Page 9 of Hidden Heir With His Housekeeper

‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘But I like carrying you, remember,’ he finished, surprised to realise it wasn’t a joke.

He’d enjoyed having her cradled in his arms as they’d made their way across the dancefloor. And not just because she’d been all soft and fragrant and wriggly—but because he’d liked the attention from the crowd. For once, he hadn’t minded people taking photos, because they had assumed Beatrice Medford was his...

‘Well, thanks,’ she huffed, not impressed with his compliment.

It was his turn to frown, though, as the lift doors opened and he stepped inside with her.

Why had he wanted complete strangers to assume he was dating Beatrice Medford?

He didn’t need to impress anyone with the women he dated. And she wasn’t even his. Not yet anyway.

He put her down, and her bare feet landed on the lift’s luxury carpeting.

‘Plus, I wouldn’t want you getting your feet dirty,’ he added, to cover the gaff.

‘My feet really aren’t that delicate,’ she said. ‘But thank you, I appreciate your chivalry,’ she added, looking more disturbed than thankful.

Chivalry?Yeah, right.

The compliment was so inaccurate, he didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled. He pressed his key card to the reader to access the penthouse—and give himself a moment to calm down.

Something about her polite thank you, though, had irritated him too.

Had he read her wrong? Had the spark of anticipation in her expression when she’d suggested going to his place all been in his head, thanks to an inferiority complex he hadn’t even realised he had until about five seconds ago?

He stabbed the penthouse button. The lift whisked upwards.

She dragged in an audible breath as the glass box surged out of the basement complex and climbed the outside of the old wharf building which Foxx Group had remodelled five years ago. The scenic lift gave them an enviable view of the London skyline at night.

Across the river, the Tower of London’s majestic turrets were spotlit in the red and blue of the Union flag. It looked stoic and forbidding, its walled garden dwarfed by the sprawling office complexes that surrounded it. In the foreground, the centuries-old architectural splendour of Tower Bridge winched upward to let a boat pass through the Pool of London and continue its journey up-river.

‘Wow! That’s...amazing,’ she murmured.

He’d grown used to the spectacular view over the last couple of years but, as her face brightened, pride and achievement swelled in his chest.

This washiscity, its history and elegance now as much a part of his life as its squalor and violence had been nearly twenty years ago. And this part of it—this breathtaking view—was something he’d worked to earn, right from the day he’d got his first proper job using a fake ID, aged fourteen, to work as a bellboy in the Jones Tower Hotel next door, named after the bridge’s designer Horace Jones. And renamed the Foxx-Jones five years ago, when it became his.

‘Yeah, not bad,’ he said with deliberate insouciance.

She glanced over her shoulder and sent him a grin which had his heart bobbing.

She was even more stunning when she smiled.

The lift glided to a stop, but he couldn’t seem to detach his gaze from hers.

Her skin glowed in the half-light and he could see her pulse pounding in the delicate well of her collarbone. Her blonde updo had come undone during their exit from the club, the escaped tendrils clinging to her neck and accentuating its swanlike grace. His gaze dropped to the glimpse of cleavage above the provocative neckline of the gossamer gown.

What would she taste like if he kissed her there? At the base of her throat where her pulse fluttered. Would she be rich and sweet, like Mrs Archer’s cupcakes on a hot summer day, or fresh and exotic, like the icy pineapple juice she’d given him to wash them down with?

Awareness flared in the pure cerulean blue of her eyes, along with the spark of determination and anticipation. And suddenly he knew. She wanted him with the same intensity.

The lift doors opened, but did nothing to break the spell.

He directed her into the lavish open-plan space he had helped design himself. The sparsely furnished room was dominated by a glass wall leading to a terrace which ran the length of the building and made the most of the view across the Thames.

‘After you, Princess,’ he murmured, but the mocking name came out on a husky breath.

Because what he saw as she stepped into his home, still clutching her shoes, the dress clinging to her in all the right places, wasn’t an Ice Queen but a flesh and blood woman, eager to explore their chemistry.

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