Forbidden To Want

Bastard.

He looks to Mia for her nod of approval. ‘She doesn’t officially start work until tomorrow,’ he adds, ‘but... I’ll leave you two to work out the finer details.’ With one last smirk he departs, optimistically closing the door behind him.

If he were any sort of gentleman, he’d have held the door open—the fascinating foreigner currently staring at me as if trying to figure me out won’t be staying that long. I turn to the woman I can’t fuck or fire, a tight smile on my face.

CHAPTER TWO

Mia

THE MINUTE WE’RE alone the pressure in my lungs builds to screaming point and my pulse thrums stronger. I slowly release the air trapped above my diaphragm through pursed lips to conceal my conflicted urges—either to run from Kit Faulkner or kiss the arrogant smirk from his tempting lips. A wise woman would grab her beloved camera and race back to Heathrow, just to escape the fog of sexual tension and other un-named undercurrents filling his swanky office.

Instead, I lift my chin and return his stare—I never back down from a challenge.

Kit’s big, brooding size owns the room—feet planted wide, broad chest on display, hands casually slung in his pockets, his eyes peeling away my layers. Another injection of stubbornness raises my eyebrows in his direction. He can male posture as much as he likes—my cage isn’t easily rattled.

The need to prove I’m more than he no doubt sees is easy to ignore. I’ve never belonged in a box and I’m not about to conform simply because Kit Faulkner is the sexiest man I’ve ever met.

Whew, I wasn’t expecting sparks when I arrived at the Faulkner offices. Shame he’s an arsehole.

Ignoring the trickle of excitement raising the hairs on my arms, I settle back, forcing my body to relax into the leather and my mind to remember all the reasons I’m happy being single. My corneas protest, the scalding intensifying until my eyes start to water. Only my competitive nature stops me from getting lost in the stare down. Lost in the centre-of-the-earth-deep navy-blue eyes of his. The annoyance he displays in their inky depths awakens my reckless side, which is never far from the surface.

Let’s play, Mr Faulkner.

‘So, your day isn’t going as planned...?’ I cross my legs and swing my foot in time with my heartbeat while I wait for him to fill the stilted atmosphere Reid left behind. Whether his irritation is directed at me—an unexpected stranger forced upon him—or at the handsome, more personable older brother is unclear. But my direct question works. I’ve definitely poked the bear awake.

His mouth thins—a travesty, because it’s full and lush and surrounded by sexy stubble. ‘You could say that.’ Still no smile, but his teeth scrape his bottom lip as if he’s thinking dark thoughts behind those dark eyes, which harbour the unmistakeable flicker of interest.

I evaluate what I know, what’s been hinted at and what I’ve deduced. He’s single, hot as and probably highly sexed. And rude. Don’t forget rude. I glance at the outer office. That probably explains the missing assistant.

Despite the brief heads-up from the charming Reid—my brother goes through lots of staff, don’t take it personally—I’m clearly not immune to Kit’s conventional, almost cruel, good looks. His hair is a little long and too dishevelled to match the elegant perfection of his older brother, but when teamed with the devil-may-care scruff on his chiselled face and the intense fuck-off vibe in his brooding stare, the look packs a punch like a blowtorch to a cobweb. Because it screams sex. Dark, intense, dangerous sex.

Dangerous because there’s a kind of anguish that radiates from behind those eyes in gloomy waves like the sheets of drizzle soaking London today, disarming me to the point that the fleeing-back-to-Heathrow option looks increasingly tempting.

But then, where’s the fun in that...?

I smile, showing him I’m not perturbed by his frigid reception ‘Well, thanks for this opportunity.’ I’m just here to do my job, not to dig into this uptight English dude’s psyche. But perhaps I should show more graciousness.

‘I’m really looking forward to this commission.’ Landing this prestigious contract with the Faulkner Group will not only fund my next trip to South America, it’s also allowed me to visit my brother, who moved to London two years ago to marry the love of his life.

‘I think we’ve established your appointment was nothing to do with me. But perhaps we can make the most of it.’ Kit plants himself in the seat opposite, his elbow propped on the chrome armrest and his thumb and forefinger rubbing at his bottom lip as if he’s formulating a plan. A plan to deal with me?

