The Casanova (The Miles High Club #3)(39)

“Oh.” His face falls. “Okay.” He kisses me on the cheek. “Have a great Christmas break.”

“You too.” I turn and kiss Bob on the cheek. “See you next year, Bob. Merry Christmas.”

“You too, darling.”

“Don’t tell anyone I slipped out,” I whisper.

“Sure thing.”

I look across the room and lock eyes with Elliot. He gives me a slow, sexy smile and sips his beer. His eyes are dark and hungry and I feel them all the way to my toes.

Fuck.

I drain my glass and walk toward the restroom. I need to throw him off.

I walk in, look at myself and turn around, walk straight back out and dart to the corridor and into the elevator.

With my heart hammering in my chest I ride the elevator down to the ground floor.

Don’t let him follow me . . . please don’t follow me.

I need some distance.

He goes away for two weeks tomorrow, which will give me some breathing space.

The doors open and I walk out through the lobby and onto the street to a taxicab stand, and I dive into the back of one.

“Hello.”

The driver smiles and looks back at me. “Where to, love?”

“Home, take me home . . .”

The snowflake drifts from side to side until it eventually finds its place on the ground. So insignificant on its own, but together with its friends it creates a magical ice blanket.

The moonlight is reflecting off the street below and, in my pajamas, I sit curled and crossed-legged in the window seat of my bedroom, staring out at the world . . . it seems so still and peaceful.

It’s 11:30 p.m. and I can’t even think about going to bed. I’m still wound up.

My mind is ticking at a million miles per minute.

I watch as a car appears around the corner, two headlights light up the road and they come to a stop outside my house. I peer down: it’s a black Bentley.

The back door opens and Elliot climbs out and walks up to my front door.

Shit . . . he’s here.





Chapter 9


Knock, knock, knock echoes from downstairs.

It’s not a gentle are you home knock, it’s an I’m here and I’m pissed knock.

Knock, knock, knock sounds again.

What is he doing? It’s 11:30 p.m., what if the others were home? I storm downstairs and open the door in a rush.

And there he stands, in all his overbearing gorgeousness.

“Yes?” I say.

“Why did you leave?”

“I was tired.”

He raises an eyebrow as his eyes hold mine; he knows that’s a lie.

“What do you want, Elliot?”

“Are you inviting me in?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Honestly, this man is infuriating.

“Because it’s late and like I told you, I’m tired.”

“We have things to discuss.”

“No, we don’t. I’ve already said my piece.”

“Like hell.” He barges past me and walks upstairs to my bedroom. I exhale as I’m left standing in the hall. “Please, come in.” I close the door and walk up the stairs to find him pacing back and forth in my room, preparing for battle.

“What do you want, Elliot?” I ask as I close the door.

His eyes find mine. “You know what I want.”

“No, I actually don’t.” I walk over to the window and stare out over the street.

I don’t know what to say without sounding needy or whiny, perhaps just plain bitchy . . . damn it, I don’t even know what I am.

“The thing is . . .” he says.

I turn and sink down to sit on the floor, up against the wall.

He stops what he’s saying mid-sentence and we stare at each other, and after a while he comes and sits down on the floor beside me, his back against the wall like mine.

We sit in silence and stare straight ahead. It’s like he doesn’t know what to say either.

A first for Elliot Miles.

“What did I say?” he asks softly.

“When?”

“On the second day that we met and you told me that I had blue eyes, what did I say?”

“I don’t remember,” I lie.

“I’ve been thinking about this. There’s a reason why you’ve hated me for all these years.”

I stay silent.

“Just tell me.”

“You told me that you didn’t appreciate women being inappropriate in the workplace.”

He frowns.

“And I . . .” My voice trails off as I stop myself.

“You what?”

I shrug.

He continues to stare straight ahead and we sit in silence for a while. “Kate . . . at the risk of sounding conceited . . .”

“You . . . sounding conceited?”

He smirks.

“Go on.” I smile.

“I get hit on by women a lot . . . and it’s not because they like me.”

I listen.

“It’s my surname and bank balance that women find attractive.”

My heart drops.

“I deflect flirting all day long, I don’t even notice that I do it. My brothers are the same.”