Page 22 of Hidden Heir With His Housekeeper

Somehow, though, as the fury engulfed him, the possibility didn’t seem like a total disaster any more. Maybe there would be benefits from having Beatrice Medford on his arm for a price. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with all the hearts and flowers nonsense.

On his arm she could give him a class he’d always secretly yearned for. And while he’d never seriously considered becoming a father, he had thought vaguely about his legacy. And about one day, in the distant future, passing it on.

If that time turned out to be now, who better to spruce up his bloodline than the daughter of a lord?

And, best of all, he’d be in control. Because he had something she and her father needed. Money. And now he knew the truth about her, she wouldn’t be able to dynamite that stupid kid out of hiding a second time.

‘Good morning, Princess,’ he said, careful to keep the edge out of his voice as he climbed onto a stool at the breakfast bar. The endearment which had been a joke last night wasn’t really a joke any more, though.

He sent her one of his fake smiles, the kind he used when he wanted to lull the competition into thinking he was all charm and no substance.

‘How you doing this morning?’ he asked, pouring on the bad-boy-made-good schtick, even though he felt empty inside.

So what if their relationship would be just another transaction? All that mattered now was that, like all the other deals he’d made in his life, he came out on top.

‘Good, thank you,’ Bea said politely as she noticed the tattoo which roped around Mason’s biceps and flexed under the short sleeve of his T-shirt. And tried not to notice the wobble in her stomach, which had been getting worse ever since she’d woken up in his bed, feeling warm and languid and well-rested.

That would be the wobble which had just gone into overdrive when he had strolled towards her in jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, with his feet bare and his damp hair raked into haphazard rows.

In the daylight, the expensive, starkly modern apartment and the devastating view of Tower Bridge looked even more intimidating... But nowhere near as intimidating as the man himself—her lover—in his natural habitat.

She took a careful breath, aware of his glittering green gaze roaming over her face... Except... What had happened to the warmth from last night? Why did the look in his eyes suddenly seem a little impatient?

Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to still be here? Should she have left already? Unfortunately, she knew even less about morning-after etiquette than she did about one-night stand etiquette.

But something was definitely off. Because the Princess endearment seemed less like an endearment now too. And she was sure she could detect the sparkle of resentment in his gaze.

But perhaps that was just her insecurity? The insecurity which had stopped her living her best life—or any life at all really—for so long.

She forced herself to smile and crossed her arms over her chest. She wished she had found something less revealing to wear before she’d walked out here in search of coffee... And him. But it was too late to stress about that.

Things had become far too heavy last night, thanks to her virginity and his busted condom. But she didn’t want to appear anxious or nervous, or as if she was expecting some kind of commitment. Because she really wasn’t.

He probably already thought she was clueless and gauche and over-sensitive. So she needed to bring her A-game now and create a much better impression. She wanted to appear smart and empowered and worldly—and not as if her emotions were all over the place, even if they were.

But for that, she definitely needed coffee.

She turned her attention to his state-of-the-art espresso machine. ‘I’m afraid I may need a degree in nuclear physics to figure out how to work this.’

‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘I guess you’re not used to making your own coffee.’

She heard the note of judgement, but was certain thathadto be her projecting.

He joined her by the machine, but as she stepped aside to give him room—far too aware of his scent—he gave a rough chuckle.

‘Why so jumpy, Princess?’ he asked.

She glanced at him, the heat exploding in her cheeks—because she’d definitely heard an edge this time, as if he found her nervous reaction vaguely pathetic.

‘I’m... I’m not,’ she stuttered, as the wobble stamped around in her stomach like a jumping bean wearing hobnailed boots.

‘Sure you are,’ he said with a certainty which made her feel embarrassed about her lie. ‘How about we try this?’ he added, then leaned back against the countertop. Placing a hand on her waist, he tugged her between his outstretched thighs.

She braced her hands on his chest. Her gaze was level with the tantalising ring of barbed wire on his collarbone, her lungs full of the smell of him, fresh from the shower—sandalwood and pine soap. But while his scent had been intoxicating the night before, it bothered her that she couldn’t control her reaction to it. Not just the surge of endorphins, but also the nerves playing havoc with the booted jumping bean in her belly.

He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet that assessing, pragmatic gaze. He placed a kiss on her nose, the gesture just casual enough to be condescending.

‘There’s no need to be nervous. I’m happy to take a rain check before round two, Princess.’

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