I squeeze my thighs together, my imagination like a moth trapped inside a lampshade. Why does he have to make this so...enticing? To stop myself drooling, I look away from his ridiculously handsome face and focus on London’s iconic cityscape behind him.

‘Great—it’s my first trip to London. I travel a lot but I’ve never been here.’ The buzz of excitement for exploring a new a city runs through my veins.

Perhaps that buzz is the reason Kit Faulkner’s stare seems to penetrate my clothes, even my skin, his tortured interest a slither of electricity swooping over to join the persistent throb between my legs.

From looks alone, a quick game with Kit Faulkner is something I’d normally consider. And if that hint of danger in Kit’s aura grows any bigger, burns any brighter, I’m doomed.

I uncross my legs while I breathe through the flutter of my pulse in my throat. I won’t go there. He’s too intense. Too...damaged. Too...consuming.

I don’t do relationships, so I have a radar for people only interested in casual. Instinct and the delicious thrumming between my legs tell me I’d walk away from Kit Faulkner’s bed not only saddle sore, but thoroughly mind-fucked too.

It’s those eyes...

Risk is stamped all over him—not the physical, adrenaline thrill I’m always up for, but the temptation to get sucked into those fathomless pools and the turmoil they conceal. That’s not me. Caring that much is the role of a long-term lover or a girlfriend and I’ve never been either.

I swivel my hips a fraction, pressing the seam of my jeans where I want it to stop me from becoming a cliché and succumbing to the dark, seductive stare thing he has going.

I force a polite, professional smile, willing my body to stand down from this unforeseen attraction to my new client. He’s still staring, brooding intensity and heat in his eyes even while he tries to intimidate me with his silent perusal.

My smile stretches. Does he expect me to crumble because he’s displayed how inconvenient he finds my presence? My lips twitch, controlled by a sense of perverse devilment.

I lift my eyebrows. ‘I am free tonight, by the way, and I love the theatre.’ A lie. I have nothing in my backpack I could wear to the theatre. I’m not the theatre type. I’m outdoorsy, sporty, adventurous—my parents’ generation would have labelled me a tomboy. But we don’t do labels in our family. Despite being older than most parents, mine are progressive, liberal and non-judgmental. The perfect parents for a couple of kids who don’t fit into any mould and who no one else wanted.

Kit works his jaw, ignoring my attempts to steer the conversation back to the job he’s paying me handsomely to complete. ‘Tell me, Mia...’ My name vibrates in his deep English voice. ‘Have you seen much of the city? Had time to explore?’

‘No. I arrived yesterday, and I’ll see enough of London while I work for you. I’m staying with my brother and his husband in Camden until I complete this contract, and then I’ll be moving on.’

Keep moving. Keep exploring. Keep free.

A blunt knife burrows between my ribs—old, rusty, predictable.

The prickle of restlessness that travelling normally helps me outrun returns. The irony that my job has brought me here, to a city of millions where one person, somewhere, is related to me by blood, twists my insides.

I breathe through the feeling, reminding myself that travelling the world beats putting down roots. A bird’s world view, not an oak tree’s.

Kit’s fathomless eyes still project a dichotomous vibe that veers from mild hostility to overt interest. Why is he angling to get rid of me? Does he dislike his perfectly amiable brother so much? Or perhaps he’s taken an instant dislike to my quirkiness. He needs to pick one emotion and stick to it, though. His indifference I can handle, but his seductive stare, which promises one thing and one thing only, grows harder to resist.

But resist I must.

‘Hmm...’ he says. ‘Well, perhaps I can pay the outstanding balance of your fee. You can leave today. Spend time with your family. See the sights London has to offer.’ He smiles then, for the first time, as if my acceptance of his generous but bizarre offer is a foregone conclusion. As if he’s used to getting his own way.

I bet he is. Well, some of us aren’t easily controlled.

I almost laugh, but I’ve already sniggered at his attempts to chase me off twice, so I’d best not push my luck. A Faulkner recommendation is worth more than it costs me to ignore Kit’s attitude. Intrigue adds to the other unexpected emotions that meeting him has unleashed.

What is he afraid of? What is he hiding?

Energy coils inside. I expected this job to be fun, but Kit’s added layer after layer of excitement to the mix until I’m practically trembling from the adrenaline in my bloodstream.

