“Well, I might be pregnant,” she says.
What? I blanch.
“Kit. Not you. You’re too bloody careful.”
Damn right. The ground seems to shift beneath my feet.
Kit’s heir!
Could this be any more complicated?
“Well, if you are, we’ll figure out what to do,” I reply, feeling at once a moment of relief that all this responsibility might pass to Kit’s child, but also a sudden and overwhelming sense of loss.
The earldom is mine. For now.
Shit. Could this be any more confusing?
Chapter Three
My phone buzzes as I’m in the back of a black cab on my way to the office. It’s Joe.
“Mate,” he says. “How’s it going?” He sounds somber, and I know he’s referring to my frame of mind since Kit’s death. I’ve not seen him since the funeral.
“I’m surviving.”
“Fancy a bout?”
“I’d love to. But I can’t. I have meetings all day.”
“Earl shit?”
I laugh. “Yes. Earl shit.”
“Maybe later in the week? My épée is getting rusty.”
“Yes. I’d like that. Or perhaps a drink.”
“Yeah, I’ll see if Tom’s around.”
“Cool. Thanks, Joe.”
“No worries, mate.”
I hang up. My mood morose. I miss being able to do what the fuck I like. If I wanted to fence in the middle of the day, I could. Joe is my sparring partner and one of my closest friends. Instead I have to go into the office and do some bloody work for a change.
Kit. I blame you.
* * *
The music is pounding at Loulou’s. The bass reverberates through my chest. I like it this way. The noise level cuts down on unnecessary conversation. I make my way through the crowd to the bar. I need a drink and a warm, willing body.
I have spent the last day and a half in tedious meetings with the two fund managers who oversee the considerable Trevethick investment portfolio and the charitable trust; the estate managers from Cornwall, Oxfordshire, and Northumberland; the managing agent who handles the London properties; and with the developer who’s remodeling the three mansion blocks in Mayfair. Oliver Macmillan, Kit’s chief operating officer and his right-hand man, has attended all of them with me. Oliver and Kit had been friends since Eton; they’d both gone to the London School of Economics, until Kit dropped out to fulfill his aristocratic duty following the death of our father.
Oliver is slight, with a shock of unruly blond hair and eyes of an indeterminate color that miss nothing. I have never warmed to him. He’s ruthless and ambitious, but he knows his way around a balance sheet and can deal with the numerous personnel who answer to the Earl of Trevethick.
I don’t know how Kit managed it all and held down a fund-manager job in the City. But he was a smart, slick bastard.
Funny, too.
I miss him.
I order a Grey Goose and tonic. Maybe he succeeded because Macmillan had his back, and I wonder if Oliver’s loyalty will extend to me or if he might take advantage of my naïveté while I try to come to terms with all my new responsibilities. I just don’t know. But the fact is, I don’t trust him, and I make a mental note to stay circumspect in my dealings with him.
The one bright spot in the last couple of days was a call from my agent telling me I have a job next week. I’d taken a great deal of pleasure in telling the old gorgon that for the foreseeable future I would no longer be available for modeling work.
Would I miss it?
I wasn’t sure. Modeling could be mind-numbingly boring, but after I was sent down from Oxford, the work had gotten me out of bed and given me an excuse to stay in shape. I also got to meet hot, skinny women.
I take a slug of my drink and scan the room. That’s what I want now: a hot, willing woman, skinny or otherwise.
It’s Let’s Fuck Thursday.
Her raucous laugh catches my attention, and our eyes meet. I see the appreciation and challenge in her gaze, and my cock stirs in anticipation. She has pretty hazel eyes, long brown glossy hair, and she’s drinking shots. What’s more, she looks sensational in the leather minidress and her thigh-high stiletto boots.
Yes. She’ll do.
* * *
It’s two in the morning when I let us both into my flat. I take Leticia’s coat, and she turns immediately and wraps her arms around my neck. “Let’s go to bed, Posh Boy,” she whispers, and kisses me. Hard. No preliminaries. Her coat is still in my hands, and I have to steady myself against the wall to stop us both from falling. Her attack takes me by surprise. Perhaps she’s more pissed than I thought. She tastes of lipstick and Jägermeister—an intriguing combination. I thread my fingers through her hair and tug, freeing my mouth.
“All good things, sweetheart,” I chide against her lips. “Let me put your coat down.”
“Fuck my coat,” she says, and kisses me again. All tongue.
I’d rather fuck you.
“We’re not going to make it to the bedroom at this rate.” I put my hands on her shoulders and gently push her away.
“Let me see your place, then, model-slash-photographer-slash-DJ,” she teases, her soft Irish accent a complete contrast to her direct manner. I wonder if she’ll be as forthright in bed as I follow her down the hallway into the drawing room, her heels clicking on the wooden floor.
“Do you act, too? Great view, by the way,” she says as she glances through the wall of glass that looks out over the Thames. “Nice piano,” she adds, and turns to face me, her eyes alight with excitement. “Have you fucked on it?”
Lord, she has a foul mouth.
“Not recently.” I dump her coat on the sofa. “Not sure I want to right now. I’d rather bed you.” I ignore her jibe about my current lack of a stable career. I haven’t told her I have an empire to run. She smiles, her lipstick smudged and no doubt smeared over my mouth. The thought displeases me, and I run my fingers over my lips. She saunters toward me and tugs the lapels of my jacket, forcing me forward.
“Okay, Posh Boy, show me what you can do.” She puts her hands on my chest and rakes her nails over my sternum to the edge of my jacket.
Shit! It’s almost painful. She has scarlet talons, not nails, talons that match her lipstick. She slides my jacket off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and starts undoing the buttons on my shirt. The mood she’s in, I’m relieved that she takes her time and doesn’t just rip my shirt open—I like this shirt! Slipping it off me, she lets it fall to my feet and digs her nails into my shoulders. Deliberately.
“Ah!” I hiss in pain.
“Cool ink,” she says as her hands travel from my shoulders down my arms and toward the waistband of my jeans, her nails leaving tracks across my stomach.
Ow! Boy, she’s aggressive.
I grab her hand and tug her into my arms, kissing her roughly. “Let’s go to bed,” I say against her mouth, and before she can answer, I take her hand and haul her after me to the bedroom. There she pushes me toward the bed and again rakes her nails over my belly as her fingers find the top button of my jeans.
Fuck! She likes it rough.
I flinch and catch her hands in front of her in a viselike grip, but in reality I’m avoiding her nails.
You want to play rough? I can, too.
“Play nice,” I warn. “And you first!” I release her, moving her away so I have a good view. “Strip. Now,” I order.
Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she puts her hands on her hips, her mouth set in an amused challenge.
“Go on,” I urge.