Page 6 of Bedding his Innocent Mistress

His laugh was quiet. “I doubt it.”

“It’s like a photoshoot from an architectural magazine. My purse is completely out of place.”

He grinned and pushed out of his suit jacket, discarding it messily on the back of a white leather Eames. “Better?”

“Yeah. I guess clutter loves company.” She moved deeper into the space, still totally overawed by the stunning outlook. “It’s just beautiful.”

He shrugged. “For London, yes.”

“For London?” She pulled a face of mock offence. “Careful. That sounds like a bit of an insult to my fair town.”

&nbs

p; He nodded. “As it was intended.”

He moved into the kitchen – the kind of kitchen that would be perfectly acceptable in a five-star restaurant – and pulled a bottle of champagne from a small fridge concealed beneath the bench top.

“You don’t like London?”

He popped the cork quietly, holding it tightly in his hand as he lifted it out of the bottle. “London I can tolerate. The weather on the other hand,” he grimaced as he filled the glasses then skirted around the kitchen, handing one to her.

Again, she used the opportunity to let her fingers flirt with his and the awareness here, in his apartment, without the swirling of crowds and the sounds of strangers; here where the promise of what was to come was inherent in every breath she took, there was a powerful arc of sensual need that flamed her nerve-endings.

“You get used to it,” she said, her mind working on auto-pilot as a separate entity of her brain.

“Perhaps,” he took a drink of the champagne and his throat moved as he swallowed. It was a thick throat. Strong. Powerful. A kick of desire trembled through her.

She wanted to see him.

All of him.

“But you live one life, you know? And for me, life is not,” he frowned, “This.” His eyes flicked around the room, expressively, distracting...

“What is then?” She prompted, but she was being pulled into a sticky, threaded web, as if by magic. His words were wine and she was drunk on them, intoxicated by his accent and his thoughts.

“The sun on my skin. The salt water from the ocean tangy in the air. Food, wine, friends. No smog.” His smile was the last straw. She suppressed a shiver as the image he’d painted danced before her eyes, so real she could almost reach out and touch it for herself.

Her voice was thick. “Why do I think you’re too busy to enjoy much of that?”

“You’re right.” A sense that they were connected in a way that defied logic zapped between them.

She sipped her champagne, aware that his gaze followed the gesture, lingering on her eyes and lips.

“London always leaves me with a sense of claustrophobia. Like I’m walled in by buildings and land. I don’t like it.”

“I’d never thought of it like that. Besides, we have the Thames.”

His laugh was soft. “I wouldn’t brag about that.”

Now Ivy laughed. “You’re a geography snob, you know that? London is generally thought to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world.”

“Most cosmopolitan perhaps; not beautiful.”

“You don’t think this is beautiful?” She lifted her hand and gestured to the view. Beyond the glass wall of his penthouse, the city was aglow with lights and activity.

“I think you are beautiful,” he said, and her heart thudded at the compliment. “I think you would find my home beautiful. London is … unique.”

She swallowed, not sure if she could argue with his assessment; not sure she had any interest in the conversation. Or any conversation.

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