Page 82 of Release Me
Of course. I forgot that was Zara’s subsidiary of Beckett Enterprises.
Rian’s lips trail over my jaw to my earlobe, peppering kisses along the way. ‘But if you don’t like it, you can change it when you move in.’ He tips his head back to look at me, and although his tone is teasing, I’m not entirely convinced he’s joking.
‘I told you I can’t make you any promises,’ I murmur.
‘I’m not asking you to.’ He kisses me again. ‘But I want you to know you have options.’
I’m not sure I do, given the clauses in the contract our parents arranged, but I don’t feel like getting into that right now.
‘Thank you.’ The sound of a door banging along the corridor startles me.
‘Relax, it’s just Janet. She’s my housekeeper. She stops by three times a week. Why don’t we get out of here for a while? We could go for a drive? Grab a bite to eat if you like?’
I glance down at my skinny jeans and oversized cream sweater. True to his word, Rian sent Callaghan to my place to pick up some clothes, cosmetics and my laptop, but he went for practical as opposed to fancy. And he forgot to pick up my bracelet—worse luck.
‘You look perfect just the way you are.’ Rian can read me like an open book. Footsteps approach, and a red-haired woman in her fifties appears, wiping her hands on a soft cotton apron. Her kind eyes flick from Rian to me and warm immediately.
‘Oh, love, I’m so sorry—I thought you’d be at your parents’ for dinner.’
‘I normally would, but I got a better offer.’ He winks down at me. ‘Janet this is Rebekka. I’ve stolen her and am keeping her, and I’m not one bit sorry about it.’
Janet dissolves into peels of laughter.
I don’t actually think he’s joking.
Her mouth tips into a knowing smile. ‘Did you now? Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.’ She gives Rian a gentle, maternal swat to the chest. ‘About time you brought home someone nice.’
Heat blooms in my cheeks. Janet’s gaze rests on me for a beat—notthe assessing kind, but the quietly approving kind you get from women who’ve seen it all. ‘Welcome, pet. You’re very welcome here.’
I step from Rian’s arms to offer a hand. ‘Nice to meet you. We’ll get out from under your feet?—’
‘Don’t you dare on my account,’ she clucks, already opening a cupboard stacked with spotless supplies. ‘I’ll be an hour. You two take your time. I’ll leave a stew in the fridge and fresh sourdough by the bread bin.’
‘We were thinking of getting some fresh air,’ Rian says.
‘Grand. Scarves in the hall basket. And, missus—’ Her eyes soften on me again, a conspiratorial smile. ‘If the wind cuts through you when you get back, there’s a hot-water bottle in the press. Help yourself.’
‘Thank you,’ I manage.
‘Wrap up now—it’s frosty out,’ she says, and gives me one last, approving once-over that feels like a hug
Half an hour later we’re cruising through the Irish countryside in Rian’s midnight blue Porsche. The engine’s low, decadent purr thrums through my spine. We didn’t take adriver—Rian insisted he likes driving. Correction: loves it. He handles the 911 Turbo S like it’s an extension of him—confident, precise, a little bit reckless in a way that makes my thighs press together.
His left hand owns the wheel, while his right settles high on my thigh, thumb stroking idly over my jeans. Heat unfurls under my skin. I lace my fingers through his when he isn’t teasing patterns there, our hands resting palm to palm, like we’ve been doing it for years instead of days.
The lights of the city fall away behind us, replaced by hedgerows silvered with frost and fields the colour of pewter. The sky is a pale winter wash, low sunlight catching in the black lace of bare branches. The Sugar Loaf rises on the horizon ahead. Outside the window, the air looks cold enough to bite. Inside the car, the chemistry sparking between us could start a fire.
I glance up to look at him—because I can’t not—and find him already looking at me from the corner of his eye, mouth tipped in that sinful, secret smile. Busted. My pulse does a little victory dance anyway.
‘Eyes on the road, Mr Beckett,’ I murmur, failing at stern.
‘Impossible when you’re in my passenger seat, sweetheart.’ He squeezes my fingers, brings our joined hands to his mouth, and kisses my knuckles. It’s the smallest, gentlest graze, but it thrills me almost as thoroughly as everything else he does to my body.
We slip off the main drag, climb into Wicklow—long sweeping bends that show off exactly why he wanted to drive. Heather-dark hills roll to the horizon. A black lake flashes between stands of fir, a sheet of hammered steel. Sheep dot the fields like stray clouds. The whole world feels hushed, as if it’s conspiring to give us this pocket of peace.
‘You warm enough?’ he asks without looking, like he already knows.
‘Perfect,’ I say, and mean it. I press closer, slide my hand under his forearm, just to feel the flex of sinew and strength as he turns the wheel.
