“I don’t need help.” I rock harder, my heart skipping a beat at the thought of allowing him to help. To stare down my cleavage. “I can manage.”
Shoe leather scuffs, and then he’s there, in front of me. “I know that, but we’re both going the same way.”
“I wasn’t planning to invite you in,” I retort, putting my hand in his and ignoring the flash of paler skin on the underside of his wrist. He has long, elegant fingers—talented and dexterous, my insides recall. A strong wrist encircled by a plain-looking watch with a leather strap.
“Then it’s good I wasn’t about to wait on an invitation.” One jerk and I’m out. He doesn’t let go of my hand, sliding his fingers between mine.
“You’re worried I might climb out the back window?” I demand as he swings open the garden gate.
“You live on the third floor.”
“How do you know—” Scratch that. “I see you’ve done your homework.” Come to think of it, I didn’t even give him my address before dropping off into snoozeville.
“I have. I told you I need the right kind of wife.”
“Then you’ve made a mistake.” I send him a look. “You obviously don’t know I’ve done much more foolish things. Like forget my purse,” I add with wide, innocent eyes as I turn to face him. “Oops!”
“This purse, you mean,” he says, pulling it out of the interior pocket of his suit jacket.
“Oh. Excellent,” I reply, my tone flat.
I whip out my key and stick it in the front door, trying very hard to ignore his low chuckle.
I make my way across the hall without waiting to see if he follows, then trip lightly up the staircase. Unlocking my blue-painted door, I stride inside.
My home is at the very top of a large Victorian gothic terrace in leafy Fulham. It’s essentially attic rooms that once upon a time would’ve housed the domestic staff of the family living downstairs. Rejigged and renovated, the space now includes two bedrooms, two tiny bathrooms, and an open-plan kitchen-living area. It’s small. Bijou, and I love it dearly. Mostly because I don’t have to share one inch of my space with my million siblings.
“Go sit down.” I gesture in the direction of the living space. “Go on, you’re making the place look untidy.” What he is making is the place look small. Intimate.
“You don’t want me to help you pack?” A smile lurks in the corner of Raif’s mouth, and his gaze flicks in the direction of the doors leading off the hallway.
“I think I can manage,” I retort with asperity. “Anyway, this wedding, whatever the destination, doesn’t suit me. I have to be back at the gallery on Monday.”
“We’ll be back in London tomorrow.”
So much for that tactic.
“Pack light. You can travel in what you’re wearing.”
Those feline eyes flick over me, and I resist a shiver.
“I’m not schlepping through the airport in this,” I say, sliding my hand over the silk. That his eyes follow the motion give me a little thrill.
“We’ll drive straight to the door of the jet. Put a sweater over your dress if you’re concerned.”
“I’m not concerned. I’m fashionable,” I say, breezing past him. Private jets and fancy cars. Good looking, fit, and hella skilled. What the heck does he need a pretend wife for?
“I won’t be a minute,” I say, turning at my bedroom door. “I promise, I won’t run away,” I add when he doesn’t immediately move.
“You wouldn’t get very far.”
There’s no threat in his reply, but I find myself shivering all the same.
Kicking my bedroom door closed behind me, I quickly thumb a text to Tod.
You’d better drag yourself out of whoever’s bed you’re in and get your skinny bum to the gallery this morning. You’re opening.
I throw my phone to the bed before I swipe it up again.
