Addison Fox - The Rome Affair

Molly let out a long, low whistle. “These are gorgeous. When did they arrive? I’ve been here since eight-thirty and we haven’t had any deliveries.”

“Bright and early this morning. Nothing like being served up a portion of crow over your first cup of coffee.”

Her assistant set her electronics down and picked up a few of the stems. “These look like flirtation and romance far more than arrogant gloating. Who’s the new man?”

A light zing of awareness skimmed her spine, but Kensington banished it. Just like she banished any of the nine million other delicious thoughts she’d had about Jack Andrews over the past six months. “Trust me. They scream gloating arrogance.”

“Gloating arrogance in a sexy package.”

“Perhaps.”

“Why are the petals all wonky on this side?” Molly turned a few of the blooms over, her concern evident in the lines that crinkled her forehead.

“They’ve already spent a few minutes in the trash.”

Another low whistle left Molly’s lips before she tossed Kensington a broad smile. “Oh, my, my. I think I read this just right. There is a romance afoot.”

“There’s no romance.”

Molly waved a hand over her head as she walked out the door, the roses spilling from the crook of her arm. “Save your breath, oh, straitlaced one. Thou doth protest too much.”

Kensington clamped her mouth shut, her assistant’s words hitting home with the force of a battering ram.

It was long moments later when she finally took a seat at her desk, the morning’s drama fading so that she could concentrate on work.

But damn it if the sweet, fresh scent of roses still lingered in the air.

* * *

Jack Andrews tossed some money to the driver and slid across the backseat of his cab. The impressive Upper East Side brownstone stood five stories above him as he walked toward the front stoop of the headquarters of the House of Steele.

A small shiver of anticipation gripped him, the sensation something of a surprise after far too many years of minimal interest in anything.

It was a calculated risk to come here. Just like the roses.

Would she see it as a taunt? Or would she give him the time and hear him out?

The crisp notes of early December whipped around him and Jack huddled deeper into his wool coat as he took the front stoop two steps at a time and hit the doorbell. He’d lived in Chicago for the better part of fifteen years and he still hadn’t adjusted to cold weather.

A small buzz and the sound of the front door clicking gave him entrance. As he stepped into the warmth, he wasn’t surprised to see a large man hulking in the hallway, ready to greet him. Although the brownstone housed a business, no one walked in off the street. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Kensington Steele.”

“Ms. Steele has no appointments on her agenda. I’m afraid you’re going to need to leave.”

Jack took a moment to strip off his gloves. His gaze took in the large marble-floored entryway, the dark-paneled study he could see off the hall and the small camera that sat in the far corner of the elegant foyer, capturing visitors. The brownstone might have been built more than a hundred years earlier, but he had no doubt it was outfitted from top to bottom with the latest security and technological capabilities. “Please let her know Jack Andrews of Andrews Holdings is here.”

“Ms. Steele isn’t taking visitors.”

“She’ll see me.”

The man stepped closer, his predatory gleam hard to miss. Jack knew his six-one wasn’t small by any means, but the muscles stalking him across the hall had to have him beat by at least three inches and a hundred pounds.

The sound of heels clicking on marble pulled both their attention toward the long hallway that led to the back of the house and that shiver gripped him once more.

Tighter, this time, like a fist wrapped around the base of his spine.

“Mr. Andrews. I wasn’t aware you felt it necessary to make house calls all the way from Chicago to gloat. I would have thought two dozen long-stemmed roses were more than adequate to make your point.”

Kensington waved off the large man in the foyer. “Thanks, Brandon. Although I wouldn’t say Mr. Andrews is a welcome visitor, I’m hardly going to kick him out.”

The hulking man shot him one last dark look before taking a wary stance against the wall. “If you change your mind, Ms. Steele, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you.”

When Jack simply stood there, taking in the long, artful waves of her dark hair and the mile-long legs that stretched from beneath her power suit, Kensington swept out a hand. “You coming, Mr. Andrews?”

And damn if he could hold back the grin that tugged the corners of his mouth at her prim tone. “Of course.”

Curious, he pressed her. “You really keep security out in the hallway all day?”

“Brandon has better things to do than spend all day hanging out in my hallway. He’s obviously decided to make an exception for you.”

Jack filed away the interesting fact that the House of Steele felt it needed some degree of hired muscle in-house as he followed her down the long hallway. She led him into a large dining room opposite a swinging door to what had to be the kitchen. “Your home is impressive.”

“It’s my business now.”

“Can’t it be both?”

A small nod had that lush hair drifting around her shoulders. “I suppose so. It’s also why we still keep a few bedrooms ready on the top floor. One of us often crashes here.”

He stripped off his coat and didn’t miss the scrutiny of her gaze before she moved quickly toward the sideboard and busied herself with a waiting coffee service.

Hmm...interesting.

They’d only been in each other’s company a few times, but each time had captivated him more than the last. He’d thought her unaffected, but perhaps he’d been hasty—too stunned by his own attraction—to recognize a fair bit of it in return.

“Please help yourself to coffee to warm up. The wind’s brutal out there.”

He used the few extra minutes to take in the room. The brownstone was a classic and even as it screamed subtle opulence, it whispered something else far more powerful.

Home.

He stalled over his cream and sugar, curious to get more personal details out of her before she firmly shifted things to business. “This is your family home, yes?”

“My mother’s family, actually. She grew up here and her mother and grandmother before her.”

He knew of Kensington Steele’s lineage—it was hardly a secret among New York’s elite. Her parents, Charles and Katherine, had delighted society when a woman with some of New York’s bluest blood married into one of Britain’s most elite families.

Katherine Kensington Steele’s lineage had given her first-born daughter her name.

And it was an accident on Charles and Katherine’s twentieth anniversary trip that had left the home he now sat in—and a world of hurt and grief—to their four children.

“The Kensington family home.”

“Yes.”

“It’s beautiful. Now it’s functional, too.”

“I’d like to think so.” Kensington took a seat at the head of the table, the subtle power play intriguing him like nothing else could have. “What can I do for you, Mr. Andrews?”

That cultured tone did something to his insides, he admitted to himself. The tones weren’t quite British, yet they were sharp with the same elocution the Brits had made their own. Her voice made him think of how he wanted to poke underneath the surface.

“First, let’s get this out of the way. I have no reason to gloat and that’s not why I’m here. You’re a worthy opponent and I respect your business.”