I shake my head slowly, a small smile dancing on my mouth. ‘I’m a professional film-maker, Mr Faulkner, with a reputation to uphold, a product to create and deliver. You and your brothers brought me in for a reason.’

No matter how much my libido wants this uncompromising Englishman, I’m no pushover. But he’s making this too easy, too much fun. I sit up straighter in the chair, all ready and raring to tackle Kit Faulkner head-on.

‘Fuck.’ He mutters under his breath, looking away. His fingers massage his brow as if seeking inspiration through telepathy and his jaw muscles bunch. At this rate he’ll have no enamel left. I take pity on him, my body’s reaction to the unforeseen chemistry between Kit Faulkner and me softening my response.

‘Why don’t you discuss the project with me, go over the Bounty Events company ethos, provide some creative pointers for the film?’

Instead of trying to sway things your way.

I have the brief Reid emailed to me memorised for today’s meeting: the Faulkner chain of small boutique hotels is synonymous with high-end luxury; lacking the grandeur of the big London hotels, they offer top-of-the-range luxury, exquisite catering and, if you can afford the services of Kit Faulkner’s partner company, Bounty Events, a menu of unique, once-in-a-lifetime experiences, overseen by the edible man still staring at me with impenetrable eyes.

Whatever he hopes to achieve with that look, the resultant effect is the trickle of heat through my blood, the rush usually reserved for when I’m airborne with my action camera strapped to my head.

‘I have a meeting now.’ He rises, dismissing me and makes his way to his uncluttered desk. ‘Your arrival this morning was...unscheduled.’

Controlling, arrogant...and grinding my usually laid-back gears. ‘Not for me. And not for your brothers.’

He focuses on his laptop as if deaf to my comeback, the epitome of eye candy if you’re into the haughty, crisp businessman type. The suit trousers fit him like a bespoke shield of armour, cupping his muscular arse and thick thighs. The shirt, although a little creased where he’s sat in his executive leather chair, is expensive enough it could probably walk around this office on its own and he emanates power, wealth, culture, as sure as the outright aloofness he’s wafting my way.

My tapping fingers pick up the pace—my worst habit, one that tells me I’ve been sitting for too long and need to get moving. I press them flat, cross my legs and force myself to enjoy his plush leather armchair, prolonging the showdown.

A battle of wills...?

Well, if you insist, Mr Faulkner.

He must sense his brush-off hasn’t achieved the likely intended goal—me scuttling from his office like a frightened mouse. He turns from his laptop screen, looking at me over one broad shoulder.

‘So I can’t persuade you to take the money and run?’

If this were any other city, if Kit hadn’t tried to control this from the outset, I might have been tempted to take his offer. I arch a brow in his direction. ‘I’m here to stay until the work is complete.’

With one last sweep of his eyes along the length of my body, a look that dismantles every scrap of my resolve to find him unattractive, Kit turns away.

‘If you’re determined to complete this project, it will be under my full direction.’ He taps some keys on his laptop, once more gifting me a view of his sculpted back and arrogantly broad shoulders.

I smile. The Kit effect fosters my defiance and my curiosity to probe just how deep his control goes. I won’t be put into a box, despite my body’s instant physical attraction to him.

‘I prefer full creative control of my work. We can discuss it further tonight.’

End of conversation.

I stand and he gives me his full attention. His energy leaves me jittery, vibrating, as if I’ve stepped into his force field and any minute now I’ll be reduced to a cloud of excited molecules. It’s more of an enticement than a deterrent and I step closer still.

His lip curls. ‘Do you own suitable attire for the theatre?’ He looks me over, heat back in those eyes, like the blue at the centre of a Bunsen flame. The haughty attitude says one thing, but his baby blues give him away.

I embed my feet in his impractical carpet, hoping the soles of my shoes are grubby from the wet streets outside. ‘It’s not a jeans kind of affair?’ I widen my stare, all innocence, biting the side of my tongue to prevent a smile escaping when he all but rolls his eyes. I’m certain he finds me lacking. Unlike the crisp, sophisticated women I met downstairs, I care little about make-up, manicures or fashion.

‘Sadly, no. Is that all you’ve travelled with?’

I shrug. ‘Most of my baggage allowance was taken up with my filming equipment.’ I live in clothes hardy enough to weather lying on the ground or climbing over fences, all in pursuit of the perfect shot.

