Page 1 of Hidden Heir With His Housekeeper

CHAPTER ONE

MASONFOXXSTOODat the eighty-foot-long champagne bar, carved out of a single piece of mahogany, and nursed a lukewarm glass of 1959 Dom Perignon. He gazed at the guests making pointless small talk and gorging themselves on the free cordon bleu canapés in the cavernous warehouse space below, decked out in fake greenery to launch a male fragrance which smelled like mould, in his humble opinion.

The former power station on the South Bank of the River Thames had been gutted and rehabbed a few years ago, and eventually converted into this stunning entertainment venue.

His lips quirked in wry amusement. Funny to think this ultra-modern, minimalist palace of steel and concrete was within spitting distance of the hole where he’d grown up.

He rubbed his thumb over the scar on his eyebrow—a habitual gesture which reminded him of his childhood, and how hard he’d fought to ensure he never ended up back in that hole again.

His smile became tinged with contempt.

Not one of these pampered narcissists knew what it was like to fight for every single thing you needed to survive. Then again, the hotel empire he had worked his backside off to create came with social commitments like this one, which were nowhere near as much of an adrenaline rush as living by your wits on the mean streets of Bermondsey. Truth was, he’d almost rather be getting a kicking at The Dog and Duck—where fortunes had changed hands faster than the packets of little pills with smiley faces on—than sipping overpriced bubbles, bored out of his skull.

Of course, The Dog and Duck had been bulldozed ten years ago, and Bermondsey was now as gentrified as the rest of Southwark, while the villains he’d been terrified of as a boy were all banged up or dead. But at least those criminals had personality, unlike the array of dull, talentless nepo babies, corporate suits and limelight hoggers who turned up at these events like clockwork.

He placed the fancy flute on the bar. Time to head back to the empty penthouse suite he kept at The Foxx Grand in Belgravia, or his equally soulless loft apartment at Foxx Suites overlooking Tower Bridge, if he was getting sentimental about the bad old days—and the villains who had once made his life a misery.

‘Would you like a fresh glass, sir?’ the eager-to-please young barman asked.

‘No, thanks, mate, I’m driving. And don’t call me sir,’ he replied.

The kid blushed and let out a forced laugh. But then the barman’s eyes widened as he caught sight of something over Mason’s left shoulder.

‘Wow,’ the boy murmured, his expression awestruck. ‘She’s even more stunning in the flesh.’

Mason turned, expecting to be underwhelmed by whoever the kid was staring at.

He’d dated his fair share of stunning women, and in his experience looks were overrated—because they often came with zero personality. But then he spotted her too.

His mind blanked and his heartbeat slowed—then ramped up to about five thousand beats per second.Stunning didn’t even begin to cover it.

In a fragile, floaty sky-blue gown which clung to her subtle curves and sparkled in the million and one fairy lights which lit the warehouse’s exclusive balcony bar, the girl had the sort of regal beauty guys a lot classier than he was would once have written sonnets about.

He wondered if her skin could be as soft and luscious as it appeared.

The urge to plunge his fingers into the blonde curls perched on top of her head in an expertly constructed hairdo kicked him in the gut.

What the hell?

He shoved his fists into his trousers pockets. He might be more than happy to indulge his baser instincts, but even he had never wanted a woman with this much intensity at first sight. He didn’t like it, because it reminded him of the feral kid he’d once been—always on the outside looking in at other people’s perfect lives.

Her gaze coasted towards him, almost as if she could sense him watching her from the other side of the bar. And he got an eyeful of her delicate, perfectly symmetrical features.

Damn.

Her face was as striking as the rest of her. Her bone structure was like a work of art while the smoky gunk around her eyes made them look huge... And strangely guileless.

Which had to be an act. No woman who carried herself with such effortless sensuality would be unaware of the challenge her I’m-too-perfect-to-touch appearance would present to every heterosexual bloke in the place.

Her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips in a nervous gesture which would have been endearing if it weren’t so hot.

It had the desired effect though, directing his voracious gaze to her mouth. Her plump, dewy lips glistened, and looked so kissable his throat became drier than the Gobi Desert.

He swallowed and sucked in a breath, annoyed to realise the rush of blood draining below his belt was making him lightheaded. But despite his disintegrating brain power, or maybe because of it, he could not stop staring.

But then those big doe eyes widened as her gaze finally connected with his, and she jolted.

What was that about? However goddess-like she appeared, surely she couldn’t read his filthy mind from twenty paces? Before he could decide how to react—still spellbound by her artless beauty—she turned and disappeared.

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