The Weekend Page 4

  ‘Are you really interested?’ she asks skeptically.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.’

  ‘I’m writing an article on the role of the dominated female subject in modern art.’

  ‘Then it’s no wonder you want to talk to good ol’ Granddad,’ I drawl, thinking she’s definitely got him pegged.

  I can hear the wry smile in her voice as she says, ‘Yeah, well, I’m hoping to get some insight into what drives him. I mean, why does he portray women as such spineless, sexually desperate creatures, and men as these dominating, god-like figures of power? Is it to shock and provoke? Is he just a chauvinistic, misogynistic asshole? Or is there a deeper meaning beneath the brushstrokes?’

  ‘Knowing Harrison, it might be all three,’ I tell her. ‘But it was a clever idea, going to Margie. I don’t think she would have divulged any of his secrets, but she would have been happy to give you her opinion about his work. I remember her being pretty vocal about what a chauvinist he is, though at the time I had no idea what she was talking about, because I was seven and didn’t know what a chauvinist was.’

  She laughs, and I swear I nearly drive off the road when I look over and catch the way she’s looking at me. ‘Wow, look at that. A genuine smile.’

  ‘Shut up,’ she mutters, though she’s still grinning.

  ‘You should do that more often. You’re beautiful even when you’re pissed off – but when you smile like that, you’re fucking breathtaking.’

  She blushes so bright she looks sunburned, and I fight the urge to tease her about it. There isn’t time, anyway, because I’m turning on to the long drive that leads to my childhood home, thinking that any progress I’ve made with her during the drive is no doubt about to be ruined. I have a bad feeling that the sheer ostentatiousness of Beckett House, and most of the people inside it, aren’t going to help me convince Emmy that wealthy doesn’t automatically mean arsehole. And since we’re about to go head-to-head with the enemy, there are some important things that I still need to talk to her about, so I get on with it.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, two members of staff are already taking our bags up to my private room, and Emmy and I are heading up the front steps of the mansion. My father’s longtime butler, Angus, opens the ornate front doors before I even have a chance to use the knocker, and I exchange a few words with him, asking after his family, as Emmy and I walk inside.

  Unfortunately, we’re not in the expansive foyer more than two seconds before Caroline, my stepmother, comes walking towards us from the central hallway. Fuck. At least my father’s nowhere to be seen. Alistair Beckett tends to stay as close to his well-stocked bar as he can, so we probably won’t see him until we venture into the back of the house.

  I hear the quiet gasp on Emmy’s lips as Caroline draws near, and wish I’d warned her that there’s a viper lying beneath her beauty. She looks like one of the old Hollywood starlets, tall and statuesque, with porcelain-smooth skin, platinum-blond hair, and ruby-red lips. I know, aesthetically speaking, that she’s a stunning woman – but it’s difficult to still see her attractiveness once you know just how vile she is on the inside.

  ‘Emmy,’ I say, loving the way it feels as I grab her soft, feminine hand and tug her body closer to mine, ‘this is my stepmother, Caroline. Caroline, I’m beyond thrilled to introduce my girlfriend, Emmy Reed.’

  As I’d driven up the long drive and parked the Rover, we’d hammered out the details of our weekend arrangement, and I have to admit that she’s a shrewd negotiator. I agreed to almost everything she wanted, with the proviso that I could do my best to persuade her to change her mind about going to bed with me. And given how thick the sexual tension is between us, I’m confident that we’ll have had our fill of each other before we’re back in London on Monday night. But the one point I refused to budge on was how I portrayed our relationship to my family, and that was because I wanted her protected. I’m hoping they’ll be better behaved if they think I’m serious about this girl – and, yeah, I’m definitely going to enjoy being able to hold her close, like I’m doing now, without having to worry that she’s going to stomp on my foot or knee me in the balls.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you,’ Emmy says, giving Caro – whose eyes start to go wide at the sound of my girl’s American accent – an uncomfortable smile. ‘You have a, um, lovely home.’

