Chapter 6
chapter
six
By the time I hit the lobby, I was a bright, twitching wire.
Every nerve in my body still hummed from the drive—Luka’s voice in my head, his scent on my scarf, the residual shudder of my pulse like a glitch in the power grid.
The glass doors whooshed shut behind me, cutting off the city’s noise and fumes.
Inside was all high-gloss marble and toasty air.
The security guard behind the desk looked up, registered me, then dismissed me just as quickly.
I made for the elevators, only to see a figure detach from the café nook, heading straight toward me—Richard Montgomery, CEO of Hallstrom Group and, unexpectedly, my direct contact for the duration of my assignment.
He was decked out in full executive regalia: bespoke pinstripe, perfect Windsor knot, teeth bright enough to catch the lobby’s lights.
A compostable cup sat neatly in his hand, the color of wet sand.
He intercepted me before I could scan my pass, raking me over with his eyes.
I suppressed a shudder.
“Ms. Thompson. Bright and early.” His accent belonged on Masterpiece Theatre—cut-glass English, polished to a high shine. He said my name like a conclusion rather than a greeting. “Tell me, do Americans simply not experience jet lag, or are you just exceptionally motivated?”
I tightened my grip on my laptop bag. “Sleep when you’re dead, right?”
His flat laugh echoed off the marble. “Well, you know what they say about all work and no play.”
The lift doors opened. He gestured for me to enter ahead of him.
I stepped inside, but not quickly enough to avoid the brush of his hand across my back. The touch was so brief it could have been accidental—or, more likely, designed to appear so.
He crowded in, close enough that I had to angle my shoulders to keep space between us. “I saw you outside,” he said lightly. “Was that your car service?”
My stomach spasmed around the dregs of my coffee, but I pasted on a smile. “Just a rideshare. I wasn’t quite brave enough for the Tube this morning.”
The elevator doors hissed shut.
The air inside turned thick, heavy with his cologne—musky and old-world, clinging too insistently for daylight.
The harsh light reflected off his gel-slicked, gunmetal-gray hair. He leaned in, his coffee-tinged breath hot against my ear. “Rather chummy for so early in the morning, wouldn’t you agree?”
He let the question dangle.
I adjusted the crease of my slacks. “So, what’s on the agenda today, Richard?”
He took an unhurried sip, watching me over the rim of his cup. “First, a brief check-in with the board. Then we’ll walk you through the brand audit deliverables.” He let the pause breathe. “After that,” he said smoothly, “you’re all mine for the afternoon.”
For the second time this morning, nausea churned in my gut.
Eight hours in the company of Richard Montgomery was enough to bleach the serotonin from anyone’s brain. By the time I made it back to the lobby, the day was blurry and indistinct—nothing but fluorescent conference rooms, whiteboard glare, and a blur of charts and slide decks.
The only breaks had been Richard’s “quick chats” at the espresso machine. Each one edged a little further: a hand on my shoulder, a joke at my expense, a comment about “work-life balance” delivered with the subtlety of a bowling ball on glass.
A knot of senior Hallstrom execs had claimed the corner of the lobby, their laughter sloshing across the marble—jackets off, voices louder, the day’s restraint slipping by the minute.
Richard stood at the center—collar open, tie loosened, thinning hair raked back to expose the hard lines of his skull.
He clocked me immediately, eyes brightening as if I were the evening’s agenda.
“Alex!” he called. “Come rescue us from the rugby talk—unless you’re secretly a fan?” He snaked his arm around my waist, steering me into the circle and the close orbit of his cologne and coffee breath.
I laughed lightly and shifted my weight, extricating myself from his grip. The other men laughed too, like they recognized a familiar game. Richard’s hand lingered a beat too long at my hip, thumb skimming the waistband of my slacks, before he finally let go.
“Well, come along then. There’s a pub just ‘round the corner. Time to show you how the Brits do Friday properly,” he said, already moving as if my compliance were assumed. The group collectively shrugged into their coats. “First round’s on me.” He raised his eyebrows, as though that settled it.
“Maybe next time,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “I’m running on fumes—jet lag and all.”
“Nonsense. You don’t want to get stuck in London traffic at five. Nightmare out there. The Tube’s worse.”
Around us, the group drifted toward the doors, rugby banter rolling them forward into the glassy dusk pooling on the other side.
Richard’s palm settled at the small of my back—herding, not guiding.
My spine stiffened, but I didn’t pull away.
I’d learned long ago that men like him treated resistance as sport.
Better to let it glance off and step clear when no one was looking.
The glass doors spilled us into the bruised residual light of a London February evening. Neon bled across the wet pavement. Wind skittered paper wrappers along the curb. My stomach flipped before I even looked. Of course he’d be there.
Luka leaned against his car half a block down, arms folded, black beanie tugged low, coat collar razored against his jaw. I didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was watching.
Richard followed my line of sight and gave me a sidelong look. “Is that your same driver from this morning? How…convenient.”
