“I know,” I agree regretfully, my gaze flicking to the floor. “I’ve been busy. Also, I’m not sure if you realise, but I’ve been giving you some space.”

“Oh.” Her answer seems more a sound than a question. Might it also include a touch of relief? “I didn’t even notice.” She makes a careless gesture with her hand, the words delivered as one long string, and they don’t sound like a lie at all. Or they wouldn’t if you were say, deaf. “I mean, I only just noticed I hadn’t seen you. Now that I am seeing you. In front of me, I mean.”

And seeing quite a lot of me because there goes her gaze again. Maybe I should’ve just ambushed her the morning after the kitchen wearing this get-up. Or maybe I should just tie her to my bed and keep her there until she gives in.

Holland, what am I going to do with you?

What do I have to do to make you see we’re worth it?

“I’m cut to the quick,” I say, clutching a fist to my heart. “You haven’t missed me? Not even a little bit?”

“Do the gardeners grow cannabis in the orangery?”

We don’t have an orangery. Which she knows.

“I’m just high on seeing you. No white lines or green leaves necessary. Just Holland.”

“H-Have you been for a ride?”

At last! These riding boots are always a bastard to put on. I’m pleased the effort wasn’t wasted. Very pleased indeed.

“As a matter of fact, I have not.”

“What’s with the get-up, then?” Her eyes flick across my tight-fitting polo shirt then down. Down to my pale riding jodhpurs, more suitable for the polo field than the Scottish countryside. Farther still to my

“Funny that you should ask, but I recently heard that those who take care of themselves, those who are in good shape,” I add a tiny flourish, “should wear tight-fitting clothing, lest their delicate skin chafe.”

“You are nuts,” she says, her laughter seemingly against her better judgement as she shakes her head. But it does my heart good just to hear it. “There’s nothing delicate about your skin. You have the hide of a rhino.”

“Are you saying I’m old?”

“You’re old enough to know better,” she says, her words taking a turn for the serious.

“And selfish enough not to care.” This time, my heart gives a hollow knock at the way she’s looking at me. Seriously. Critically, even. “But in answer to your question, I was planning to go for a ride this afternoon when I was waylaid by a call from a marble restoration expert.” I allow my gaze to flick over to where the plinth and statue once stood. “I wonder why the spotlights aren’t working.”

“I switched them off,” she mutters, her mouth almost a straight line. “I would’ve gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for those pesky kids. It’s a Scooby-Doo reference,” she elucidates unnecessarily. Suddenly, it seems I’m Methuselah.

“Because Archie is a nark,” I reply in kind. “The little snitch who ratted you out.”

“Is that your attempt at talking street?” she says in the kind of tone that makes me want to swat my hand over her delectable upside-down heart-shaped arse. She clears her throat when I don’t answer. I sense the conversation is about to take a turn. “You know, I was thinking how that statue kind of reminded me of you.”

“I hope you’re not thinking about chopping off my family jewels and shoving me under your bed.” Leave them intact and slide me in next to you, however . . .

“I didn’t do that. They were already lying on the floor when I got there!”

“A likely story, one I’m sure the police would see right through.”

Her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

“I’m joking.” Reaching out, I slide the backs of my fingers down her face to find her almost leaning into my touch. “Why would I call the police when I have my own dungeon? Where are they, by the way? Apollo’s bollocks,” I qualify. You know, just because.

“In my nightstand,” she says, pulling back with a narrow look.

“You’ve put his genitalia in your nightstand?” I repeat suggestively. “That seems a little . . .” Well, a little too little to be any fun, that’s for sure.

“And his head in the closet,” she retorts, not playing along.

“Who knew you had such a gruesome side.”

“I had wondered if the statue was modelled after family lines.” Her eyes dip to my crotch in a taunt.

“It’s gratifying to know you’ve been thinking about my body.” As if I needed her goading to add to my already very explicit imaginings.

“I—that. I didn’t say that. I meant that you look alike.”

I sense she’s not referring to my physique. Though she’s giving out clues like a Scotsman does pennies or, as the saying goes, a miser, I still hear what she doesn’t want me to. She’s missed me. She’s been thinking about me. Possibly even a very particular part of me.

Tags: Donna Alam Billionaire Romance
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