hips as he rolled his fingertip around the swollen knot of her clit. He teased her into relaxing and accepting the unfamiliar intrusion.

At the last moment, she instinctually arched, and that was it. He slid all the way in so his hips were flush against her buttocks. The fabric of his trousers was an abrasion against the backs of her thighs. His steely shape stretched and filled her so she quivered at the thoroughness of his possession.

His hands clasped her hips, holding her steady. His breath hissed, then he leaned over her and his teeth opened against her nape, threatening to bite before he turned it into a hot, wet suckle that had her toes curling in her shoes.

She didn’t know how to make sense of all these sensations. The combination of hot arousal and erotic titillation and the wildness of the whole experience was overwhelming, quelling her ability to think. She simply was.

He started to move, and the magnitude of the experience exploded.

Waves of pleasure rolled up and down her body with the slide of his hand across her naked torso. The retreat and return of his lovemaking was carnal and raw and so delicious she couldn’t help making animalistic noises of pleasure. She was an animal. She’d been caught in the forest by a potential mate, and that was what they were doing. Mating. It was earthy and primal and pure.

“Can you come like this?” he asked against her ear. “Or do you need...” His long fingers swept to the front of her thighs again. He caressed where he was moving with slow, deliberate power, then higher, plucking at her swollen clit.

A storm gathered within her. She couldn’t speak because all the energy in the universe had shrunk to a fine point inside her. All that existed was the astounding pleasure coiling in her loins, gathering.

In rough desperation, she pushed herself backward into his thrusts, increasing the impact of his hips.

He grunted in surprise. One hand shifted to bite into her waist, and the speed of his thrusts increased. His hips slapped her buttocks, and the nucleus of need inside her detonated, expanding outward like a supernova.

She cried out with the strength of her climax, but his shout was louder. He pounded into her, engulfing her in a fire that should have incinerated her but only licked and burned and melded her so indelibly with him, she didn’t imagine how they could ever be separated.

Saint left later than he should have and had to sleep on the flight rather than using the time to prepare his presentation as he’d originally planned. That was his first misstep.

He hadn’t meant to crash on impact, but the dubious thrill of creating slides of market analysis tables was no match for his lack of sleep and abundance of energetic sex.

What the hell had even happened to him? He’d been wrung dry in those first moments in the living room. He’d been emptied of thought and strength and purpose by an orgasm that had bordered on pain it had been so powerful.

He should have soothed them both with a cuddle on the couch and a glass of wine. He’d felt inordinately tender, given how she’d been trembling, but when he’d withdrawn and turned her, their lazy kisses had caught fire again as quickly as their first.

His dumb stick had hardened, and his hunger for her had sharpened to acute. When he’d drawn back, both of them gasping for air, he’d been half barbarian, ordering her gruffly, Get into my bed. I want to do that again.

She had said exactly what she’d been saying to him all night. Yes.

What a drug. What a night. His orgasms had gotten better and better every time. He couldn’t even count how many she’d had. He would’ve been delivering another several right now if he’d stayed, which he’d been very tempted to do.

That was why he’d made himself leave—while she’d been sound asleep. Otherwise, he suspected he wouldn’t have been able to. But this meeting with his father and the rest of the board was too important. The fact that he’d considered risking their ire by rescheduling so he could stay and make love with Fliss had been enough of a caution light that he’d decided it was better to put space between him and the spell she’d cast over him.

Even so, he was still reliving that incredible sex when he arrived in New York and jumped into the shower of the hospitality suite below his office. He was recovering, he noted ruefully, and turned the tap of the shower to cold, then downed a hot coffee while he dressed in a clean shirt and suit.

Saint ought to have been mentally preparing for what would be a typically abrasive encounter with his father, but his libido was pacing restlessly inside him, griping, When can I see her again?

Never, if he was a jerk about it and failed to express his appreciation for their very exceptional night.

It wasn’t like him to be so punch-drunk from any woman, let alone one he’d just met. Hell, he still barely knew her. Most of their conversation later in the night had revolved around, Does this feel good?

