Chapter 1
One
NORTH
December
The driveway led through woodlands for what felt like forever before the trees disappeared to reveal grass for miles around a mammoth building in the distance.
Flags were situated throughout the rolling plains of the estate—the golf course.
Only a few months ago I stood on that grass with my mate Theo Cavendish, pretending like we knew what the hell we were doing.
Carefree. Confident. Celebratory. Assured my life was about to change in the best way.
Oh, aye, it had changed all right.
In the worst fucking way possible.
Ardnoch Castle was a rambling, castellated mansion, six stories tall and about two hundred years old, situated on thousands of acres of estate.
When Aria Howard had reached out to my management to ask if I was interested in membership, my publicist Annette was on at me to buy it.
I thought it was a bunch of pretentious, overpriced nonsense.
But they said it would be good for my image, and I liked the idea that the club was in my homeland.
I hadn’t expected to fall in love with the place.
I hadn’t anticipated that because of its security, I’d need it as a haven to run to.
The low winter sun hovered over the horizon, making the windows of the castle glint in welcome.
Wakefield, the butler, appeared out of the large main entrance before the Range Rover had even pulled to a stop on the gravel.
The weirdest part of the transition from impoverished nobody to famous actor was the way people wanted to do everything for me.
It chafed a bit. Wakefield opened my door as soon as the car stopped.
“Welcome back to Ardnoch, Mr. Hunter,” he said with warm professionalism.
No hint of accusation or judgment in his voice.
“Thank you, Wakefield,” I replied, even though I didn’t want to speak to anyone.
“Any luggage, sir?”
No. As soon as my team told me what the papers would publish this morning, I jumped on a plane to Scotland.
I’d been in LA, getting ready to fly back to London to start shooting Birdwatcher, the spy movie that was going to change my life.
With a director as infamously brilliant as Blake Forster at the helm, it was set to rival James Bond.
A knot twisted in my gut.
Annette told me to flee to Ardnoch to ride out the coming storm while my agent, Harry, warned me this might wreak havoc with the film and its schedule.
That’s all I needed. To be the reason the studio lost money on delays because the tabloids were fucking savage animals who didn’t give a shit what they put anyone through.
“My luggage is arriving separately,” I told Wakefield. “I don’t know how long I’m going to be staying at the moment.”
“Very good, sir. Let me show you to Ms. Howard’s office.”
I groaned inwardly. “Can’t you just show me to my room?” It was like being taken to the head teacher’s office. A tantalizingly sexy head teacher. But I wasn’t in the mood for Aria Howard’s disdain today.
“Ms. Howard would like to speak to you, sir,” Wakefield said carefully.
Oh, aye, right. I had a feeling I knew what she wanted to say, and honestly, I wasn’t sure my frayed bloody nerves could take it.
Usually, I got a kind of perverse satisfaction out of her aloof and caustic reaction to me. It had been like that between us from the moment we met, and I had no clue why. Today, however, I just wanted to hide in my fucking room and have no bugger bother me.
Reluctantly, I followed the butler to Aria’s office.
She spoke with Wakefield before I entered the room and I knew I was in a bad way because her husky voice did nothing to me. Her voice normally made my cock twitch. I didn’t think the woman realized she had the bedroom voice to beat all bedroom voices.
The butler withdrew as I stepped inside, and he closed the door behind us. Aria stood, drawing my attention. I didn’t want to look at her, but I couldn’t stop myself.
Women had fallen at my feet my whole life.
Aye, that sounded horrifically arrogant, didn’t it?
But it was the truth. I’d never had to work hard to get a woman in my bed.
In fact, since becoming famous, I’d even found them in it without invitation.
Problem was, I couldn’t do casual sex. It wasn’t something I talked about a lot because my mates would probably look at me like I was off my nut, but casual sex left me feeling empty.
I enjoyed being in a relationship. Enjoyed feeling needed.
I was in a long-term relationship with Cara Rochdale the first time I’d met Aria, so the fact that another woman made my blood hot beyond bearing incited some major fucking guilt.
But after what Cara did to me only fourteen hours ago, I no longer felt guilty about my attraction to the estate manager.
I didn’t know what it was about Aria Howard that excited me.
Aye, she was beautiful, but I’d dated beautiful women before, Cara among them.
I think it was the dichotomy of Aria’s overtly sexual, physical appearance to her cool, efficient manner.
My gut twisted as our eyes met and held.
Aria had striking eyes. Mossy green and so light and clear against her olive complexion and almost black hair.
Everything about her made a man want to sink into her.
Plump lips, spectacularly large tits, and full hips.
She was tall, almost my height in heels, and her length stretched her voluptuous curves, but thankfully not enough.
Her waist drew in, giving her that perfect, exaggerated hourglass.
