Chapter 15
When the Rolls-Royce slows to a stop, Humphrey lets the screen down before getting out and opening the door for me. I step out and look up at the building as one of the staff invites me inside. I smile my thanks at Humphrey as he hands my bags over to Stan and tips his hat. The registration plate of the Rolls-Royce has me shaking my head in wonder at the never-ending attention to detail.
AH 1.
Anouska is in the lobby when I pass through the glass interior doors. “Miss Lazenby.”
“Please, call me Amelia. Do you ever have time off?”
“A weekend here and there.” She smiles, giving Stan instructions to deliver my bag to the Windsor Suite. A suite? Does that mean my luxury spa day includes an overnight stay?
“Should I check in?” I ask, motioning to the lady behind the white desk.
“I’m looking after you today,” Anouska says. “Let’s talk treatments. What shall I book you in for? A massage?”
“Definitely,” I say, rolling my shoulders, feeling the tension there as she hands me a leather-bound folder. I flip it open and scan the list of treatments available, but the truth is, I’m not absorbing any of the information, my nerves accelerating.
Anouska must see my struggle. “Maybe a manicure and pedicure too?”
“Yes, that,” I say, snapping the folder shut. I look around, wondering where Jude is. But I don’t want to ask. Anouska must know why I’m here. Right?
“Well, it’s lovely to welcome you back to Arlington Hall.”
“Anouska, do you know why I’m here?”
“You’re Mr. Harrison’s guest.”
I nod, assessing her disposition. “Does he have many guests ?” The question falls out without warning, and she smiles.
“Let me show you to your room.”
No answer.
And isn’t that an answer in itself?
“Please, this way,” she says, motioning to the stairs, but she barely makes it to the bottom step before she stops, turning at the sound of someone calling her name. I catch Anouska’s profile, definitely seeing her lips purse in displeasure. “Katherine,” she grates, smiling. It’s forced. I follow Anouska’s eyes and find a black-haired woman in workout clothes, her face damp. Even sweaty and red in the face, she’s obviously very attractive, her legs long and willowy, her stomach taut, not a ripple or crease in sight.
“Where’s Jude?” she asks.
“Otherwise engaged,” Anouska replies, clipped. “Can I help?”
The woman, Katherine, spies me hovering nearby and smiles before returning her attention to Anouska. “Just tell him I’m looking for him. He’s not answering his phone.”
“Will do.” Anouska starts to climb the stairs, and I follow, looking back over my shoulder as Katherine walks through the doors toward the spa. Damn, who was that?
I follow the curve of the rail to the top, and we cross a circular landing, my feet sinking into the sumptuous carpet, the pattern a swirl of creams and beiges. And still spotless. I have the urge to remove my shoes. We pass a dozen gloss-white ornate doors, until Anouska stops at some double doors. She taps the card on the reader on the wall and turns the gold knob. “Here we are,” she says, smiling as she opens the way.
I wander in, gazing around, floored. It’s bigger than Abbie’s apartment. Probably even my parents’ home. A lounge, a dining area, a workspace, all dressed beautifully in creams and matte gold.
“Am I moving in?” I ask on an uneasy laugh, following my feet to a door that leads to the bedroom. A dressing room, a bathroom.
“Mr. Harrison requested the best suite for you.”
“But it’s a bit wasted if I’m going to be in the spa all day.”
Anouska smiles. “Make yourself comfortable, Amelia. Your first treatment is in half an hour. You know where to go, right?”
“I know,” I say as she leaves me. I see my bag on the giant bed and go to it, pulling out my dress and hanging it on one of the gold hangers in the dressing room. My one dress has a whole room to itself. I fetch my shoes and set them on the cream carpet.
Chew my lip.
Glance around.
I open a wardrobe and find a supersoft white robe, the Arlington Hall crest embroidered on one breast. I pad to the drinks cabinet by the dining table and open the fridge. Endless bottles of Veuve Clicquot greet me. A champagne fridge. The next fridge holds an array of miniatures and mixers. The next is full of soft drinks and water. Various ornate glasses decorate the surface of the cabinet. I pluck the lid off the ice bucket. It’s full. Even the ice is perfectly formed, the cubes sharp and clear.
I hear my phone ringing from my bag and walk across to the couch, finding it. It’s the first time his name’s appeared on my screen now I’ve saved his number. My nerves rocket as I answer and lower to the couch. “Hi.”