“Sir?” His assistant, Willow, poked their head in. They were nonbinary, usually wearing a suit and tie for work while keeping their long red hair in a tidy bun. Occasionally they wore eyeshadow behind the ever-changing frames of their glasses, and they changed their colorful shades of nail polish almost daily. “The board is assembled and ready for you.”

“One minute.” He handed Willow the notes he’d scribbled as he’d made his way from the jet to the helipad on top of this tower.

He should have been first to the meeting and was already ten minutes late, but he took out his phone and found the number for Smythe’s in his contacts.

“Mr. Montgomery.” The smooth, feminine voice of Ms. Smythe greeted him in her cool boarding-school accent. “How may I serve you today? I have an opening in an hour.”

“I’m in New York,” he replied. “But I’d like to purchase some earrings. Something like you showed me last time.” He’d intended to give Julie a pair to wear to the gala, but Fliss deserved something he picked out especially for her. “Something with blue in them.” The shade of her gown was imprinted in his memory forever.

“Contemporary? Let me text you a few photos. One moment.”

Smythe’s was a mystery—both shop and owner—but Saint had been warned that prying would result in his no longer receiving invitations to shop there, which would be a pity. He’d dealt with many high-end jewelry merchants throughout his adult life, and Ms. Smythe of Knightsbridge was the best. She was professional and discreet. Her gemstones were ethically sourced and always of the highest quality, the settings one of a kind. Saint occasionally bought investment pieces but more often purchased a parting gift when a liaison was wrapping up.

Today he was looking for more of a welcome gift.

His phone pinged. He flicked through the photos. One showed a chandelier of blue sapphires in yellow gold; another was a platinum cuff with alternate rows of diamonds and sapphires.

“The ones with the marquis diamonds,” he told Ms. Smythe. The earrings were the size of a silver dollar. The leaf-shaped white diamonds formed a laurel wreath around an eye-catching twist of round-cut blue sapphires. They radiated elegance and graceful artistry but maintained a playful quality that he thought suited Fliss.

“A lovely choice. Are these for delivery, or shall I hold them for you?”

“Delivery. Her name is Fliss.” His inner beast had been too focused on sex to ask for her number before she’d fallen asleep. “She’s a fashion designer, but you’ll have to do some legwork for me.”

Saint had peeked into her purse on his way out the door. He’d found a twenty-pound note, her smartphone, which had been locked, a pair of physical door keys—who even used those anymore?—an invitation to the gala, an Oyster card and a lip gloss. Not even a driver’s license or a debit card to give him her full name.

The gala invitation had had Delia Chevron’s name on it, which made sense. A model would have friends in fashion. He’d written his number on the card, then slipped away.

“Check the hotel,” he said to Ms. Smythe, mentioning the one he always used when visiting London. “If she’s still in the room, you can deliver to her there.” He had meant to take care of this while he’d been flying to ensure he wouldn’t miss her, but so much for that. She’d worn him out, and he’d needed his beauty sleep. “If she’s already gone, contact Delia Chevron. They were supposed to attend last night’s art gala together, so she’ll know how to reach her.”

Actually, Fliss had said she had known her date wouldn’t be there. Saint spared a moment to ponder that. He’d been so taken with her, he’d glossed over how cagey she’d been about her reason for attending and leaving before it had really started.

“I’d love an excuse to connect with Ms. Chevron.” Ms. Smythe’s warm voice redirected his thoughts back to the business at hand. “I’ll be in touch once your gift has been delivered.”

“Thank you.” He ended the call and strode down the hall to begin the presentation he would have to make up on the fly.

He wasn’t worried. He had spent the last year and a half taking a new approach to military-grade encryption software, personally establishing proof of concept before writing the code for the prototype. This was his baby, and he knew it inside and out.

His father preferred to spearhead product innovation. That would be the stumbling block. Theodore Montgomery had an ego to match the fortune and tech empire he’d built. His control of Grayscale was of the tight, iron-fist variety. In his mind, he was the only genius in the family. His son was far more suited to what Fliss had called “glad-handing.”

