“And then you’ll suck my dick?”
“Bring me a drink, and you’ll find out.”
With a grin that was a shadow of its old self, he lurched out of the room. I closed the door behind him, leaning my forehead against the cool surface for a moment, everything inside me raw and hurting. But I couldn’t begin to sort through what he’d raked up—this was the best opportunity I’d ever have to investigate the Fortescues. I’d never dreamed it could be so easy.
I glanced around the room. Tall sash windows looked out over the Circus, and a mahogany desk dominated that end of the room. The only thing on the desk was a PC monitor, incongruous with the antique Chippendale furniture.
Crossing the room swiftly, I glanced back at the door to check I was still alone and tried the first desk drawer. It was locked. Damn it to hell. I tested each in turn, casting frequent glances towards the door. My grandfather was terrifying, but his dragon was hidden behind the subtlety of a serpent. James Fortescue’s civilised veneer was much more fragile. It was as if his dragon was always roaring, deep inside him. If he caught me…
All the drawers were locked. I jiggled each of them in case the locks hadn’t engaged fully. Nothing. I even felt about underneath the desk, hoping that a key was taped there. As I straightened up again, disappointed, I bumped the desk, causing the screensaver on the PC to stop running.
Surely he wouldn’t keep his desk locked but his computer unsecured? I leaned over, surprised to see that he had. The browser window was open on his email, and I scrolled hurriedly down the screen for anything obvious, like ‘Hacking report on Mortimer banks’ or ‘Evil Plan’. Unfortunately, most of the emails appeared to be daily reports on stock and bullion prices.
I scrolled further, my hand sweaty on the mouse as I strained my senses for anyone approaching. My breath caught. There was an email with the subject line ‘Le Mort d’Arthur’. Of course, it could be an email about the book of the same name, with a typo in the title, but Charlie had sometimes bastardised my surname and called me Mort. Ella had picked up on it, and for a time it had been a common nickname for me among their family.
As I clicked the mouse, the door opened.
In my panic, it took me two attempts to close the email. When I finally dared to look up, instead of the furious, dangerous blue eyes of James Fortescue, I found myself staring in shock at the dark-haired bartender. He looked just as surprised to see me.
“I was looking for a place to take a break,” he said. “From all that bartending.” As if I didn’t remember who he was.
I couldn’t blame him for wanting to get away from the throng in the drawing room if he had a break. “I’m killing time waiting for Charlie to come back,” I said, and wished I didn’t sound so guilty.
Thankfully, he didn’t question my excuse. Instead, he closed the door behind him and moved towards me, looking around the room in open curiosity. “So this is where the millionaires rake it in to upgrade their yachts.”
Not really, if he meant wealth generation. That happened in the Fortescue-owned private bank in Bristol, but there was no doubt this was the dragon’s lair. I moved around the desk so he wouldn’t see what I’d been doing. He swerved past me until he stood where I’d been, staring at the screen so damningly filled with James Fortescue’s emails.
“What do you think bankers talk about for fun?” he asked. Unbelievably, he stretched his hand towards the mouse I’d just relinquished.
I should stop him. He could be anyone, with anything in mind, but if I was able to read that email…“No idea,” I lied cheerfully. “Let’s take a look.”
He opened the highlighted email.
Preliminaries successful. Ramping up next week. Tom.
That couldeasily apply to the cyber-attacks on the Mortimers’ banks. On the other hand, it could be from someone learning how to play golf.
“Not exactly a banking meme,” I said. “Open another.”
The bartender clicked through a couple of reports of meetings. They were concise, as I’d expect from someone communicating with the CEO of Bristol’s largest private bank, but none was as cryptic as the ‘Mort d’Arthur’ one.
The previous page of emails revealed nothing further. Before I could suggest it, he searched for other emails with the same title. As he opened the first of eight resulting emails, I heard heels clacking on the wooden floor outside, heading towards the door.
Shit.His muscles tensed, he poised to fight or flee, and I reached past him, clicking frantically to close the email and delete our search. And then I was staring hopelessly at the door as the handle began to turn. This was it. If James Fortescue didn’t flame us both to ash after hearing where we’d been found, I’d be returning ignominiously to London, and Bim would learn that I’d failed his task within an hour of my arrival. I’d be back in my old life, with no hope of anything changing, except this time, I’d be under the cloud of Bim’s disapproval, too. Perhaps James Fortescue would be a better fate.
“Mmph.” I was suddenly pressed back against the desk, the muscular bartender plastered against me, his mouth hot on mine. His tongue slid between my open lips, sending heat straight to my cock. While I was still frozen, caught between shock and sudden, savage arousal, he began to explore every inch of my mouth, waking me from my trance. The heat, the power, the suggestion of leashed strength was—oh God. I clutched at him and kissed him back just as thoroughly.
My arse was propped on the desk, my legs open where he was settled between them, pushing against me as his tongue teasingly fucked my mouth. He was no more muscular than me, yet somehow he felt it. He kissed like a force of nature. I sank deep into it and into him and forgot everything else.
A piercing whistle interrupted us. He raised his head from mine and stepped back, dark eyes wary.
Ella had her fingers in her mouth as if she was about to whistle again. When she saw she had our attention, she folded her arms and glared at us. “What thehelldo you two think you’re doing?”
Oh. He’d been giving us an alibi. Somehow, his kiss had destroyed all higher brain function.
She didn’t wait for an answer. “Apart from the obvious, I mean. Of all the places—you know better than anyone you shouldn’t be in here uninvited, Nate, and as foryou.”She was furious with me but addressed the bartender with utter contempt. “This is private property and you’re trespassing. Get out.”
Without a glance at me, he headed for the door. I watched him for an instant, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and an arse that Shakespeare would have written sonnets about. A pointedly cleared throat brought me back to myself.