Roman lets out a groan that reverberates through thewall, a deep masculine sound that steals my breath and makes my thighs clench hard.
Pressing my face into my pillow, I give in, coming in a furious wave.
I come up for air when my pulse isn’t ricocheting in my throat like a hive of bees at a rave. My face is sweaty, my pyjama bottoms are wet, and my pillow is pulverised.
Stripping, I throw my pyjama bottoms and pillow into the wash basket, then find a pair of mismatched shorts and yank them on. I grab a spare pillow from the mirrored wardrobe and collapse in bed, feeling sated yet irate.
Roman and the stranger culminate their lovemaking with a noisy crescendo, and every moan feels like a personal insult.
I hope he wraps his junk at least. The only thing worse than listening to his sex life would be listening to a crying baby.
Assuming he survives my dad’s wedding.
MAGGIE
‘So sorry,Bill, I know I’ve got time off in two weeks, but my fever makes me woozy every time I stand. Ireally can’t make it in.’ I rattle out another pathetic cough, hamming up my performance.
Thankfully, Bill is mildly terrified of women. Even me, his lowly personal assistant/chief coffee fetcher. Any conflict with a woman makes him quake, as if he were built on a fault line.
Bill’s silence on the other side of the line has me doubting my acting skills. I cough again, trying my best to make it as thick and snotty-sounding as possible. The revulsion of it actually makes me heave, the essence of the chocolate croissant I ate for breakfast revisiting.
Cue a disgusted grunt from the receiver.
‘No. No. You get yourself back to bed, kiddo. I’ll borrow Greta’s PA if I need to today. Take tomorrow too. I have a golfing trip at the weekend and don’t wantthat.’
Hand me the Emmy already.
A day stalking my targetanda day to myself? Score.
Roman should be leaving in a few minutes—he always does on a Tuesday morning. Unfortunately, the inconvenience of my having a job means I don’t know how long he’ll be gone. Fingers crossed he’s off having a big old gym session and not just popping out for milk. He’s got to be racking up gym time looking the way he does. All six foot and change of him. This presents me with another problem. How do you kidnap a man who makes you look like a Polly Pocket next to him?
Logistically, I know the answer. You paralyse him with drugs and get the cable ties out. But how would I manhandle him down three flights of stairs withoutanyone seeing us? How do I even move a massive ass dead weight like Roman-fucking-Ellis?
A problem for future Maggie to ponder over, for sure.
Standing in front of my wall of Roman—which is actually more of a corkboard of Roman—I pull my hair back into a knot. Not that I figure he’ll be scouring his apartment for evidence of me having been there, but knowing how many long dark hairs I find when I clean my own home, I opt to mitigate the risk.
The central image on my vision board is Roman smiling out at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. So bloody happy for a hypocrite. Suits my purposes, though.
A rough schedule covers one side of the sheet, gappier than a six-year-old’s mouth. One reason for today’s invasion is to see if I can scope out his daily schedule and what he has planned for our week away. Can’t have anyone reporting him missing.
The throaty grumble of his motorbike draws me to the window, where Roman pulls down the visor of his helmet, flexing his leather-clad biceps as he does. Such a cocky twat.
‘Okay, Maggie. It’s go time. Get in, get out.’
Grabbing the neon duck-covered tote bag that contains my instruments, I take the copied key and leave my apartment, pulse skipping like a scratched CD. Trying to channel my inner Pink Panther, I close my door behind me and slink over to his apartment. The door looms like a bodyguard, the last defence betweenRoman’s life and me. I feel more like a stumbling panda than a sleek Pink Panther as I try to calm my shaking hand enough to get the key in the door.
The action is smooth, the lock clicking without any sign of the crime I’m committing.
If Roman were a better guy, I wouldn’t be doing this. I remind myself.
And just like that, I’m in.
The house is suspiciously clean. Like, dude might have aproblemclean. Not a single dirty dish or tea-stained counter crop circle to be seen. I shudder. If Roman ever steps into my apartment, he’ll probably break out in hives.
It’s not that I’m like a grade-A slob or anything, but there are signs that I live there. An abandoned dish here and a forgotten sock there. Half-scribbled notes littering the face of the fridge to remind me of the billion things I’d forget if I didn’t write them somewhere. Potted plants surviving on little more than kettle condensation and hope.
In stark contrast, Roman’s place is like a museum. Far bigger in square footage than my postage-stamp-sized home across the hall, and everything has sleek, defined edges. Having grown up in old money wealth—all ancient hand-me-down furniture which might have a patch on the arm, but had seated Queen Victoria’s arse at some point aeons ago—I’d never had the luxury of new money chic.
