Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(62)

20




Elly

After I exit the underground at Holland Park, I turn right onto a tree-lined street with huge Victorian townhouses hidden behind tall gates and high hedges. Megan and I stalked the address online and found out how much he paid for it. Actually, Megan stalked the address and made me guess. I went big at five million and she laughed and said you couldn’t buy a ham sandwich with five million in that area. In fact, I needed to add on another fifteen million, which is what he paid for it seven years ago. It’s loose change considering it’s nestled in the exclusive W8 Kensington Palace, one of Britain’s most expensive postcodes. Megan asked me to keep an eye out for Madonna.

Hold on a second…I recognise this street. The Uzbekistan Embassy beside Maria Garcia’s residence stares down at me, and I shake my head. So he really did make an unnecessary round trip just to talk to me?

I turn the corner onto a private street. A burst of giggles erupts in my belly as I walk past each tank of a house in turn. I can’t believe he stayed the night in my house-share; no wonder he was so keen for us to stay in his house. The street is decorated with intimidating neighbourhood watch signs, and I begin to wonder if snipers are watching me. Driveways are lined with more luxury cars than the Grand Prix.

Number twelve—this is his. I gawk at the three-storey townhouse that screams of stinking rich.

Holy shit.

I flatten down my skirt. I'm wearing a black leather skirt, a loose woollen sweater that reveals a shoulder on one arm, and ankle boots. The target is ‘effortless chic.’ I’ve opted for minimal hairstyling and make-up after the epic contouring fail on the first date.

A petite brunette answers the imposing door.

“Oh,” I say, confused. “I must have the wrong address.”

“Elena?” she asks with an accent I can’t quite place.

My heart rate kicks up a notch. Is this his mother? That doesn’t sound like an Irish accent. I didn’t have my glasses on at the hotel the morning of his mum’s birthday.

Tristan comes to the door in socks and a torn T-shirt, and I try to ignore the way his muscles look underneath. His lips part in a grin.

“Hi.” I shift awkwardly.

“You should have let me get you a car,” he says as I step into the high-ceilinged hallway. He takes my coat from my shoulders and leans down to kiss my neck. He’s a full head taller than me so my eyes are parallel with a thick chest.

“Elly, this is Natalia.”

Phew. Not his mother.

Natalia and I exchange pleasantries.

“Nice skirt.” His eyes roam up and down my bare legs as if Natalie isn’t in the hall. “I like leather.”

My eyes widen. Does he have to look at me in such an overtly sexual way in front of Natalia? She could probably write a book on Tristan Kane’s sex life.

“Whoa!” I exclaim, my eyes roaming the hallway. “Your house is the same style as the Uzbekistan Embassy! It’s beautiful.”

He shrugs sheepishly. “Nice, isn’t it? It’s the same architect that designed the Embassy.” He turns to Natalia. “Do you want to head off?”

When she nods and leaves the hallway, I feel slightly relieved.

“My housekeeper and saviour,” he explains.

“Thank God,” I say. “I thought she was your mother.”

He laughs and pulls me to him. “Don’t say that to my sister Charlie if you meet her. She says the same. Also don’t say it to my mother who sees Natalia as a threat.”

My cheeks burn at the casual suggestion of meeting his family.

He holds me still in the hall for a minute, staring at me with a smouldering gaze that instantly gets me flustered. “I’ve missed you,” he says after a beat.

“It’s only been forty-eight hours,” I reply breathily. The longest forty-eight hours of my life.

He wraps his strong arms around my waist. He leans down, his legs widening, and presses his body to mine, bringing his lips to mine. I feel his growing hardness between my legs and respond by pushing my tongue against his. Every kiss is so damn sexual. A kiss is never just a kiss with Tristan.

“I couldn’t wait any longer for that,” he says as he breaks the embrace.

My cheeks heat up even further.

“Priorities. I need to feed you first. Would you like a tour, Elly?”

“Yes, please.” I nod. “I feel like I should be paying for the tour.”

He laughs. “Come on, I’ll show you the basement first.” He takes my hand in his and leads me down the stairs. “It’s a listed period home,” he explains. “But I’ve spent years modernising it while retaining the Victorian period pieces like the fireplaces.”

I follow him through all four floors in awe. “How many rooms are there? I could get lost here.”

“Eight bedrooms, the living area, dining area, the study, gym, home cinema, and wine cellar.” He counts in his head. “Fourteen? Oh, my office. And the bathrooms, of course.”

I draw in a breath. The guy is so rich he’s forgotten how many rooms are in his house.

“Would you like some wine?” he asks.

“Sounds lovely.” I follow him into the kitchen. The house is intimidating me. At my house, he was just a hot handsome guy. Here, there are constant reminders of how successful Tristan is. It’s a kitchen designed for a Michelin chef team, and I have a feeling a few may have cooked here before.