London Falling (Falling #2)(3)
We ate in companionable silence for a few moments. “So what do you think?” I asked him.
He crinkled his brow and scanned the room. “Could have been better.” His tone was serious with a hint of boredom. I knew by the sliver of a grin across his beautiful lips that he was joking. I pushed against his shoulder and he laughed. “Seriously, Bridge.” Tripp always used his pet name for me. London Bridge is Falling Down. When we met years ago, I was falling down. Crumbling into small bits of nothingness. “You’re incredible. You turned a boring man-cave into a home, something a man could invite a woman into.”
“That’s exactly what the plan was.” I looked over at Maxwell and Michele. Even their names together sounded sickeningly sweet. “He needed her.” I gestured to the couple. Tripp studied them and nodded.
“A complete redesign of the house didn’t hurt either. I love how you went with the large puffy couches with a million pillows. And the bed you chose for the master bedroom? It’s magnificent. Where did you find that?” he asked.
“He needed a place where he could be in touch with his feminine side.” I lovingly trailed my fingertips along the couch pillows and led him toward the bedroom. Once there I patted the bed and Tripp sat down next to me. We both tumbled backwards, holding hands. “The gigantic bed was designed to empower his ego, make him feel he needed a woman to share it with. Otherwise being in here alone would feel too encompassing and lonely.”
We tilted our faces to the side to look at one another. “Bridge, I meant where did you get the bed, literally? Not your psychobabble shit about his inner most desires.” His face twisted into a grimace. “I don’t want to know that about him, especially while laying on it with you.” He rolled over me and straddled my hips. He nuzzled my neck and kissed my cheek. “You did a good job,” he said softly and pulled me up into a sitting position. I gripped his outstretched hands. “Let’s go enjoy the fruits of your labor. You’re moving in with your next client in two days and I want to spend some quality time with my girl.” The smile I gave him was huge as he hurled me back into the party.
***
My stomach growled loudly as I caught sight of a stunning dark haired beauty across the room. She sashayed, practically glided, from the bedroom toward the kitchen, stopping at the drink service. I watched her laughing, dazzling crystal blue eyes alive with joy, her arm hooked in the crook of a man’s arm. Small hands slid over her hips, then adjusted the tiny straps of her barely there dress at the shoulder. She pulled her long black hair to one side and brushed her fingers through the shining locks as she waited for a drink at the bar.
She took my breath away.
Petite and lean with a perfect hourglass figure, her rounded breasts weren’t huge but large on her small frame. My hand gripped into a fist imagining squeezing the firm globes, her nipples scraping against my palms.
I shook my head. My immediate desire for this woman, a stranger, was confounding. I hadn’t felt such an attraction to a woman since my last torrential cock up with my wife, technically ex-wife of five years.
“See something you like, Collier?” My business partner and best mate gestured toward the woman I’d been watching, rather stalking with my eyes.
“Who’s the bird?”
“That’s London Kelley, she’s the reason we’re all here,” he said mockingly.
“The interior designer?”
“One and the same. I’ve had dinner with her when she was staying with Maxwell,” he finished.
“She lived here?”
He nodded.
“But I thought he was in love with her.” I pointed to the pretty blond attached to Maxwell’s hip.
“He is. He wasn’t in a relationship with London; she just lived here while she worked. It’s part of her agreement. She’s highly sought after,” he continued.
My eyes traced over her curves. “I’ll bet.”
He clasped me on the back. “Not like that. Blimey! She’s the most pursued interior designer in New York City. Everyone wants her to redesign their home. Her waiting list is a mile long and she charges a pretty penny. She’s going to redo my flat in six weeks’ time,” his British accent and perfect English comforted me when the entire city seemed to survive on colloquialisms and bad syntax.
Nathaniel Walker was my best mate and half-brother, sharing the same mother but different biological fathers. We left our parents and old lives back in England to open a New York office of Stone, Walker & Associates five years ago. Our law offices touted clients with recognizable names such as Trump and Gates. We handled everything from extremely public celebrity breakups, to million dollar company embezzlers down to the legalities involved in major corporate acquisitions. Our top clients graced the telly, the big screen and the leather seats of high-rise offices across the globe.
“So will she be moving in with you, then?”
Nathaniel nodded. “Part of the contract.” He took a sip of his wine.
“Is she a beggar? A drifter with no home?” My shocked voice rose.
Nathaniel laughed heartily. “No, you old sod. She’s got her own small fortune. Her fee for the four weeks she’s moving in is $100,000 pounds.” My eyes went round. “That does not include the cost of the actual redesign of the home.”
“Interesting. And of course you’re buying what she’s selling. But you are a master player of the field, dear brother. How will that work?”