Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
He didn’t want to lie. “Yes,” he admitted. “I’ve done this a few times. But—”
She held up her hand. “You don’t need to explain. Straight-up sex without emotional ties is clearly working for us.” She fluttered a hand between them. “So far, at least.” A beat of silence fell before she said, “What if we agree that when one of us wants out of whatever it is we’re doing, we just say so and it’s done? We won’t let it affect our working relationship.”
Last night, she’d said two or three times. His heart bloomed with the idea that she was offering more. Except that he didn’t want straight-up, unemotional sex. Not with her. It was insta-lust, of course, because they’d known each other only two days.
But his gut, maybe even his heart, was telling him it could be so much more.
If only she gave it a chance.
Even after all her emotions of last night, when morning came, Saskia knew it had to be just sex and nothing else. It was the only way she could work. Yet a tiny part of her heart lurched. Especially since she was lying to him about who she was.
The thought wrapped her insides up in a neat, guilty bow. How could she keep on lying to him? But how could she tell him the truth? She’d just offered him a casual relationship. It was that word. Relationship. It didn’t imply straight-up sex with no emotional entanglements.
The worst was that she actually liked him.
A part of her—tiny but growing—felt she needed to tell him the truth.
But the bigger part shouted that the only way to keep a secret was by telling no one. If she even hinted to Clay that she was San Holo, she’d have to explain why she worked this way. She’d have to tell him about her parents, about the intervening years, about Hugo and how much trust she’d put in a man who hadn’t deserved it.
She just couldn’t admit it all and see the regard Clay had for her drain from his gaze.
Wrapping her hands around the coffee mug, she sipped gratefully, then took a croissant.
When she bit into it, it felt almost as though she were biting into Eve’s apple.
Chapter Twelve
Camille and Dane were out and about in San Francisco for the morning, though Fernsby suspected that, as soon as he left the flat, they’d sneak back into bed. Young love. Those two had googly eyes for each other, even if Dane was now just shy of forty.
But it was the perfect opportunity for Fernsby to visit Clay Harrington’s warehouse. He had yet to see Charlene Ballard’s latest sculpture, and Lord Rexford needed a long walk on this beautiful Friday morning in spring. As did Fernsby. It was how he kept fit. How he kept the mini dachshund fit, too, with all the treats Dane sneaked to the dog behind his back.
He’d stopped at the bookstore along the way—another reason for the excursion.
As he entered Clay’s warehouse of artists’ studios, he was elated to find the statue gleaming in the morning sunlight that fell through the skylight above.
Charlene Ballard was indeed a magnificent metal artist. He read the piece’s title plaque—The Discus Thrower—then took his time surveying the sculpture from all angles.
As he made the full circuit, he became aware of Clay watching him. Beside him stood the most beautiful of ladies, with flawless skin, silky dark hair, a delightful flowery tunic sweater, and black leggings showcasing toned calves as if she, like he, walked or hiked. Even the combat boots she wore, Doc Martens or some such thing, somehow suited her despite her delicate frame.
He perused the couple even as he appeared to peruse the statue. Clay stood a smidge too close to the woman who, Fernsby concluded, was somewhere in her early thirties, despite a costume that might be worn by someone ten years younger. A sensual aura surrounded them, like a bubble that would burst if he poked it.
Well, well, well. Had the dear fellow been caught at last?
He’d known Clay Harrington for sixteen years, since he’d first come to work for Dane as his most excellent butler. He’d seen Clay grow from a high school boy to a green university student receiving his inestimable education at Harvard to the impressive man who stood before him now. In all that time—Fernsby knew the ins and outs of the entire family—he had never seen that enchanted yet somewhat mystified look on the young man’s face. As though he’d stumbled onto something he hadn’t expected, hadn’t wanted, and suddenly found he couldn’t live without.
Fernsby wanted to applaud. Or perhaps dance a jig around Charlene Ballard’s amazing sculpture. But being Fernsby, he merely said, “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” waiting a beat before adding, “Sir,” and letting his gaze settle upon the young woman.