  Caroline blinks and runs her comically shocked gaze over Emmy from head to toe, before turning to me and saying, ‘You’ve brought an American redneck hippy to your cousin’s wedding? Honestly, Jase. What on earth were you thinking?’

  I tense, so furious my nostrils flare as I suck in a sharp breath, and my voice turns guttural. ‘Right now I’m thinking that you’re a rude, classless bitch, Caroline. But then that’s nothing new, now is it?’

  Christ, so much for hoping she might act decent for once.

  ‘Just make sure you keep her away from the silver,’ she snaps, and I let go of Emmy’s hand to get right in the viper’s face.

  ‘You utter one more rude word about Emmy,’ I warn in a low, seething rasp, ‘or so much as look at her the wrong way, and you’re going to discover that your dirty little secrets aren’t so secret after all, Caro.’

  She stiffens as she stares up into my enraged face. ‘What are you talking about?’

  I give her a slow, mean smile as I quietly say, ‘You think I don’t know about all your toy boys in London? Hasn’t anyone ever told you that there are no secrets in the city?’

  Her pale blue gaze turns icy and sharp. ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I let a low laugh fall from my lips. ‘You really willing to take that chance?’

  Something on her face changes with my words, like an imperceptible crack in a porcelain vase. I can’t see it, but I know it’s there, breaking under that unnaturally smooth surface. Feeling that I’ve made my point, I start to turn back to my girl, when Caroline grabs my right hand, glaring at my knuckles that are battered from punching the bastards who’d mugged Emmy. ‘Do I even want to know? I thought you’d outgrown your temper issues, Jase.’

  I pull my hand back, resisting the urge to wipe it on my jeans. Ever since I was a child, Caroline’s touch has creeped me out. I open my mouth, ready to tell her to keep her fucking hands to herself, when Emmy surprises me by saying, ‘He saved my life yesterday. So if you ask me, your stepson is a hero and you should be showing a little goddamn respect.’

  ‘Don’t bother, sweetheart,’ I murmur, taking her hand again. ‘My stepmother and I don’t get along.’

  She stiffens a bit at the sweetheart remark, but doesn’t snap at me in front of the enemy. And she doesn’t pull her hand away from mine as I start heading towards the massive staircase that curves up the right side of the foyer.

  ‘Oh, and by the way,’ Caroline drawls, the satisfaction oozing from her voice warning me that I’m not going to like whatever she’s about to say, ‘at least five of your exes are on the guest list for this weekend. So try not to cause any scenes.’

  ‘Bitch,’ I mutter under my breath, knowing she invited them here on purpose.

  Gripping Emmy’s hand a bit tighter, I force my mind off my stepmother and her twisted games, and focus instead on the beautiful, intriguing woman at my side. My heart is still pounding from the way she stood up for me, and I want nothing more than to pull her into my arms and kiss her until she can taste me in every part of her. Until she’s melting and panting . . . and begging me to give her what we both need.

  But I gave her my word that I won’t touch her unless she asks me to – so until she’s ready, I’ll be keeping my hands and my mouth to myself. It sucks, but hey, it’s not like it’ll kill me.

  Then it hits me that we’re heading up to my private bedroom, where we’ll be alone together with a big, fuck-off bed, and my heart starts pounding even harder.

  Bloody hell, I take it back.

  This just might kill me after all.

  Chapter Three

  EMMY


  As I lean back in a ridiculously comfortable chair that sits upon a gleaming hardwood floor, I run my gaze over the masculine, exquisitely decorated room in a state of shock. I honestly can’t believe that I’m doing this – that I’m here. I must have lost my freaking mind!

  The day before, I was riding on the Tube, doing a bit of reading, and the next thing I know I’m sitting in a spacious bedroom in a sprawling mansion in the English countryside, while Jase-Fucking-Beckett takes a phone call out on the balcony.

  Huh. Maybe I hit my head harder than I’d realized when those ass-hats knocked me unconscious.

  But, no, this is definitely real. Even in my wildest dreams, I could never come up with something this bizarre.

