And one I apparently possess now.
I’ll admit there was a moment when I almost called my private pilot and had him follow her to the States.
Almost.
Then a measure of my self-control returned.
Thank fuck for that.
Because I don’t chase or cling.
And I most certainly don’t lose control over a woman.
So instead, I took the helicopter to London.
Mostly to remind myself that I still have responsibilities.
See, this is precisely why I never needed any of this shit.
Relationships, commitments, attachments.
Nothing but weaknesses.
The car slows to a stop outside one of London’s more exclusive restaurants.
The driver steps out and opens my door. I exit, adjust my cuffs, then fasten my jacket properly.
Inside, the place reeks of old money.
A hostess approaches. The moment she recognises me, her smile grows brighter and there’s a distinct shift in her demeanour.
Under different circumstances, I might have entertained her interest.
But now, my cock may as well be fucking dead.
I look at her and feel absolutely nothing. Not the slightest flicker of attraction. If anything, her attempts at flirtation only irritate me.
My mind, traitorous bastard that it is, immediately abandons the woman standing in front of me and returns to the one person it seems incapable of leaving alone.
Hazel eyes, freckled skin, that infuriatingly soft mouth, and a riot of red hair I can’t seem to stop thinking about burying my hands in.
I dismiss the hostess with a curt nod and continue past her without another glance.
Frederick Wardgrave sits at a corner table with a glass of whisky in hand, every bit the respected Secretary of State for Defence that he is.
The moment he notices me approaching, a rare warmth touches his face.
By the time I reach the table, he’s already on his feet.
“Father.”
“Hunter.”
We shake hands, before he pulls me into a brief embrace and gives my back a single pat.
“Good to see you, son.”
“And you.”