Saint knew this software would be his contribution to the legacy of his name, though. It would allow him to step out from under his father’s shadow and be seen as an innovator in his own right. A leader of the next generation in the technological revolution.

The project was ready for the next stage of development. He needed a team of top-tier programmers to build it out, improve the interface, test it, refine it, then take it to market. That required a huge investment of time, money and other resources. Since it would also become Grayscale’s next flagship product, he needed the board on board.

“Good morning,” he said as he entered the room filled with middle-aged suits and skirts. On the screen at one end of the room were another half dozen faces, all pinched with expressions of disapproval. His father looked at his watch.

Willow, first-class executive assistant with a minor in miracle making, had translated Saint’s chicken scratch into slides that appeared with the click of a button.

Saint dove straight into his business case, emphasizing the value and benefits this software would have for Grayscale, including its appeal to both high-level institutions and small-business users.

“We already offer encryption software,” someone said.

“This one is better.” It was sacrilege to claim anything his father had designed needed improvement, but it did. “This will become the preferred solution,” Saint promised.

The protests kept coming, though, making Saint look to his father, starting to suspect that Ted had poisoned the well before Saint had entered the room.

“You’re asking for a lot of money to make a copycat product.”

“Are you really prepared to take on a project this complex and carry it across the line? It could take years.”

“There’s a difference between charm and leadership, Saint.”

“Don’t hold back,” Saint drawled to hide his irritation. “Tell me what you really think of me.”

“We think it’s half-baked, son,” Ted Montgomery said. “Did you not pick up on that?”

“Of course it’s half-baked. That’s why I’m here. To get an oven,” he shot back.

“It feels premature,” the CFO said soothingly while looking around to collect nods of agreement.

“No problem.” Holding his father’s stare, Saint said, “I’ll start my own company and develop it myself.” It was the contingency plan he had hoped not to need. It would be far more convenient to develop this under the Grayscale umbrella. It would integrate better, and he didn’t want it to belong to anyone else when he eventually inherited Grayscale.

“With my money? You’re exactly like your mother,” his father accused in his scoffing way, right there in front of the assembled board. “You think you can help yourself to what’s behind door number three and use it for whatever pissant idea arrives in your head.”

“Actually, Dad, I’m exactly like you.” Saint took his ire and offense and any other emotion he was currently experiencing and condensed it inside himself. He became his father, sharp and hard and clear as a diamond. Able to cut through anything. “This is a business decision. I’m about to revolutionize the sector. If you’re so shortsighted that you want to cut me off financially, I’ll pick up the phone and ask one of our competitors to develop this with me. Frankly, I’d prefer to focus on this without the distraction of running Grayscale.”

Which he did run, whether his father wanted to acknowledge that or not.

Ted wore the title of president and had the final say on top-level decisions, but his social skills were abysmal. Saint spent half his life on a plane. Under the guise of schmoozing, he kept an eye on the executives in their global offices, ironing out wrinkles before they became problems. He resolved sticky issues around politics and international regulations and carried the emotional burden of those who were frustrated by his father’s closed-minded leadership so his father wasn’t bothered by power struggles and other conflicts.

“I’m well aware you regard this company as a distraction,” Ted said with heavy sarcasm, waving toward the screen mounted on the wall. It was back to showing the remote board members, but Saint got the message that his name and face were appearing on screens for all the wrong reasons, thanks to Julie. “You couldn’t even stay for dinner last night because you were chasing a new skirt. Clean up your act, son. Show me you’re serious about taking the reins, and maybe I could think about retiring. Then you can pour my money into whatever hairbrained scheme you like.”

Saint snorted. “You’re never going to retire.”

The man was seventy and came into the office daily so he could bark orders and continue to feel important. The power he’d amassed here was the only thing that gave him anything close to a sense of satisfaction with his life.

Saint turned his attention to the room at large.

“Just so we’re clear, this prototype was built on my own time, on my own equipment, by me. It’s mine,” he said. “There are people intrigued enough by what I create to want to steal it. They know what I did with the early AI configurations, and they want to know what I’m up to next.” That was why Julie had been nudged by her debtors to copy his files. “My work has value. Maybe not to you, but I won’t let that slow me down.”

