Lost in Love (4 page)

It was the most frustrating thing, hovering on the edge of pleasure only to have it elude her. Now, she felt the yearning in her chest, the desire to explode at the hands of a man.

She wanted it. Bad.

Grabbing a pen, she wrote the word down in block letters that couldn’t be denied before she could talk herself out of it: ORGASM.

A knock sounded at her door. “Meredith.”

Oh no
. Recognizing her boss’s voice, she covered her list with her hand as casually as possible. “Quinn, I didn’t hear you come.”

Poor choice of words. She winced. At least he couldn’t read her thoughts. Thoughts about sex were always inappropriate in the workplace, but they were especially inappropriate in front of Andrew Quinn.

His brow furrowed over his wire-rimmed glasses. He stepped into her makeshift office and closed the door. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine.” She tried to smile, keeping her hand where it was.

“How’s the Suncrest project doing?”

Awful. The upholsterer wasn’t returning her calls and the antiques dealer was trying to take her to the cleaners. But she always delivered, so she said, “I’ve run into a couple stumbling blocks, but nothing I won’t resolve.”

Nodding, he sat on the edge of her desk and studied her.

Quinn was Jackson’s right-hand man. Really, he did all the day-to-day management of the company. Jackson was more like a hurricane that came in, stirred things up, and moved on, leaving everyone else to deal with the fallout.

With Quinn, the hotel group was in great hands. He was smart and levelheaded, and he was good with people. He remembered everyone’s names, even the lady who watered the plants at their headquarters in Dallas. He was intense when he needed to be, and he always listened. People felt comfortable around him.

Except her. She’d never been comfortable around him, and she was especially ill at ease with him sitting there now. She started to roll her chair back, but when she remembered her bucket list she stayed where she was.

With unerring instinct, he pointed to the piece of paper. “What are you keeping from me?”

Her palm pressed harder onto the desktop. “Nothing.”

He reached out and took her hand. The contact startled her so much that she sat there and gaped at him as he lifted her list to read.

“Don’t read that,” she said too late, trying to gather her wits even though his hand felt amazingly warm and strong.

“Too late,” he murmured, his gaze going down the page. “What is this?”

“My bucket list.” She shrugged, forcing herself to draw her hand away. It still tingled from his touch, and she tucked it under her arm, next to her scar. “I figured it wasn’t too early to start it.”

“It’s a short bucket list for someone as young as you.”

Not if you weren’t sure you’d live to do everything. “I’m thirty-three.”

“Like I said, young.” He studied her. “And you look younger.”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

She’d never have guessed it. She’d always tended to date men close to her age, but she’d make an exception for Quinn.

What was she thinking? There was no exception to be made here. This wasn’t a line she could cross, even in the unlikely event that he was interested. He’d never given her any indication that he was.

Quinn held up the paper and pointed to it. “Tell me about this.”

She didn’t have to look to know which item he meant. She wanted to die. She’d thought it’d be embarrassing for her mom to see it? Well, having Andrew Quinn mention it was beyond mortifying.

He adjusted his glasses, his mouth quirking in that funny way he had that wasn’t a smile but still a definite indication that he was amused. “Ignoring me won’t take away the fact that I’ve seen it, Meredith. You have
orgasm
written on your bucket list.”

She closed her eyes.
Please, earth, swallow me now.

But it didn’t, and when she reopened her eyes, Quinn was still there, unbearably close, staring at her, waiting. She cleared the embarrassment from her throat. “I know this isn’t appropriate for work. I’m sorry I had it out.”

“It’s too late to backtrack, Meredith.” After a moment’s silence, he asked, “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“
Yes.
”

“Why?”

“Because,” she replied, knowing she sounded juvenile and lame.

“You can do better than that, Meredith.” His voice wasn’t any different than its usual deep timber, but it felt intimate, like a caress, with him so near.

He made her feel tongue-tied in a way Jackson never had. She had to try a couple times before she could speak. “You’re my boss.”

“Jackson was your boss, too, and you were engaged to him.”