  On the wall above the high sleigh bed is one of J.J. Harrison’s earlier works that I’ve read about but never seen. It’s of a young woman whose face is covered by her pale, windblown hair, her nude body wrapped in flowers and sea foam as she stands in the waves, the sky a storm-dark horizon at her back, as if something dark and menacing is looming in the distance. There’s a story on the canvas, but one that pre-dates the misogynistic themes of his later work. My eyes burn as I stare at it, and I feel like some twisted strain of kismet has led me here. How else to explain it?

  I still can’t believe that I didn’t immediately make the connection between Harrison and Jasper ‘Jase’ Beckett, given how intensely I’ve been studying the artist. I’d felt like an idiot for a few moments after he’d told me the reclusive artist is his grandfather, and then I’d quickly pinballed between a confusing mix of emotions. Excitement. Shock. Disbelief. Hope. Desire.

  And we can’t forget irritation, considering Jase used his connection to Harrison to bribe me into participating in this farce. The stepmom alone is something worthy of a nightmare, and I know I need to toughen up a bit if I’m going to survive the weekend unscathed. I was either incredibly lucky to have been rescued by one of the few men in the country who could get me access to J.J. Harrison, or I had the shittiest luck in the world. I think it all depends on whether you’re looking at the situation from a professional standpoint, or a personal one.

  Professionally, this could be the feather in my cap that I need to open doors in the world I plan to work in.

  Personally, it’s like my own customized version of some sick reality show, where I’m forced to socialize with people who make me uncomfortable, and who are no doubt going to like me even less. Case in point: Beckett’s stepmother from hell.

  Then there’s the problem of temptation. He’s promised not to lay a finger on me unless I ask him to, and I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I wasn’t thinking about it. About having Beckett’s fingers and mouth and every other gorgeous, mouthwatering part of him on me and in me and everywhere in between. I have never, in my entire life, felt such an intense level of attraction to a man. And as much as I try to convince myself that he comes from the same exact world as my father, I’m beginning to see that there could be far more differences than similarities between the two powerful men.

  Or . . . am I just trying to justify being so attracted to him? God, I don’t know. The only certainty right now is that I’ve never felt more off balance than I do at this moment.

  He’s been standing out on the balcony, taking a call from Hong Kong, but comes back in through one of the room’s two sets of French doors, his phone in his hand.

  When I’d opened the hotel room door that morning after he’d knocked, it’d taken everything I have not to hyperventilate at the sight of him in a well-worn pair of Levi’s, white polo shirt, and brown leather boots. The guy killed it in a suit, but these casual clothes, in combination with the dark scruff on his rugged jaw, make him damn near lethal.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks when he sees that I’m rubbing my temples, his gaze instantly darkening with concern. ‘Is your head hurting?’

  I give him a little nod. ‘It’s nothing that paracetamol can’t fix. I just took some while you were outside.’

  He studies my face for a moment, then seems to accept my answer and walks over to his leather bag, taking a phone charger out and plugging it in by the beautiful dressing table that sits against the room’s back wall. ‘There’s only one bed in here,’ he offers casually, his attention on his phone as he connects it to the charger.

  ‘Yeah, I kinda noticed that.’

  He shoots me a smoldering look over one of those broad, muscular shoulders that I can’t stop thinking about sinking my teeth into. ‘Are you going to let me sleep with you tonight, or am I roughing it on our tiny sofa?’

  The room’s sofa sits against the portion of wall between the two sets of French doors, and I almost laugh at the idea of him squeezing that tall, god-like body on to it.

  ‘Is that what you want to do?’ I ask. ‘Sleep?’

  There’s a sexy curve to his lips as he turns around and rests his fine ass against the dressing table, his hands curling around the front edge on either side of his hips. ‘Actually, I just want to spend the entire night buried balls deep inside your breathtaking body, fucking your brains out. But I was trying to sound restrained.’

  ‘Don’t restrain yourself on my account,’ I say drily, smirking at him. ‘I mean, why start now?’

