Chapter 2 London
LONDON
ALEXANDER
The only thing better than waking up to a hand on your cock is when the hand belongs to someone with a pair of tits like these. Brigitte is leaning on an elbow, sheet draped over her hip, showcasing her bountiful charms in a way that would be sufficiently inspiring even if she weren’t caressing me.
“Bonjour, mon preux chevalier,” she greets in a sultry whisper.
“Well, hello to you too.”
I sit up and reach for a water bottle on the bedside table, fortifying myself for another round. With a mischievous smile, she gathers a rope of her long, disheveled blond hair and trails it down my chest. I set the water aside and pull Brigitte close, rolling her beneath me.
My kisses are halfway down the path from her neck to one of those luscious pink nipples when my doorbell rings.
I ignore it, but when it rings again, Brigitte lifts her head. “Should you not…?”
“That’s correct—I should not,” I tell her, sliding my knee between her thighs.
My mobile chimes and the doorbell rings a third time.
“Alexandaaaire,” Brigitte groans in frustration. “Allez! Make it stop…”
I sigh, leaning on an elbow and reaching for the mobile. “One moment, my dove—don’t you dare move your delectable arse.”
The line of text on my preview screen reads, Get up and open the door.
I slide a hand down my face. “Fuckin’ hell. It’s my mother.”
Brigitte yelps, leaping from the bed and scrambling to gather her clothes. “It is Nefeli? Mon Dieu…” She struggles into her jeans, not bothering to put on knickers first, and yanks a pale blue jumper over her head.
I pull on a dressing gown and knot the sash. “Just stay in here and she’ll never—” I fall silent as I hear the front door slam. “Scratch that. I forgot she has a key.”
Combing my fingers through my hair, I hurry toward the sound of clicking high-heeled shoes, hoping to cut her off at the pass. Suddenly she’s framed in the bedroom doorway, all five feet one inch of formidable terror, hands on her hips.
“Jesus wept,” my mother says with disgust. “I thought you promised ‘no more fishing off the company pier’? Bloody hell, we’ll lose another good freelancer.”
Brigitte looks near tears, clutching her wool coat and knee-high boots against herself. “My apologies, madame. Please—”
“Save your breath, love,” my mother interrupts.
“You’re a talented photographer, and the magazine is lucky to have you.
Just… please don’t quit when this turns into a disaster.
There’s a good girl—see you Monday.” She waves in the general direction of the front door, and Brigitte rushes to leave without a backward glance.
As the front door slams, my mother turns on her heel and strides to my kitchen, opening and closing cupboards until she finds a box of PG Tips.
“I don’t need any myself,” I tell her.
“I’d not make you tea were you dying of thirst, so you’re in luck.” She splashes just a touch of water into the electric kettle—making it clear it’s only for herself—then flicks it on. “You’ve got the magazine threatened with a lawsuit. Again, I might add.”
“Oh? What now?”
Her icy look skewers me. “Wipe that smirk off your face. You’ve disgraced us with the blog I allowed you to link to the Auto Racing Journal website—consolation, mind you, because you pouted like a child over Natalia Evans getting the ARJ Buzz YouTube show.”
“That?” I scoff. “It’s all in good fun. Someone took offense?”
She straightens from digging in my fridge, milk carton in one hand. “Good fun? Are you thick? You said Emerald’s new driver fucked her way into the job. Neither she nor Phaedra Morgan will take this lying down.”
I pull a grape from the fruit bowl and pop it into my mouth. “Rumor has it Sage Sikora did take it lying down.”
“They want me to fire you, and I’ve half a mind to do it.”
My smile wilts. “You won’t.”
“No? Oh, do tell me more, Alekos.” She taps her sternum.
“I had a Pulitzer before you could tie your shoes. Your father and I rescued a dozen magazines from the nineties print-media slump. What have you done? You’re like a parody of a spoilt only child.
You spend money and write when it suits you and noodle on the piano and chase women.
” She points at my bedroom, then the front door.
“Specifically and unhelpfully, screwing your way through my best talent, after promising not to.”
“Brigitte is freelance; I have no authority over her. And I haven’t so much as winked at an intern in months.”
She gives a sarcastic clap. “Congratulations on having cleared that low bar. Smartarsed thirty-one-year-old idler.” The kettle light flicks on, and she flips the switch off before pouring hot water into a mug. “My God how you test my patience. When we get on that call with Emerald today, if they—”
“Steady on,” I cut in, holding up a hand. “What call?”