Did he sound jealous? He couldn’t—she was just imagining that his tone hardened. “Yes, but Jackson didn’t count.” She winced. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

Quinn studied her. “Tell me why you have an orgasm on your bucket list.”

She groaned, throwing her arms in the air. “I’d think it was clear why.”

“I’d take it to mean that you’ve never orgasmed.”

As impossible as it was, she felt her face flush hotter. “That’s not entirely accurate, no.”

“You’ve never come with a partner?” he pinpointed with alarming intuition.

She put her hands to her burning face. “Can we change the subject?”

“I’m finding the subject fascinating. So fascinating I’m going to help.”

“
Excuse me?
” She felt her jaw drop. He couldn’t mean—

“I’m going to help you with this list.” He tapped it. “We’ll knock off some of the items.”

She shifted, trying not to imagine him helping her with that last item. “That’d require spending time together out of the office.”

“Yes.”

His husky answer made her picture his fingers deep inside her, his breath hot on her neck as he whispered naughty things to her. She squirmed in her seat, swallowing the rush of unfamiliar pleasure. “That doesn’t seem prudent.”

Quinn watched her in that calm way he had that was so hard to decipher what he was thinking. Then he said, “Do you trust me, Meredith?”

Trust him? She had the urge to let him tear her clothes off. His voice alone was doing things to her that no other man had accomplished with any number of other body parts. “Of course I trust you.”

“Good.” He stood up and began to leave.

“Wait,” she said, standing. “What does that mean? And why did you stop by to begin with? You must have needed something.”

“I got what I needed.” His gaze met hers with laser precision, some sort of promise.

But she couldn’t tell what, and she was afraid to ask, sure she didn’t want to know the answer.

Chapter Five

Portia studied herself in the mirror. Black plaid pencil skirt. Black sweater with little pearl buttons. Stockings with lines up the back. Sensible but feminine heels. Catherine’s pearls. She looked properly British.

Yanks loved the British, and she wasn’t above exploiting her “ethnicity” to her advantage. She was ready for battle.

Smoothing the lines of her skirt, she plucked her coat from the bed and went downstairs. A small snack for fortification and then she’d be ready to charm the tiara out of Jackson Waite’s hands.

She hoped.

“Franny—” she started as she entered the kitchen, but when she saw her niece Chloe slouched at the table, pouting, she was surprised into silence.

Chloe’s stare dared Portia to say something unwelcoming.

“
Cara
,” Luca effused from behind her.

She turned around. “You’re here, too?”

“There is no place else I’d rather be,” he said in his grand Italian manner as he took her shoulders and kissed her cheeks. “Three such lovely women in the morning? I am a man in heaven.”

Chloe made a dismissive noise, but when Portia glanced at her, she saw not even the surly girl was immune to Luca’s charm.

“Go on with you,” Franny said, shooing him with her apron even as she blushed prettily.

He winked at the older woman.

Franny
tittered.

Portia gaped at her former nanny. She’d never heard her make such a girlish noise. That was Luca for you.

As if reading her thoughts, Franny faced her, hands on her hips. “Chloe will be spending the day here. Perhaps you and she can—”

“I can’t,” she said quickly. Realizing how she sounded, she gave Chloe an apologetic look. “I have an appointment I’m leaving for right now, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

The teenager shrugged, seemingly unaffected, but Portia could see the tense set to her shoulders. Guilt flooded her, but she didn’t know what to say to the girl. Chloe was a foreign stranger, and Portia didn’t speak her language.

“If you are leaving,
cara
, I will walk you out,” Luca said, breaking the moment’s awkwardness.

“Right.” Portia picked up a piece of the morning loaf Franny had set on the counter as he made a to-do about kissing Franny and Chloe goodbye.

When they were in the hallway, she asked, “What are you doing here so early?”

“Chloe needed an escort here, so I bring her.” He shrugged as if he ferried teenagers all the time.

“Viola called you?”

“Beatrice did.”