  ‘Oh, Em. You have no idea.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I knew you were going to be trouble.’ The grin on my face is completely real, and I honestly can’t help it. As much as I want to remain unaffected by this man, it’s impossible. Yeah, he’s arrogant as hell, but he’s also incredibly fun to be around. Maybe not easy or comfortable, considering the level of sexual attraction making my body buzz in his presence – but he’s not a dick.

  Proving that point, he immediately launches into an apology. ‘I’m sorry about what happened downstairs. My stepmother is a vile bitch on the best of days, but with so many younger women in the house, I think she’s feeling threatened.’

  ‘Speaking of all the women,’ I murmur, ‘was she telling the truth about your ex-girlfriends?’

  He laughs and shakes his head. ‘What is it you Americans say? I’d like to plead the fifth on that?’

  He’s trying to make a joke of it, but I can tell that having a slew of his exes here isn’t something he’s looking forward to. I wonder what went wrong with the relationships. Were they as short lived and casual as the online gossip rags claimed all his ‘relationships’ are? Or did he actually feel something for these women, and now they’re going to be shoved in his face all weekend?

  I realize that by even considering the fact that Beckett could have been emotionally involved with a woman means I no longer have him locked quite so firmly in that ‘rich asshole’ box. I should probably be worried about that, seeing as how my opinion of him is changing so rapidly, and it’s not even ten a.m. yet. If I’m not careful, he’s going to have the box smashed into tiny pieces, and then . . . No, I don’t even want to think about what could happen then. That box is my protection. My chastity belt. The thing that keeps me from traveling down the same miserable road as my mom, and while I know it’s not fair, it’s something that I’ve come to rely on around certain types of guys.

  But with Beckett . . . It’s not what I want, but I’m starting to see that he isn’t the type of man that could ever be boxed or labeled.

  ‘I need to run downstairs and touch base with the groom quickly,’ he says, drawing my gaze back to his handsome face. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

  I know, from our talk during the drive, that it’s one of his younger cousins who’s getting married on Sunday in the gardens of the estate.

  ‘Would you mind if I stay here and freshen up instead? I feel like I need to glitz up a bit if I’m going to try to fit in around here.’ I’d been expecting a mansion, but Beckett House . . . Yeah, it’s like a friggin’ palace.

  ‘You don’t need to do a thing, Emmy. You’re perfect exactly the way you are.’

  I give him a Yeah right look. ‘If that’s true, then why the new mini wardrobe?’

&n
bsp; ‘Honestly? I just wanted you to have options. I know you feel . . . forced into this, so whatever choices I can give you while we’re here, I’m going to see to it that you have them. But you could wear cut-offs all weekend, and I’d still think you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.’

  God, that was . . . Yeah, that was pretty perfect.

  I swipe my tongue over my lower lip and can’t help but smile. ‘I’m afraid I left all my cut-offs back at home.’

  Heat slides though his gaze, making the blue burn like a summer sky. ‘Are they short?’

  ‘The shortest,’ I tease in a whisper, leaning forward like I’m sharing a secret. ‘I only wear them over my bathing suit.’

  ‘I think the thought of that might give me a heart attack.’ He puts his hand over his heart and falls back against the mirror like he’s been wounded, making me laugh. Needing to put some distance between us before I find myself doing a hell of a lot more than flirting, I stand up, grab my toiletries bag from my suitcase, and head for the bathroom. As I’m standing in front of the marble countertop, trying not to gawk at how gorgeous it is, I hear the bedroom door close behind him, and a breath of relief slips past my lips.

  I really do want a shower – my neck and head are still sore, and the idea of standing under some hot water right now sounds awesome – but the truth is that no matter how I was feeling, I’d still be planning on taking as long in here as I can, in no rush to start socializing with his family. Oddly, though, I end up moving things along a lot more quickly than expected, and I have a bad feeling that I know why. Despite this being the most luxurious bathroom I’ve ever been in, I’m looking forward to seeing Beckett again, and I shake my head at myself as I step out of the rainfall shower, knowing I’m in trouble.