“How are you settling in?” His voice glides across my skin, my back straightening as I look around.
“It’s very extravagant for a spa day,” I say quietly.
“And night.”
I swallow, nodding. He’s booked this room out for us. Oh God. “I don’t sleep with a man on a first date.” I usually don’t kiss them either, but I’ve already broken that rule. And he was a whisper away from getting me off over the phone. I stand and start walking up and down, feeling a bit stifled and even more nervous than before.
“So you came all this way for ... what?” he asks.
He’s got me. “A massage, of course.”
He laughs, low and throaty, and I stop my pacing, looking up at the ceiling for strength. I’m fooling myself. Irresistible. “You wore your hair down.”
I still, my eyes automatically searching the corners of the ceilings. My God, they wouldn’t have cameras in the guest rooms. What am I thinking? He’s laughing lightly again. He needs to stop that. It makes me disintegrate.
“I’m not spying on you, Amelia. Go to the window.”
I turn to the window by the drinks cabinet and slowly tread towards it, looking across the glass roof of the Orangery to another wing of the mansion. Five large windows stretch from one end of the wall to the other, all with pulled-back drapes at the windows. I breathe in when I see him emerge from the darkness of the room, putting himself in one of the windows.
A towel wrapped around his naked waist.
“Oh God,” I whisper, the beads of wet on his smooth chest glistening. He rakes a hand through his hair and then rests it on the window frame, leaning into it. My eyes cross. His lazy eyes sparkle, his smile small.
“I’m glad you came.”
“I’m still on the fence,” I reply, not holding back, making sure he knows I’m all over the place.
“You think I’m bad for you.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” he muses, serious. “I have a feeling you could be bad for me too.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re on my mind. Constantly.”
“I know how that feels,” I admit.
“So are we done playing games?”
“It was never a game to me.”
He nods mildly. “You look incredible.”
“You look . . . naked.”
“Nearly.” His voice is quiet. Husky. So damn sexy. “There’s something on the chair by the bed for you.”
I narrow my eyes, glancing toward the bedroom. “What?”
“Go see.”
I walk backwards as far as I can, only turning when I reach the door to the bedroom. I spot a gift-wrapped box that I completely missed before on the cream brocade, high-backed wing chair.
“Open it,” he says gently.
I click him to speakerphone and set my mobile on the floor as I kneel and pull the bow free, dragging the ribbon away. On a deep breath, I lift the lid and find a mass of black tissue paper. I move it aside. “Lingerie,” I whisper, reaching for the straps of the black lace balcony bra and lifting it out. The quality is sublime, the lace delicate, the detail exquisite. A gold disk hangs in the centre between each cup, a white pearl in the middle. I look at the tag and don’t know whether to be delighted or insulted that he’s got my size spot-on. “How did you know my size?”
“Do you like it?”
I drop my arse to my heels. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“And the knickers?”
I breathe out, resting the bra on my thighs and pulling out the knickers. They have a matching gold and pearl disk on the front.
“You struck me as a bikini-style kind of woman.”
“You certainly know your female underwear.”
“Did I get it right?”
He wants my approval? This is happening, and it’s happening in the wrong order.
Or is this the right order?
“Something tells me you’re a man who rarely gets things wrong, Jude Harrison.” I pick up my phone, stand, and go back to the window, greedy for another look at him in his glorious semi-nakedness. Reaching the glass, I get as close as I can, my small smile unstoppable as I admire him. His hair looks darker wet, the damp waves flicking out adorably messily. His shoulders. His smooth chest. Those perfectly formed hips, his tight stomach.
My hands all over every bit of him.
“You’re stunning, Amelia Lazenby, even more so when you smile.”
And now I blush. This isn’t me. And yet I’m completely in the moment. Drowning in Jude Harrison’s world. “I have to get ready for my massage.”
He nods slowly, pushing off the frame of the window, taking the towel and holding still for a moment as I brace myself. Then he pulls it off, dropping it to the floor, and I exhale so sharply, my upper body folds forward as I stare at his semi-erect cock. “Don’t miss me too much.” He hangs up and backs away, every glorious naked inch of him shimmering under the hazy glow of the moody lighting in his room.
“Missing you already,” I whisper, my phone lowering, my mouth watering.
My knees weak.
I take myself to the nearest chair and sit, dazed, knowing beyond anything I’ve ever known that I’m being drawn into something huge.
The question is, can I handle it?
Handle him .