Slim fingers defiantly rake back her damp, chocolate-coloured hair from her forehead. Hazel eyes glare up at me, flecked with gold and insolence. ‘My bodyguards always sleep on the ground floor. We share the middle floor living quarters and the top floor is entirely my own.’
Her elbow settles on top of the ornate ivory panelling, running the length of the wall at half-height as she attempts to block me from passing.
‘Like I said, not gonna happen.’ I nudge past her, getting a whiff of strawberry scented shampoo as I swiftly mount the stairs. If only I could stop thinking about mounting something else.Someoneelse.
If mere thoughts of Victoria send me jerking myself senseless when we live in different countries, how will I possibly survive sharing a house with her?
Victoria emits an innocence just begging to be stolen. Oh, she’s no virgin. I’ve heard enough stories from Sasha and Ryan to verify that, but there’s a naivety about her imploring me to simultaneously corrupt and protect her.
Which is exactly why I couldn’t come here with her all those years ago. She was so young. Big, wide eyes used to look at me like I was some sort of war hero.
She couldn’t have been more off the mark.
Light feet pound the stairs behind me.
Victoria leaps to block the entrance to one of three grey painted doors, darting from one foot to the other. Yep, there’s nothing innocent about the crimson shade on her toenails. The way her eyes roam over my torso with intent. Or the two tiny pebbles rising on her chest.
I pick a spot above her shoulder and stare at it. It’s easier to control myself if I don’t look directly at her.
‘No one comes up here unless they’re invited,’ she says boldly.
How manyhavebeeninvited?
Fuck my life. And my relentless and indecent thoughts.
Margaret Thatcher.
Teresa May.
I pause on the large landing, assessing my surroundings. Three enormous rectangular skylights in the sloping roof cast a natural brightness on a battered-looking velvet couch pushed against the far wall. It’s outdated and sticks out like a sore thumb in Victoria’s otherwise Instagram-worthy show home.
As though she can read my mind, she answers a question I didn’t voice out loud. ‘It was my mother’s.’
Matching mahogany bookcases stacked with everything from Fifty Shades to Pride and Prejudice flank the couch. ‘As were the books.’ A slow blush crawls from the porcelain flesh on her neck to her cheek.
‘Your mother had a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey?’ Even the worst mathematician can calculate there’s a deficit here. ‘Ten years before E L James published it?’
Victoria’s cheeks stain scarlet. ‘Well, they’re not all hers.’
‘Hmm.’ Victoria reading pornography is not a visual I need right now. ‘I need to get into your room.’ I move towards her and her eyes double in size.
‘You can’t go in there. That’s my bedroom. There are private… things,’ she stammers over the words.
My lips twitch, battling a smirk. ‘Sweetheart, you and I are going to have very few secrets, I’m afraid. But out of common decency and respect, I’ll give you a five-minute head start to put your “things” away before I check your windows.’ It takes everything I have to turn on my heels and open one of the other two doors.
Images of what she might not want me to see flash through my brain.
Lingerie?
Toys?
Blood pumps furiously below. I step into an enormous bathroom.
Teresa May.
Margaret Thatcher
Camilla Parker-Bowles.
