Promised (One Night 1)

‘Did I ever!’ He leans back in his chair and rubs his belly on a satisfied huff of air. ‘I may need to undo my top button.’

‘George!’ Nan hisses, reaching over and slapping his arm. ‘We’re at the dinner table.’

‘Never usually bothers you,’ he grumbles.

‘Yes, well, we have a guest.’

‘This is your home, Mrs Taylor,’ Miller interjects. ‘And I’m privileged to be welcomed into it. That was the best beef Wellington I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting.’

‘Oh.’ Nan waves a dismissive hand over the table. ‘You’re too kind, Miller.’

He’s a brown-noser, that’s what he is. ‘Better than my coffee?’ I’m throwing innuendos all over the place, but I simply cannot help it.

‘Your coffee was like nothing I’ve tasted before,’ he retorts softly, raising his eyebrows at me. ‘I hope you’ll have one ready for me tomorrow around noon when I’m passing.’

I shake my head on an amused smile, enjoying our private exchange. ‘Americano, four shots, two sugars and topped up halfway.’

‘I look forward to it.’ He gives me a hint of the smile I long to see again, the one I’ve seen only a few times since I’ve known him. ‘Mrs Taylor, would you object if I were to ask Olivia to join me for drinks at my home?’

I’m staggered by his confidence, and why didn’t he ask me? My grandmother wouldn’t say no, anyway. No, she’ll probably try desperately to find a silk negligee in my underwear drawer to stuff into my bag on my way out. She’ll be looking in vain.

‘I’d love to,’ I answer, halting the potential of the decision being made for me. I’m a grown woman. I make my own decisions. I’m the master of my own destiny.

‘How very chivalrous of you to ask.’ Nan’s excitement is clear but a bit of a gut wrench. She’s building hopes on the basis of what very little she knows of the man sitting at her table. The whole story would put her in an early grave. ‘We’ll clear up and you two go and have fun!’

My chair is being pulled out from behind me before I can drop my spoon, and I’m on my feet, being directed towards Nan and George’s end of the table without delay. ‘Mrs Taylor, thank you.’

‘Not at all!’ She stands and lets Miller peck each of her cheeks while she widens her eyes at me. ‘It’s been a wonderful evening.’

‘I concur,’ he says, holding his spare hand out to George. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, George.’

‘Yes.’ George is on his feet, taking position beside Nan and the opportunity, while she’s in such a good mood, to slip his arm around her waist. ‘Lovely evening.’ He takes Miller’s hand.

I’m silently begging them to hurry with the polite exchanges. Dinner has been a painfully long process of secret, suggestive remarks and sneaky touches. The pent-up lust in me is both unfamiliar and quite unsettling, but the overwhelming need to release it all is blocking any intelligence that I have, and I have lots of intelligence to block. I’m a smart woman . . . except when Miller is around.

I feel the soothing kneading of his fingers into my nape, completely obliterating that intelligence. I’m not going to try and find it because it’s long gone, leaving me vulnerable and desperate.

I kiss Nan and George and allow Miller to guide me from the dining room. He doesn’t let his hold of me drop as he takes his jacket from the stand, and then unhooks my denim jacket, too. ‘Do you want to get some things?’

‘No,’ I answer quickly, not wanting to delay things further.

He doesn’t argue, swiftly opening the front door and pushing me onward. He opens the door of his car and places me in the seat, shutting it quickly and pacing around the front to get in. Starting the engine, he pulls smoothly away from the kerb, and I look up to my house, seeing the curtains twitching. I can only imagine the conversation going on between George and Nan right now, but that thought trails off when Depeche Mode’s ‘Enjoy the Silence’ creeps from the speakers, making my brow knit as I remember him telling me to do exactly that.

‘You were extremely naughty during dinner, Livy.’

My head swings to face him. Naughty? ‘You’re the one who cornered me in the kitchen,’ I remind him.

‘I was securing my evening’s prospects.’

‘I’m a prospect?’

‘No, you’re a foregone conclusion.’ He keeps his eyes on the road, his face straight. Does he realise what he’s saying?

‘You make me sound like a tart.’ My jaw is clenched and so are my fists, my lust dissipating in a split second at those words. I may have stamped all over my rules in recent weeks, but I am not, and never will be, a tart. ‘I’d like you to take me home.’

He takes a hard left, prompting me to grab the door, and we’re suddenly driving down an alleyway, flanked by loading bays for shops on either side. It’s dusk, it’s eerie and it’s deserted. ‘You’re my foregone conclusion, Livy. No one else’s.’ Skidding to a halt, he unbuckles his seatbelt, then mine, and I’m quickly being yanked across the car onto his lap.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask, shocked, the track making me shudder as it continues to invade my hearing as Miller invades all my other senses.

Eyes.

Nose.

Touch.

And soon taste.

His seat is shifted back, giving him more room to pull my dress up to my waist. ‘I’m doing what you’ve been begging me to do throughout dinner.’