His mouth tightens, and once more I have the crazy urge to kiss him. To push him back into his expensive chair and straddle him while ruining what’s left of his overlong hairstyle, just to prove that his body is interested in the woman wearing jeans currently cluttering up his immaculate but sterile workspace.

But I shelve my urges for the thrill of simple physics—opposite and opposing forces.

You push, I push, Mr Faulkner.

His next statement gives me pause, landing another well-aimed blow.

‘I’ll have something suitable sent over. Be ready by six p.m.’ He returns his focus to his laptop, his fingers moving over the keys with speed. Even his hands are sexy.

Damn.

Wait...suitable? Sent over? What the fuck...? This isn’t Pretty Woman. I won’t be playing Julia Roberts to his control-freak Richard Gere.

‘I don’t need your clothes. We do have theatres in New Zealand.’ Damn. Now I’ll have to waste my afternoon shopping, with jet lag, when I could be hanging out with Will. My fingers dance on my thigh. I press my hand flat. ‘It’s just a play. Are all Brits as snobby as you?’ Will’s hubby, Josh, is lovely...

Another snort. ‘It’s more than a play.’ Another hot but assessing look. ‘Our clients expect the five-star service they pay for and which we deliver. Anyone can buy the best seats in the house—Faulkner clients want the personal touch. To be schmoozed and personally escorted by me and, if you want this job, by you also. Temporarily.’ He licks his bottom lip, contemplating the expression I hope says unfazed.

‘Personally, I don’t care what you wear,’ he continues, his eyes sliding over me with enough heat he could be imagining me naked. ‘But you cannot schmooze two of my most valued clients in jeans. Consider it a uniform, if it upsets you, but if you want the job, that’s one of my rules.’

How many rules does he have? And how many can I break? I narrow my eyes while the prickle of a thousand ants covers my skin.

Rules? Uniforms? Schmoozing?

I’ve spent years growing comfortable with who I am and overcoming where I came from. Tonight, dressed up in some sort of fancy frock so Kit’s VIP can flaunt his wealth, won’t be the first time I’ve felt like I don’t belong.

But Kit’s next words cement my decision.

‘Unless Reid has miscalculated...now’s the time to back out, Mia.’ A small smile tugs at his decadent mouth. My own lips tingle, the urge to kiss him returning in full force. He’d love it if I caved that easily—a big suck it to his brother and a way to get rid of the inconvenient woman who doesn’t own a cocktail dress with one blow.

‘I’m a Kiwi, as New Zealanders are affectionately termed. I’m up to any job.’

Including him, his intriguing impenetrable guard and his ridiculous rules.

I offer a saccharine smile. ‘I look forward to receiving your couture. I’m a size six shoe and size ten dress.’

Another swipe of his brooding stare scrapes at my nipples. ‘I know what size you are.’

Oh, I bet he does. I bet he’s used to controlling everything, including the wardrobes of fawning females, before showing them the sheet-clawing night of their lives and then scarpering faster than I could say Not with this chick, buddy.

I stand taller, using my height to my advantage. In flats Kit can still peer down at me, but in heels, something I rarely wear, we’d be almost eye to eye. Now, despite the fact that I’m immune to fancy clothes, I have no idea how to put on eyeliner and don’t own hair straighteners, my breath hitches as I look forward to tonight, to challenging both his misconceptions and his rigid control.

With one last smirk I can’t help but deliver, I offer him my hand for a curt handshake, turn on my heel and head for the door. ‘See you at six, then.’

My palm tingles as I walk away, still resonating with his touch, while the hum of an electrical storm buzzes throughout my nervous system. This job just became a whole lot more interesting.

And Kit’s sheet-clawing ride of a lifetime...tempting. A chuckle escapes me as I press the button for the lift. I’m a film-maker after all. Perhaps I’ll film the experience.

CHAPTER THREE

Mia

PRIMPING AND PREENING is so time-consuming—no wonder I don’t have the patience for it under normal circumstances. The dresses, plural, arrive at my brother’s house from Harvey Nichols within the hour. Multiple extravagant garments draped in swanky bags and wrapped in delicate, monogrammed tissue paper.

