Maggie Cox - British Bachelors - Rich and Powerful - What His Money Can't Hide / His Temporary Mistress / Trouble on Her Doorstep

‘Absolutely.’

‘Good. I’ll leave you to it, then. Would you like a glass of wine to enjoy while you’re cooking?’

‘As lovely as that sounds, I’d better not. I might put too much paprika or chilli in the mix, and if I get even the slightest bit intoxicated then our stir-fry will probably be inedible!’

‘Warning received.’

Helping himself to a bottle from the sculpted metal rack on the other side of the room, along with a corkscrew and a glass, Drake left Layla with an irresistible lingering smile and a promise in his eyes that—if she let it—could tempt her away from the most sublime culinary feast even if she was starving …

H E KNEW he’d had a lucky escape. But how long could he avoid talking about his past with a woman who made the walls of self-protection he’d carved round himself paper-thin every time she smiled into his eyes, let alone when he kissed her?

His elbows resting on his thighs, Drake stared blankly ahead of him at the glass of ruby-red wine he’d left languishing on the coffee table. He clasped his hands, unclasped them, then clasped them again. In a bid to divert his restlessness he got up and strode across the room to the music centre. When the familiar mournful voice of a male singer-songwriter filled the air he found himself honing in on the lyrics that echoed his own deep-rooted yearning for happiness and peace. Both those longed-for states had been way beyond his grasp ever-since he could remember.

Growing up in an atmosphere of tension and rage had very effectively seen to that. Even at the tender age of six Drake had intuitively understood why his mother had walked out on his father. He’d been a bitter, jealous, angry man who would have kept her under lock and key if he could. She’d had no life with him at all. Yet what Drake didn’t understand—and probably never would—was how she could have walked out on her defenceless son, leaving him with the brute she had married.

His hands reached up to his cheeks to scrub them roughly, as if by doing so he could delete the agonising memory from his mind and heart for ever. He couldn’t , and his anguished thoughts ran on … How much resolve, faith and sheer grit had it taken for him to overcome his broken and unsupported childhood to reach the position he found himself in now? he asked himself.

Yes, he’d reached the heights of his profession, gained money and a laudable reputation beyond his wildest dreams, yet what good was any of it if at the end of his life he was still alone without someone to share it with? He released a slow harsh breath. With despair in her voice his ex had asked him the same question, and Drake had answered angrily.

‘I’m not interested in marriage or having children. That’s not for me. If you want that then you should go and find someone else.’

Well, Kirsty had taken him at his word and broken up with him that very night. Drake had heard recently through a mutual acquaintance that she was pregnant and engaged now, and he honestly wished her well. She was a nice woman, but not the soulmate he’d always secretly craved … a soulmate who would accept him for exactly who he was and not try to mould him into some imaginary ideal that she hoped he might become. What he wanted was a woman of infinite understanding with a capacity for unconditional love beyond measuring. It was a tall order.

Was Layla that woman?

Groaning out loud, he shook his head. How could she be when she was already probing him with uncomfortable questions about his feelings and his past? All he wanted to do was enjoy her body and her company. He wasn’t going to speculate much more beyond that. Shutting off the music, he returned to the luxuriously upholstered couch, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a long slug of the rich burgundy before his rear even touched the seat cushions.

Had he done the right thing leaving her to her own devices in the kitchen? he wondered.

His ensuing smile was helplessly wry. Her cooking surely couldn’t be any worse than that of the incompetent housekeeper he’d recently let go. Layla worked in a café, for goodness’ sake. She was well used to preparing food and making it look presentable. God forgive him, but he very much liked the idea of having her cook for him. In fact—despite his vow that he wouldn’t speculate on the future—he very much liked the idea of having her around full-stop …

The shrimp stir-fry had worked out better than Layla had hoped, and she and Drake had finished every scrap. She had to admit that watching him tuck into a meal she’d prepared with such obvious relish had given her a real sense of satisfaction and pleasure—if only because her nervousness round him hadn’t caused her to make a complete hash of it.

Immediately after they finished, she automatically stood up to clear the table, her intention to stack the dishwasher.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Although his grey eyes glinted with amusement, Drake’s voice had a definitely irritated undertone.

‘I was going to rinse the bowls and stack them in the dishwasher.’

‘You don’t think cooking a meal was more than enough demonstration of domesticity for one evening? Granted I need a housekeeper, but unless I’ve had a serious lapse of memory I wasn’t aware that I’d given the position to you.’

‘It’s no big deal to clear up.’

‘That’s not why I invited you home with me.’

His rough-edged tone told her exactly why he’d invited her home, and Layla couldn’t deny the same thought had been playing on her mind from the moment she’d set eyes on him back at his office … and even before that, when she’d somehow found herself packing a toothbrush and spare underwear into her tote. But she was still wary about surrendering to her physical desire for him too quickly. It was hard to shake the memory of how she’d been so badly used by her ex-boss.

‘You invited me home with you because I presented you with a fait accompli , turning up at your office like that.’ She stalled, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘You probably felt obliged.’

‘Obliged? You must be crazy.’

Abruptly getting to his feet, Drake strode round the glass-topped table. He unceremoniously pulled her against him, making her gasp. Suddenly Layla found herself on the most intimate of terms with his hard lean body, and the lust that blazed down at her from his eyes made her heart thump hard.

‘I swear to God you’ve put a spell on me, woman—because I can’t think of anything else but having you in my bed.’

‘You told me—you said that you had several guest rooms … that we didn’t have to share a room tonight.’ Her tongue was so thick she could barely get the words out.

‘I must have fooled myself into believing that I had will power, then.’

At the precise moment he stopped talking Layla knew without a doubt that she was fighting a lost cause. Heat was already pouring through her body in a torrent of libidinous need that she could scarce contain, and the idea of spending the night alone in one of Drake’s guest rooms instead of in his arms in his bed was akin to attempting to cross a burning hot desert without access to any drinking water. She simply couldn’t do it .

‘And I—I don’t want to spend the night alone in one of your spare rooms, Drake.’

‘Then come with me,’ he husked.

Somehow, her hand held firmly in his, she found herself climbing another glass-lined staircase that led to an upper floor. Barely registering the lush oil paintings that hung here and there on the ivory-coloured walls, or the black velvet sky she glimpsed through the various windows they passed, now she was the one who felt as though she was under a spell. When they reached his bedroom she saw that it was an undoubtedly masculine retreat, with clean, uncluttered surfaces and an original restored oakwood floor without so much as a single rug covering even the smallest square of it. The only less than pristine note was the rumpled burgundy silk counterpane on the large king-size bed. It looked as though its owner had attempted to straighten it in a hurry, thought better of it, then irritably decided to just let it be.