“Yeah.” I forced a sheepish smile. “Creature of habit.” I fished my phone out and made a show of reading the screen. “And if I don’t get in soon, the app’s going to charge me for a no-show. Surge pricing is murder.”
He gave a short, nasal laugh that didn’t touch his eyes. “Your loss. But if you change your mind…” The implication dangled. It would have wormed under my skin if I hadn’t already gone numb to the game.
“It’s been a long week, Richard. I’m too tired to be any fun tonight.” I shifted to leave, but Richard’s hand closed around my elbow.
“Oh, I doubt that,” he said, too soft for the others to hear. His thumb pressed into my arm—just a quick flex—before he released me.
I shucked free, offered the group a vague, apologetic smile, and cut for Luka’s car before I lost my nerve. Or my lunch. The cold hit like a slap through my flimsy jacket, but it was nothing compared to the fresh voltage that surged through me as I drew closer.
Luka hadn’t moved. He stood half in shadow, half in sodium light, tracking my approach. The closer I got, the more I felt his attention—heavy as a hand on the back of my neck, guiding me before I’d even reached him.
“You’re late,” he murmured as he opened the back door and waited.
I shivered—partly from the air, mostly from the note in his voice—and got into his car. He shut the door with a single pneumatic click, sealing the world out. The interior was dark, save for the faint, antiseptic glow of the dash display.
He circled to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel, movements controlled, unhurried. He didn’t look at me. Just shifted into gear and pulled us into traffic, silence filling the cabin, thick as smoke.
I gripped my briefcase, but my hands wouldn’t quite steady.
Finally, his voice cut through.
“Who was that man,” he asked evenly, eyes fixed on the road, “with his hand on you?”
I twisted the bag strap in my lap, anger coiling tight beneath my ribs. “My boss,” I said, letting the word sour. “Or what passes for one for the next six weeks.”
The wheel creaked under his grip. The streetlights strobed over the dash, casting his face in flickers of blue and gold.
“He’s not your type,” he said at last. The accent was harsh—vowels crisp, consonants clipped.
“And what exactly is ‘my type’?” I shot back.
“A man who’d protect you from the cold,” he said, voice low and barely contained. “Not drag you out into it and parade you for his amusement.”
I chambered a retort, but he cut me off before the words left my tongue.
“There’s a bag in the footwell. Open it.”
I bent, confused, and pulled a heavy paper shopping bag up from the floor. Inside was a puffer coat—deep navy, quilted, and thick. A knit beanie followed, then matching gloves with the tags still attached, the fleece inside cloud-soft.
I barked a laugh. “You bought me a coat?”
His eyes caught mine in the rearview. “I told you—you don’t know how to dress for the weather. London is cold and wet. You will freeze without it.” The faintest curve touched his mouth. “I prefer you whole.”
I stroked the sleeve, warm from the heating vent, and something in my chest loosened. “Thank you,” I said—and meant it.
We drove in silence for a few blocks, the car’s warmth and Luka’s presence taking the edge off the day—like a drink I didn’t know I’d needed. Every so often, his eyes flicked to the mirror.
I couldn’t stand the quiet. “Did you have a busy day?” I asked, instantly hating how trite the question sounded.
“I slept,” he said. “Mostly.”
I picked at the edge of the shopping bag. “Slept?”
He shrugged, a slight twitch of his shoulder. “I do most of my work at night.”
I tried to picture him in a bed—relaxed, vulnerable. Impossible. “Are you…working again tonight?”
He glanced at me in the mirror, eyes narrowed, a restrained smile at the corners. “Only for you, mila.”
It started with a left that didn’t feel right—a slow drive away from the city’s glassy towers and polished storefronts into streets I didn’t recognize. The buildings dropped to staggered terraces, newsagents with metal grilles, the warm orange glow of kebab shops flickering in the deepening dusk.
I glanced at the dash. The navigation screen was dark. Luka must have been driving from memory, one hand draped loose on the wheel. I cleared my throat. “I don’t know London that well, but…isn’t my hotel the other direction?” I tried to make it sound like a joke. “Or am I already lost?”
He didn’t answer for a second, just slid into the next lane. “At this time of day,” he said, “getting you back to Bloomsbury would take ages.” His eyes flicked up, catching me in the rearview again. “Unless you want to sit in a car with me all night.”
He slowed to a stop at a red light.
I tried to get my bearings, but it was no use.
“Personally,” he added, reaching back to rest his hand on my knee, “I can think of a better use of our time.”
A vivid clarity cut through me. Stranger. Alone. No navigation. Every warning sign I’d been trained to run from.
And I should have run.
But then he pressed my knees apart and walked his fingers slowly up my thigh. “I’ve been imagining that delicious cunt since I dropped you off this morning.”
Heat flooded through my core.
“Of you spreading those legs for me. Begging for me. Screaming my name.”
My mouth went dry. “Where…are you taking me?”
“My flat.”