Cross My Hart (The Notorious Harts 1)
But Christ! Between Gareth calling me and Jagger fucking me until I was pleasure personified, I have no idea how I’m going to keep my head today.
Except I will because it’s what I do.
I’ve worked too hard and have too much to prove to let anyone derail me.
I pull on my suit—navy blue trousers and a three-quarter sleeve jacket with a pale blue blouse, and a pair of cream stilettos that give me an essential couple of extra inches. I try not to think about how I’ll get out of my suit later today. I definitely don’t need those images in my mind right now.
I grab my leather document wallet and slip out of the room, double-checking I’ve got the key card before I pull the door shut. He’s in the restaurant when I stride in and my tummy does that funny loop the loop thing again.
I fight the urge to lift a hand to it, to quell that response.
He’s reading a broadsheet newspaper, one leg crossed lazily over the other. He’s wearing jeans and a linen shirt, looking part hippy, part... I don’t know. Sex god? Rock god? Something god. God of all gods?
I want to storm across the restaurant and throw him to the floor, climb on top of him and... Heat darkens my cheeks.
I blink it away, grabbing the attention of the hostess by lifting my hand in a small wave. I gesture to another table across the restaurant and when I look back he’s watching me, casually reclined in his chair, eyes burning with intensity, and I just know he’s having all the same thoughts I am. I nod coolly and follow the hostess to my table a little way across the restaurant. The Coral Sea glistens in the morning light, spectacularly azure, endlessly inviting on this steamy, warm morning, but I resist looking at it because to do so would require me to look beyond Jagger and I’m not so sure I have the willpower right now to resist looking beyond him at all.
He’s like temptation and eye glue.
I order a coffee and some scrambled eggs then reach into my bag and grab out the agenda for today’s meeting. I know it back to front and sideways but extra prep never hurts. Besides, it’s better than sitting here refusing to look in Jagger’s direction.
My coffee arrives; I don’t look up. But the waiter’s shadow remains and so, with a small frown, I tilt my face and have to dig my fingernails into my thigh to stop from gasping. Gasping!
Actually gasping, like some kind of 1920s starlet.
‘Mr Hart—’ I reach for my coffee, lifting it to my lips without dropping my eyes from his face ‘—how are you this morning?’
His smile is really more of a smirk. And so sexy. Fuck. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar and I can see his neck, his throat, the hint of his shoulder and chest. Did I mark him like he did me? Without realising it, I lift a hand and touch my shoulder, where the hickey he gave me sits.
‘Fine.’ He nods slowly. ‘How did you sleep?’
My pulse ratchets up a notch and delicious longing flickers inside me. I lift my coffee to my lips to buy time, sipping it slowly. ‘Fine,’ I say back after a moment. ‘I slept fine.’
He says nothing, just stares down at me for several long beats, and my fingertips pulse with a desire to lift up and run through his hair. I curve my hands around my coffee cup and bring my mind to the work at hand. ‘Orion Karakedes will meet us in an hour. He’s incredibly nice, and willing to answer any questions you have—he’ll have his accountant there for financial queries. And of course I’ll be able to answer anything property or contract specific.’
‘Naturally.’ He moves ever so slightly closer. If I moved my legs a little, they’d brush against his.
I jam them together, staying put. ‘Is there anything you need before the meeting?’
I don’t mean it as anything other than a straightforward business proposition, but his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly and his smile shows just what he needs—it just so happens to be what I need.
He drops down, on the pretence of studying the documents spread before me. ‘What I need is to bury my head between your legs—’ he lifts his head, to see the effect of his words; heat blooms in my cheeks ‘—Miss Llewellyn.’
I bite back a small moan of agreement because I would love him to go down on me right here, right now. I would love to throw caution to the wind and push him into a quiet corner and fuck him right this minute.
Obviously, I don’t. I lift my wrist, checking the time. ‘I’ll hold you to that, Mr Hart.’
I reach into my handbag and pull out the spare key card for my room. ‘Twelve hours and counting.’
His eyes flare and he straightens, his smile contagious. ‘Deal.’ He turns then, walking away, and my heart pounds hard in my chest. I don’t realise until a moment later that I’m holding my breath. I expel it on one long, warm exhalation.
Twelve hours.
Hurry up, time.
* * *
I wouldn’t have said I’d underestimated her. I just hadn’t expected Grace to have such an encyclopaedic knowledge of not only the golf course but also the laws governing resort operations, golf club licencing, not to mention the marketing measures that are working for the club, and the details of its most profitable membership base. As the day drags on I make it my mission to find questions to which she won’t know answers—just for my personal interest. I’m fascinated by how well she’s prepared for this meeting, a fact that is obvious given how completely she’s able to deal with all my enquiries.