Page 5 of One Weekend in London

He died the day after my hostile takeover of his company was complete. It was a moment I’d worked my whole life for. As long as I breathe, I’ll never regret it. I only wish my mother had lived to see it.

If she had...

The waitress clears her throat, pulling me from thoughts of the past. She still stands by the table, her right hand resting on her skirt-clad hip, an expectant look on her face.

Uninterested in everything except the drink she just delivered, I dismiss her with a cold flick of my hand. Mark, a former SAS operator and my long-time head of security, looks on from where he stands near the wall, gauging whether his intervention is needed.

It isn’t.

Tossing her hair back over her shoulder, the waitress retreats with a huff, evidently displeased. Tough shite. Across from me, Grant Prescott, my American business partner and the closest thing I have to a genuine mate, laughs.

“Women,” he declares, shaking his head, fresh off a messy, rather public split from an heiress he fully intended to marry, “are nothing but damn trouble.”

I chuckle, still swirling the amber liquid in my hand. “I’ll take your word for it.”

I’ve seen enough high-society games to know better than to wade into the shark-infested dating fray of London’s upper crust. I’ll never be an entitled princess’s golden goose. Business is knotty enough. Decidedly less convoluted is how I prefer my personal life.

I covet a soulmate, not a trophy.

I’m mid-sip, my drink’s ice clattering against the glass, when an inexplicable pull, almost a sixth sense, diverts my attention, calling it to the lounge’s entrance.

It’s now, as if fate has decided to call me on my thoughts and toss me a much-desired bone, that she walks in.

My whole world stops.

A striking contrast to the usual patrons, her curvy form is a silhouette against the dim light as she enters slowly, reminding me of an angel emerging from the darkness.

Clad in an understated light-blue dress that doesn’t even meet the bar’s strict dress code, her glossy, dark hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves, adding to her ethereal look.

The exact shade of her eyes eludes me, but her skin is tan against the paleness of her clothing, a natural golden hue that speaks of sunlight, not artificial tanners.

Stunning beyond words, she looks as if she belongs on a beach in the Mediterranean—not spending an evening in the center of London’s grey heart.

Try as I might, I can’t tear my eyes away.

Whisky forgotten, my hand remains frozen, my gaze welded to her as she heads to the bar, seemingly oblivious to the attention she’s drawing. Realizing other blokes are drinking her in, my insides coil, tightened by a sense of something unpleasant I can’t quite place.

Look the hell away, all of you.

Ever the distraction, Grant snaps his fingers before my face, an action that would usually irritate me. It barely registers now. My focus is entirely, irrevocably, captured by the mystery woman now perched atop a barstool, even as my counterpart speaks, his words unheard by me.

The sense it makes is for nought.

Most notably when everything surrounding me—the noise, the people—fades into the background as I watch her interact with the bartender. She’s all smiles, but I’m immediately on edge. Her body language is guarded, her discomfort clear in the tension that lines her shoulders.

As if sensing she’s a doe lost amid a den of starved wolves, she’s instinctively wary. It makes my chest burn, fierce protectiveness rising within me.

The glass I hold almost gives way, nearly shattering beneath my grip when my hand tightens. In the boardroom, I’m known for being ruthless. Cutthroat. Outside of it, I’m an enigmatic shadow by choice. But on nights such as this, loneliness purges me from self-isolation.

The silence is sometimes too much.

But there’s something about the woman across the room. An authenticity in her demeanor that’s rare in the world of pretense I inhabit. I imagine being at her side invites much-desired peace, the type of stillness that’s comforting.

Not haunting.

I’m utterly spellbound.

“Kensington, you all right, man?” Grant’s voice cuts through my thoughts, his slow Southern drawl more pronounced than usual.

---