Page 8 of One Weekend in London

“Harassing a woman?” My rescuer’s voice is like sharpened steel, slicing through the scumbag’s words with ease. “That’s a bloody foolish move to make in a place I own, particularly with me sitting less than ten meters away. Especially for someone in your current… predicament.”

Now hang on a second.

A place he owns? Does he mean the hotel? If so, goodness gracious. Talk about rich. And what predicament? I get the feeling there’s more going on between these two than meets the eye. The hate and disdain that radiates between them is unmissable, even for me, someone who doesn’t always see what’s happening right in front of her face.

Thanks for that lesson, Maxwell.

You too, Vanessa.

For heaven’s sake, after spending the past few hours exploring the West End and catching a show at the Apollo Victoria Theatre, all I wanted was a simple Peach Bellini.

Yet here I am, seated smack-dab in the fanciest bar I’ve ever dared step foot inside, an endless barrage of questions battering my mind as my right hand itches with the need to deck the slimeball right in his aristocratic nose.

Confusion and disgust race through me.

The sicko’s face pales, the mention of his predicament—whatever it may be—seeming to strike a nerve the size of Alaska. “Don’t forget I have connections, Kensington.” His face remains devoid of color, and he sneers in a way that reminds me of Cornelia. “You can’t just threaten me.”

Kensington, as the degenerate called him, steps impossibly closer, his heat bleeding into my back. Despite his thinly veiled wrath not being directed at me, I still sit up straight.

His presence is that commanding.

“Connections?” He laughs softly, but there’s no warmth. It’s purely antagonistic. “In this city, I am the connection. That’s a lesson I thought you’d learned, but clearly, you need a reminder.” Yeah, there’s definitely more going on here than meets the eye. “I also don’t take kindly to those who disrespect guests under my roof, especially women. Consider this your final visit to The Opulence.”

The threat in each of his words is unmistakable, a promise of the power and influence he clearly wields. And if I’m being honest, it’s one heck of a turn-on.

If the situation were different, I’d fan myself.

A weak, stammered protest I can’t decipher is all Mr. Handsy offers in return. If he had a tail, it would be tucked firmly between his legs as he clambers off the barstool like a scolded child and hoofs it toward the exit.

But he isn’t getting away that easily.

I may not have followed through with the ball punch I was set to deliver when Kensington interrupted, but I have every intention of saying my piece. I spent too many years staying silent as Maxwell verbally unleashed tirade after tirade on me, chipping away at my self-esteem.

The emotional torment was terrible enough.

I won’t be touched without consent too.

Latching on to every shred of outrage I possess, I jump off the barstool and turn. Kensington towers before me, mimicking a statue, our bodies still nearly touching.

Only now, his front faces mine.

And the thing is, even when my skin is scalding with fury, his warmth is inconceivably comforting, the sandalwood and bergamot notes of his rich cologne heady.

Being this close to him makes my head spin, growing light, like when I’m riding the Tilt-A-Whirl back home at the county fair with Weston screaming like a little girl next to me.

Despite wanting nothing more than to peer up into his enthralling eyes, I do my best to ignore him, my focus homed in on the fleeing trash nearing the exit, each of his steps quicker than the last.

And let me tell you, it’s hard.

Leaning to the side, I look around my unexpected protector, my fisted hands close to shaking from the rage that heats my blood, nearing the point of boiling.

“Hey, asshole!” I call out, uncaring of the uppity crowd watching.

I knew the moment I stepped foot in this place I didn’t belong. Underdressed and lacking the designer labels surrounding me, I stick out more than a mud-slicked pig at a fancy, big-city ballet.

But right now, I’m too hot under the collar to care.

The deviant slows, looking back at me over his shoulder. Eyes narrowed to slits, he ping-pongs his focus from me to Kensington, then back to me, his own fury evident.

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