Page 18 of Negotiating Tactics

Last night, after the shock of her umbrella attack, I’d been struck again, the woman I hadn’t been able to shake from my dreams standing there in underwear that revealed more than they concealed.

Tits that I knew would feel like heaven wrapped around my cock, and that sexy stomach that would feel amazing as I gripped her hips and fucked us both into oblivion.

My cock was solid in an instant, confirming how much I wanted that woman.

But she wasn’t here now, so I pulled myself away from her underwear, deciding not to snoop—or take them as a souvenir.

When I went to the bathroom, I saw that the toiletries I had kept there had been opened.

Something else Alex had welcomed herself to.

I chuckled, then looked at the bed, which was neatly made, and left the room.

Being who I was, I had more than half a mind to toss her shit out into the hallway.

She would flip if I did, and the thought was almost funny enough for me to go ahead with that plan, the idea of seeing her angry face probably more than worth it.

But I stopped myself.

I liked the room—and I liked the idea of getting under Alex’s skin—but she was clearly having a hard time. So I decided to cut her some slack.

But not too much.

I had taken the room across the hall last night, assuming it would be temporary.

With two other bedrooms on this floor alone, I could have easily relocated and given us both more space.

But there was no way that was happening.

I didn’t want space from Alex, and I had a point to prove. So, every time Alex entered or left my room, she’d see my face.

She’d hate that, but I sure as hell wouldn’t.

I walked into the bedroom opposite Alex’s—mine—and started to put away my clothes.

This room was nice enough, but I couldn’t shake the sense of displacement.

The room I was in shouldn’t matter.

I hadn’t had a home since I had left Nonna’s, and that was decades ago.

After that, I’d been all over. Two years in New Zealand, another in Australia, five years in South America, back to Australia and New Zealand, and then back again.

Some time on the West Coast, and then, finally, I had settled in the UK for a few years.

Over all those years and miles, I’d managed to build a global real estate firm with a portfolio that would impress the Wilders and people like them.

Not that I gave a shit.

I slammed one of the drawers harder than I intended, not a surprising reaction to thoughts of the Wilders.

Ironic, given where I was currently standing.

I looked over at my own duffel bag and stared at the front pocket and the letter that was inside it.

One that had remained unopened for more than two years now.

I should have burned the fucking thing and forgotten all about my sperm donor and his sons.

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