I’d overheard an actor gossiping with another on the estate a few months back and Aria had come up in conversation.
She’d called Aria fat. Jealous cow. Aria was perfect.
Unfortunately, she hated me even before today.
I waited for her disgust to twist that knot in my gut even tighter.
She rounded her desk to face me, and I insolently drew my eyes down her body and back up again, provoking her.
Her lips pursed for a second, and she crossed her arms over her chest. I wondered if she knew her body language gave her away.
She was always crossing her arms over her chest in my presence.
Guarding herself. Defensive. I had no idea what I’d done to this woman, but I didn’t have my usual energy to figure it out.
“Room key?” I held out my hand.
Her eyes flared at my abruptness. “I put you in the Bruce Suite.”
I didn’t say thank you. Any other day I’d appreciate it, but I wanted to disappear.
Aria drew herself up, her arms dropping to her sides.
“I want you to know that security here at Ardnoch will protect your privacy. You’re safe from the tabloids, and you can come and go across the estate as you please.
If you wish to leave the estate for any reason, we’ll assemble a team to escort you. ”
Shock rendered me speechless. For the past few months, I’d dropped in on Ardnoch for a few days here and there, and anytime I met Aria, she was antagonistic as fuck.
The conclusion I’d come to, since as far as I knew I had done nothing to warrant her disdain, was that she knew of my background and thought I was beneath her.
However, today a story broke in the news that I was complicit in the murder of a homeless man when I was thirteen years old … and she’d decided to be almost welcoming. It made no sense.
“Is there anything else you need, Mr. Hunter?”
I sneered. “No judgment today, sweetheart? I thought you’d be salivating over this?”
Her eyes widened at the nastiness in my voice, and I tried not to drown in them. “I was reminded this morning that I should never believe what I read online.”
Her kindness, for some reason, made everything worse. “A man did die,” I bit out.
“Yes, but I don’t know the circumstances. I do know that you were a child when it happened, and the man standing before me saved my friend from an assault and an experience she would never have gotten over.”
I stiffened. Aria was referring to an event a few months ago.
I’d been talking with one of the security guards on the estate, Walker Ironside.
He was well known in the biz as a top private bodyguard.
Elite military background. And he was Scottish.
I’d been trying to lure him away from the estate to work for me when we’d heard a scream from one of the rooms. It turned out a housekeeper, Aria’s friend Sloane, had warned Walker of a member’s untoward behavior.
He’d been keeping an eye on the situation and thankfully had a key to the bastard’s room.
Byron Hoffman was the son of a studio head and considered himself untouchable.
When Walker and I burst into his room to find him suffocating Sloane while attempting to rape her, I’d wanted to tear the evil son of a bitch to shreds.
News had just broken that Byron Hoffman had been arrested for multiple counts of rape. Rumor was that the owner of the estate, Lachlan Adair, was responsible for finding his victims and convincing them to come forward.
“One has nothing to do with the other.” I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans and shrugged with a smirk. “A man died. Turns out I’m the scum you thought I was.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “I never thought you were scum, Mr. Hunter.”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You think I’m scum, I think you’re an uptight, frigid, elitist snob. That’s life. Now, do you have my room key or not?”
Aria’s eyes flashed, her jaw clenching seconds before she whirled and marched around her desk.
She threw open the drawer, snatched up the key card, and strode back to me to slap it in my open palm.
Then she crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin toward the door in a silent get out.
Buried behind the anger, I saw her hurt.
That knot in my gut twisted again.
I opened my mouth to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come. What I said was true. And I didn’t want her fucking sympathy or understanding.
Karma had caught up with me. Maybe I did deserve this.
I was an orphan from Falkirk, a commuter town between Glasgow and Edinburgh, where the socioeconomic divide was vast. I could anglicize my broad Scots accent and mask my origins, but there was no scraping off the poverty or dirt that clung to the soul of that wee foster kid who chased after boys who’d had humanity beaten out of them from the start.
They’d done things I was brutally ashamed of. We had.
Maybe dangling this life in front of me was part of Karma’s punishment. It wasn’t just enough to have the past catch up with me. She wanted me to feel the pain of knowing what it was like to come out the other side … only to have a better life ripped away from me.
Aria Howard was the daughter of Hollywood legend Wesley Howard and world-renowned supermodel Chiara Bellucci Howard.
She’d met the fucking president of the United States.
Lived a privileged life in Malibu. And every inch of her was immaculate.
Not a hair out of place. Nails perfectly manicured.
Makeup subtle and perfume expensive. Rolex on her wrist, diamonds in her ears.
Clean and luxurious all the way to her soul.
She’d never known dirt. Never waded near scum.
She was … Not. For. Me.
I’d known that from the moment we’d met. And I didn’t need the goddamn reminder now.
Without another word, I turned and slammed out of her office.