The way he said her oldest sister’s name was like an Italian caress—long and deliberate and languid. She smiled, wondering how his infatuation with Bea would play out. Portia felt sympathy for Luca—Bea was a man-eater. But if anyone could crack her shell, it’d be him.

Luca put his arm around her. “
Cara
, do you mind if I say a word about Chloe?”

“What about her?” she asked carefully.

“She is not as different as you think. She is simply a creature in pain.” His expression hardened. “Her father uses her in his war against her mother, and she knows it.”

Guilt and sympathy battled in her, making her frown. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

He gave her a knowing glance. “She is not so different, no?”

“I guess not.”

He smiled at her, amused, as though he found her lack of conviction charming. He flipped his scarf around his neck. “Think about it.
Ciao, bella
,” he said as he let himself out of the house.

She would think about it—later. Right now she had an American to beguile. Portia put her coat on and slipped out behind him to head to the underground.

Beatrice had texted her the address of the Waite Hotel Group’s offices in London. Her sister had also found out that Jackson Waite was currently in town.

Lucky for her. Portia took the tube downtown and toward 30 St. Mary Axe. The streets in this section of town were foreign—she never had reason to visit the business epicenter of London.

Pulling her coat tighter around herself, she turned a corner and stopped in front of the Gherkin, as the phallic-shaped building was affectionately called. She glanced inside the lobby, where a uniformed receptionist sat guarding the entrance.

How would she get in? She didn’t have an appointment.

“Just do it,” she murmured. Channeling Catherine, she strutted past the guard straight to the open elevator door.

“Excuse me, miss—”

Portia waved her hand, friendly, as she pushed the button for the floor. The doors closed, and she wilted against the wall in relief as soon as the elevator began to move.

She was doing this. Excitement and fear made her heart pump.

The interior of the elevator was reflective and she checked herself in the reflective surface. Her right stocking was sagging the tiniest bit. She still had a dozen floors, so she lifted her skirt high to secure it to her garter better.

Only the elevator stopped and the doors opened without warning.

She glanced up, her skirt high up around the tops of her thighs.

A man walked in without hesitation. He was the stereotype of an American, from the tip of his cowboy hat down to the heels of his cowboy boots. As if that didn’t make his nationality clear, the way he stared at her thighs was the deciding factor. A proper British man would have averted his eyes. This man eyed her like he wanted to take a bite out of her.

“I didn’t know women still wore those things,” he drawled as he leaned against the opposite wall.

“They’re called garters, and of course women still wear them.” She fixed her stocking and pulled her skirt down as quickly as possible, trying not to be distracted by the way he looked in his jeans. She’d never seen a man fill them out so … prodigiously. And his boots intrigued her. They were well loved, obviously a favorite pair.

She touched the pearls around her neck. She didn’t have any clothing she loved like that, except her necklace.

“Never seen real footwear, have you?” he asked with an edge.

Shaking her head, she began to correct him. “No—”

He walked up to her, pressing her back against the elevator wall. He touched her collarbone, brushing her pearls. “Maybe you’ve just never seen a proper man before.”

“I’m not looking for a proper man,” she said honestly. She’d always thought she’d either end up a spinster or with a man like her father. She’d never considered being with someone like this cowboy, who oozed masculinity. Not even Rosalind’s fiancé Nick was this mouthwatering.

But she was there to charm Jackson Waite, not flirt with another American, no matter how scrumptious he looked. So she put her hand between them and pushed him away with her index finger. “I’m not looking for you, either.”

“Who are you looking for then?”

“Jackson Waite.” She looked at the cowboy. He was American, in the same building. Perhaps he knew the head of Waite Hotel Group. “Do you know him?”

“Maybe.” He smiled like a devil.

Her heart flopped over. She hung on to her pearls, clutching them like a lifeline. “Do you think you could introduce me?”

“Maybe.” There was something in his tone she didn’t understand, but she didn’t get a chance to ask before he said, “What’s your name, sugar?”

“Lady Portia Summerhill.” She never introduced herself by her honorific, but she knew Americans were impressed by that sort of thing, and she wasn’t above using it if it’d help her get the tiara back.