“With Emerald’s team principal.” She pours milk into her tea, then turns her wrist to peer at her watch. “In three minutes. Why do you think I was hanging on your bell?”
I follow as she strides into the living room. “Because you wanted to ruin the lovely morning I was enjoying with a leggy Parisian?”
Pointing at my laptop on the coffee table, she makes an impatient hissing noise. “Tsst! Get that booted up—don’t stand there gawping.” She perches on the sofa edge.
I open the laptop and slide it toward her. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, switching to her account and logging in, then tapping a link before I can duck away to comb my hair and put on a shirt.
She waves me back, angling an imperious finger to the sofa. “Sit.”
“I’m not dressed for the occasion.”
“You look like the dog’s dinner, and it’s fitting.”
“Stunning. Cheers.” I settle beside her and adjust my dressing gown to close it more, then make another attempt to calm the disarray of my auburn hair.
A window opens on-screen to display a dour-looking Phaedra Morgan, Emerald F1’s hot-tempered team principal.
“Ms. Morgan,” my mother greets, all warmth. “How are you this morning?”
“Well as can be expected,” Phaedra replies. “Sage’ll join us any second.”
My stomach twists. “Oh? She’s weighing in?”
Phaedra lifts an eyebrow. “Considering she’s the one you accused of sleeping her way to the top, obviously she’ll be here.”
I can’t resist a small barb. “The top? Emerald? Perhaps sleeping her way to the middle…”
“Alekos!” my mother snaps. “Skáse!”
Another window opens: Sage Sikora, that pixyish beauty—rosebud lips, deep dimples, flashing honey-brown eyes, all framed with ice-blue hair. My stomach does another aerial trick, and I feel heat creep into my face like I’m an adolescent with his first crush.
“Hey, cats and kittens! Let’s get this party started.
” She points at the screen. “You, sweetness,” she says with heavy sarcasm that’s clearly directed at me, “have a great future in the fast-food industry. But I’ll personally break every one of your soft little rich-boy fingers if you go near a computer again. ”
“Are your soft little rich-girl fingers going to do the job?” I return, feigning boredom.
Her eyes narrow, and she rakes a tendril of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear to expose the peacock feather tattoo that runs up the side of her neck. Her pink bow of a mouth opens to throw a comment back when Phaedra speaks.
“Nefeli? I’ll direct this at you, because your fuckwit son doesn’t have the sense not to double down on his fantastic dipshittery. He’s put your magazine at risk for a defamation suit.”
“And I couldn’t be more embarrassed,” my mother says. “I understand exactly why you—”
I cut in, “I was reporting on rumors, stated in the form of questions.”
“You’re here to grovel,” my mother snaps. “And you’re doing a piss-poor job.”
“I’m not the groveling type. Humility is for the people flying in coach.”
Phaedra rolls her eyes, but to my surprise, Sage has a lopsided smile. She studies me with challenge, as if she’s sussed out the rules to a game.
My mother’s expression, however, is near murderous. Her nostrils flare. “You’re fired.”
“Oh, stop,” I say with a chuckle. “I’m only taking the piss.”
She turns back to the screen. “Ms. Morgan, he’ll not trouble you further.
We can print a retraction if that’s your preference, though you may wish not to have more attention drawn to such an offensive rumor.
He’s lost admin control, and it won’t be reinstated.
I suppose we could even delete the blog entirely, if—”
“Hold on a bloody minute,” I fume. “That’s my intellectual property!”
Ignoring me, she continues. “If Emerald wishes to initiate a lawsuit, I encourage you to name Alexander personally. He neglected to get editorial approval before uploading that nonsense, and as of today, he’s no longer an employee of Auto Racing Journal.”
“Are you serious?” I demand.
Still addressing Phaedra and Sage, my mother says, “I wash my hands of this. My son is a fool. Better late than never that he learns from his mistakes, so feel free to handle this as you wish. He’s all yours.”
I give her a sardonic look. “All yours? Handing me over to Emerald in service like a Dickensian orphan? What does—”
“Yeah, okay… I’ll take him,” Sage cuts in.
Phaedra laughs. “Not a bad idea. Seeing as Mr. Laskaris is now unemployed, how’s about a little internship at Emerald? No pay, of course, but”—she smirks—“loaded with opportunity for personal growth.”
I offer a thin courtesy smile. “Not interested.”
“Perfect,” my mother deadpans. “When does he start?”
Sage winks at me. “Welcome to Emerald, honeybee. Looks like I’m your new boss.”