Page 10 of Hidden Heir With His Housekeeper

He took off his jacket and dumped it on one of the leather sofas, the tailored fabric suddenly feeling like a straitjacket. Undoing the cuffs of his shirt, he rolled up the sleeves and crossed to the bar, more than ready now to explore that livewire connection too.

‘So, what’s your poison, Princess?’ Mason Foxx asked in that low voice which seemed to hold a thousand and one promises Bea couldn’t quite fathom. But also didn’t want to ignore.

Was he toying with her? Perhaps she ought to be more cautious? After all, she’d never been alone with a man like him, a man so forceful and rugged and assured he made no bones about what he wanted. Plus, all she really knew about him was that her father had asked her to seduce him, and his kiss had the power to make her forget everything but the feel of his lips on hers.

But despite all the potent sexual energy which emanated from him, she sensed Mason Foxx had a core of pride which made her positive he wouldn’t take advantage of her.

Even though she had already asked him to.

She’d been in his arms twice already. And, despite her protests, she’d loved the surge of adrenaline, the shudder of awareness, as he’d carried her with that audacious sense of entitlement.

Surely the kinetic energy which made her body feel alive and languid at one and the same time was what Katie had told her about? The ‘sex is incredible when you do it right, sis’ thing Bea had convinced herself she would never experience.

Odd to think she should feel it for this man. Why would her libido finally awaken for Mason Foxx? Perhaps because he was so overpowering. Hot enough to thaw out an Ice Queen—even one who had begun to believe she might be asexual.

One thing was certain. It didn’t matter any more that he was one of the men on her father’s list. Because she had no intention of telling her father about tonight. Sleeping with Mason Foxx to satisfy her own desires—rather than her father’s investment opportunities—suddenly felt like the ultimate act of rebellion. The perfect way to stake a claim to her own sex life for once. Or at least it had in the club, when she’d asked him to bring her here...

‘A glass of wine would be great,’ she said, licking her lips nervously, aware of his gaze straying to her mouth.

‘White or red?’

‘Um...’ The question threw her, because she rarely drank. ‘White, I guess,’ she said, deciding something chilled would probably be a good idea, given that her body felt as if it were on fire.

He nodded, then opened a fridge beneath the bar which held an array of expensive-looking bottles. He selected one, uncorked it—using one of those minimalist corkscrews she’d only ever seen waiters use—then poured the golden liquid into a long-stemmed glass.

He handed it to her, then poured himself a glass too. She took a sip. The fresh buttery flavours burst on her tongue.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘Delicious.’

‘Good.’ He swirled the wine in his own glass, took a taste, then smiled as she took another gulp, mostly to keep her hands busy. ‘It’s a Montrachet Grand Cru,’ he said. ‘It ought to taste good—it goes for over a grand a bottle at the bar in the Foxx-Jones Hotel next door.’

‘It...what?’ she sputtered, then coughed. ‘You’re joking?’ she wheezed as he patted her back.

‘Nope,’ he said, smiling.

‘Oh, God, I think I just choked on at least a hundred pounds’ worth,’ she said.

He laughed, that rich, throaty, rare laugh which made her heart bounce.

‘Not a problem,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a whole case of it.’

‘That’s not even funny,’ she said, although she couldn’t help smiling back at him.

‘So, you and Jack Wolfe—what wasthatabout?’ he asked, the change of subject so abrupt she almost got whiplash. ‘Because I can’t see you shackled for life to a reprobate like him,’ he added in an easy, jokey tone which did nothing to disguise the sharp look in his eyes.

Which were dark green, not brown, as she had originally assumed.

‘Jack’s not a reprobate,’ she said, struggling not to drown in the vivid emerald hue of his irises, which reminded her of the chalk hills near Medford Manor in Wiltshire in spring.

‘So, you’ve still got feelings for him?’ he commented, the tone still conversational, but the sharp look intensifying.

‘Heavens, no!’ she blurted out, and his sensual lips curved, the cynical half smile tinged with something that seemed a little smug. ‘I mean, I never really had feelings for him.’ She scrambled to justify her reaction. ‘Notthosefeelings, anyway. He’s very happily married to my sister Katie. He’s a forceful person. And so is Katie, which makes them perfect for each other.’

She took a gulp of the wine, feeling exposed under that patient gaze. Why was she explaining herself to him? Her relationship with Jack—or rather the lack of one—was not his business.

‘So why were you ever engaged to him?’ he asked.

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