He gathered up his laptop and walked out.

“Saint.” One of his allies on the board caught him outside the door. “Don’t do anything rash. Give me some time to change some minds. There are a lot of people on your side.” He nodded toward the boardroom.

“Oh, really,” Saint snorted.

“Especially when it comes to your eventual rise to the throne. But they can’t get behind you unless they know you’re ready. Maybe take your father’s advice? Showing up late today only gave everyone a chance to gossip about you. Maybe if they didn’t have anything to gossip about...”

Saint hated to back down or put off his goals, but he also knew his father wasn’t stupid. Ted might have flexed his muscles for their audience, but when it came to dollars and sense, he would do what was best for Grayscale.

So would Saint, and honestly, the publicity he’d generated with Julie wasn’t great for Grayscale.

“Point taken,” he muttered and detoured to the head of their PR department on his way back to his office.

“Xanthe,” he greeted as he entered her office.

She was a chic single mother of two who always appeared to be fully in control. Saint suspected she had her days, same as everyone, but the fact that no one ever saw her in a state of stress was a testament to her skill at manipulating optics.

“Saint.” She wore her black hair in a neat bun and had her pointed collar turned up around her chin. “You were on my calendar to see today.” She left her desk to join him where he was making himself at home on her sofa.

“Because of Julie? I just took a whipping over that, thanks. No one appreciates the free publicity I generate to keep Grayscale a household name.”

“Some people are so ungrateful, aren’t they?” she mused. “Perhaps if you hadn’t poured gasoline on her ‘woman scorned’ routine by moving on so quickly?”

Fliss?“It was a few photos at the curb. They’ll turn anything into a story, won’t they?”

“Who is she?” Xanthe asked.

He started to say No one, but that didn’t feel right. He skipped past answering and said, “I’ve been informed that my image needs work. What do you suggest?”

“Honestly? Marriage. To someone appropriate,” she added quickly. “Conservative. A good family. Well-known, but not famous. Not infamous.”

“Not interested,” Saint said flatly. He’d had a front-row seat on the train wreck that was his parents’ marriage. It should have been dissolved decades ago. As far as he was concerned, marriage was nothing less than a cage fight to the death.

“An engagement, then,” Xanthe said with her signature ability to pivot. “Temporary. It doesn’t have to be real, but it would convey that you’re settling down.”

Fliss leapt to mind, but he didn’t want to bring her into a fake engagement while they had a real affair. Too messy. And if he engaged himself to someone else, he couldn’t see her.

“No.”

“All right. Final offer.” Xanthe used a tone of exaggerated patience and leaned back while crossing her legs. “Celibacy. And I’ll circulate rumors that you’re looking for a wife. That signals you’re maturing and developing a sense of responsibility.”

“I have a sense of responsibility. That’s why I’m here. But sure. Run with that.” He flicked his hand.

“Did you hear the part about living like a monk? It won’t work if you continue having affairs.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He liked Xanthe, he really did, but she was annoying as hell in how well she saw through him.

“Look,” he said with the same exaggerated patience she was using. “There is an image that served me well for a long time but no longer does. That’s why I’m here. I have changed, even if the narrative hasn’t.”

“I know you don’t have nearly as many affairs as you’re reported to have,” she acknowledged smoothly. “I also know that when I say ‘no women,’ you hear ‘except that one you really want to have an affair with.’ I mean none, Saint.”

He looked away, dismayed. He did want an affair with one particular woman. She was all the way across the Atlantic, though. And he hadn’t made any promises to her. He could absolutely leave her with the earrings and never contact her again.

“This is important to me,” he stated decisively. “I need the board to know I’m all grown up and can be trusted with the keys to the car.”

“I’ll start the whispers today.”

“Thank you.” He nodded and rose.

“You’re going to call her, aren’t you?” Xanthe said, staying seated while watching him knowingly.

“We’ll keep it under the radar,” he promised. He ignored the tsk he heard as he left.

He was far more disturbed by Ms. Smythe’s report when he got back to his office.

Delia Chevron didn’t know any designers named Fliss.