Page 97 of Untether

Yep.

That’ll do nicely.

I know exactly what she needs. In fact, I’ll bet I know better than her what she needs.

I call Aida from the car. ‘I’m on your street. I’m disguised. Tell your guy to let your good friend Rafe in.’

She giggles at that.

I must look fucking weird, strolling down one of Notting Hill’s leafiest and most exclusive streets in a Tom Ford suit, a Dunhill man-bag and a cheapo balaclava, but I couldn’t give a shit. A mother with a toddler in a stroller hurriedly crosses the road to avoid me, and I don’t blame her. There’s a crowd of reporters with cameras and those big fluffy mic things on the pavement outside Aida’s house, but her front garden is clear and there’s a massive scowling guard standing in front of her gate.

He looks like a Bratva enforcer, which pleases me enormously, because none of these parasites are getting past him. ‘She’s expecting me,’ I tell him, pushing through the crowds. His mono brow doesn’t move at the sight of me. Clearly this guy has seen it all.

‘Name?’ he barks.

‘Rafe,’ I lie smoothly.

As he stands aside, the reporters vie for the attention of the masked guy sauntering up the immaculate limestone-tiled path to Aida’s swanky villa. There’s the click of cameras and the inevitable cat-calling.

‘Oi, mate! Who are you?’

‘You a friend of Aida’s, then?’

‘Why you wearing a mask, mate? You going to rob ‘er?’

I ignore them all and bang hard, twice as I make a fist with the other hand. I would really enjoy punching some of these wankers in the face. The door opens, the woman of the hour presumably hiding behind it, and I push through the space and slam it behind me, pulling her into my arms.

‘Hey,’ I croon as I stroke her hair. ‘How are you holding up?’

She sags against my body, but I’ve got her. ‘I can’t believe you’re wearing that. They’ll have a field day.’

‘Don’t give a fuck. Tell the boys one of your friends from work came to see you and he disguised himself.’

‘My hardened criminal in shining armour.’

‘Believe it, baby.’

She pulls away a little so she can lift her face to mine. She looks tired but absolutely stunning. Her lips are my favourite red, and she’s in sleek black trousers and a fine knit sweater that hugs her tits far too perfectly.

‘Do you normally hang around the house looking like a supermodel?’ I ask her.

‘Definitely not. Knowing you’re going to be splashed all over the tabloids has a motivating effect when it comes to one’s morning routine, I’ll tell you.’ Her gaze flits over my masked face, and she licks her lips.

So she already has a Pavlovian response to my mask, does she?

Interesting.

Her dark eyes are shining as she stares up at me. She is the sexiest, most sophisticated woman I have ever, ever seen. Having her in my arms, my senses full of her, leaves me reeling.

I make a decision.

My hands on her biceps, I push off the door and march her backwards so she’s up against the wall.

‘Tell me,’ I say in a low conversational tone, my mouth so close to hers, ‘do you know what happens to rich, bored, sexy-as-fuck housewives when they’re naïve enough to let a masked thug into their fancy Notting Hill home?’

This woman is no bored housewife, and I’m only a thugsome of the time. Still, I see the second she understands the game. She swallows, her bare throat a long, smooth column, eyes glittering.

‘I don’t.’

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