I’m half tempted to cut off all the tags and then return them to Kit’s office claiming none of them fit. But Kit clearly knows his way around a woman’s body, because all but one could have been made specifically for me.

Will and Josh help me select one uniform from the exquisite, but over-the-top, creations on offer and then sit me down to watch a YouTube video on how to apply a minimal make-up look. Josh, a chartered accountant, plays make-up artist. A good thing—I’d have probably poked out my own eyeball with the mascara wand.

When I open their front door at the appointed hour, my gait unsteady in the ridiculous heels Kit sent, his tall frame fills the doorstep. Despite the stern lecture I gave myself, his appearance hits me square in the stomach, flooding my hyper-aware system with addictive adrenaline.

Fight or flight? Equally tempting with this sexy sod.

Mouthwatering, smelling divine and wearing the same dishevelled hair, facial scruff and dark stare as earlier, he swoops his eyes over me, a small smile kicking up one corner of his mouth to reveal a single, bracketing dimple.

The pad of my index finger tingles to trace the fine line left by that dimple. The made-for-me dress shrinks two sizes, squeezing my ribcage. That smile, even only a shadow of one...so not fair.

‘I see you found one that fits?’ he says.

The silky fabric may as well be sheer—he looks at me like he’s as aware as I am that it’s the only barrier between his eyes and my nakedness. His eyebrows flick up. ‘Good choice.’

‘Whoa... A polite compliment?’

He shakes his head, a ghost of remorse flitting over his face. ‘Yes. I was...abrupt earlier. I just don’t like surprises, and I wasn’t expecting you.’

It’s not quite an apology, but I’m still thrown. I focus on the fact the scrummy man cluttering my brother’s doorstep has insisted on dressing me up. Why have I allowed such pretentious nonsense? Because I like a challenge? Because I’ve got something to prove? Some urge to fit into his world, however briefly?

‘One would have been sufficient—did you have to send over the entire evening-gown department?’ I’m extra-snippy, realising I’ve done exactly what I said I wouldn’t—conform.

Kit shrugs. ‘My business, my rules. A uniform, remember.’

I sigh, now regretting the make-up. The uniform crap was difficult to argue, but the face...that was all me.

My belly tightens. Why am I trying to impress this man? Aside from his effortless sex appeal, I usually consider myself immune to everything he represents. But that’s clearly the answer—I’m not immune to the sexual allure. That dispensed with, I’m guessing the Kit effect would be rendered inert.

He pulls one hand from his trouser pocket, reaching up to grip my elbow. I barely have time to ensure the front door closes behind me before he guides me to the sleek black car idling at the kerb. But those few seconds provide enough time for the heat of his palm to register, to prick at my skin and leave the ghost of a handprint, not quite an itch, not quite a thrill.

I pull my arm from his grip. I can walk unaided. Just about. And now he’s touched me, I’m back to square one on the resisting-him scale.

He opens the car door and silently urges me inside, the doorstep smile and its breath-stealing effect now a distant blip. Although I need the timely reminder, neither is relevant.

This is work. Boring work. Absolutely no excitement on offer whatsoever. Definitely no sexual undercurrents.

My temples pounding, already I’m regretting my impulse to accompany him tonight. Already dreading mixing with a packed theatre full of play-loving strangers dressed to the nines. An outsider, out of my comfort zone—why do I always have to push, to prove myself? Why couldn’t I have just told Kit where to stick his job, his money and his heated looks and helped Will and Josh shop for baby clothes?

I could have been watching a movie with them right now, having cracked open my favourite Terry’s Chocolate Orange—a giant one I bought, duty-free. But that reckless streak in me has me spending the evening with Grumpy, while he arse-kisses his wealthy clients.

I take a rational breath, hoping to solve at least one of my problems with a little self-talk. Just because my biological mother lives somewhere in London, doesn’t mean I’m likely to run into her in Kit’s private theatre box... Not that I’d know her if I literally fell from these outrageous shoes into her lap. And who cares about belonging, fitting in? I have a fantastic, supportive adoptive family and an amazing, globetrotting job.

Pep talk over, I slide the dress flat under my backside in case he wants to return it, uncreased, or pass it on to the next mannequin he tries to intimidate into behaving exactly the way he wants, while Kit rounds the back of the car and slides in beside me. And then we’re off.