She flicks her confusion to Miller's empty tumbler that is on the desk without a coaster . . . but it's in the right place. 'Sorry,' she replies, taking the gla.s.s.

'No problem.' I smile, making it as insincere as hers, feeling Miller squeeze his thanks.

'So let's finish up,' she says, struggling to hold her gla.s.s while attempting to make notes on her pad. 'On what basis do you approve membership to your club?'

'Payment,' Miller answers, short and tiredly, making me smile.

'And how do potential members apply?'

'They don't.'

She looks up again, confused. 'So how do you obtain membership?'

'You have to be nominated by an existing member.'

'Doesn't that limit your clientele?' she asks.

'Not at all. I already have over two thousand members and we opened less than a week ago. Now we have a waiting list.'

'Oh.' She looks disappointed, but then smiles suggestively and crosses her legs slowly. 'And what would one need to do to skip the waiting list?'

I screw my face up in disgust at her brashness, the shameless hussy. 'Yes, what would one need to do, Miller?' I ask, turning to look at him and pouting my lips.

His eyes sparkle, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly as he directs his gaze back to Diana Low. 'Do you know any members, Miss Low?'

She smiles brighter. 'I know you.'

I have to force the cough of shock back down my throat. Can she see me?

'You don't know me, Miss Low,' Miller states, low and harsh. 'Not many people do.'

The photographer shifts uncomfortably in his seat and Diana Low reddens with embarra.s.sment. I'm guessing she doesn't get knocked back very often, and I'm wondering whether Miller should be so hostile when she's going to be writing a piece on him and his new club. His words don't have the same effect on me, though, because I do know him.

'Photo!' Diana shrieks, jumping up from her chair and placing her drink down again, obviously forgetting my previous request in her fl.u.s.ter.

I quickly scoop it up before Miller starts twitching and stand to the side so the photographer can get what he needs. I watch as Miller stands and starts brushing down the creases in his suit, huffing and puffing to himself as he does. That's my fault, distracting him from dragging out the ironing board so he can perfect his appearance, even though he really doesn't need to. He always looks perfect.

He casts an accusing gaze in my direction and mouths, 'Your fault.'

I break out in a big smile, shrugging and mouthing 'sorry' back.

'Don't be,' he says aloud, 'I'm not.' He winks, nearly knocking me from my feet, before repositioning himself in his big chair, unfastening the b.u.t.ton of his jacket and nodding to the photographer. 'Ready when you are.'

'Great.' He prepares his camera and takes a few steps back. 'We'll leave the TV screens in place. I was thinking a few more things on your desk, though.'

'Like what?' Miller asks, horror beginning to surface at the potential of someone messing with his clear surface.

'Some paperwork,' he replies, taking Diana's pad and positioning it to the left of Miller. 'Perfect.'

It's not perfect at all. Even I can see it's wonky, the edge of the paper not parallel to the edge of the desk, and Miller's swift rearrangement of the pad confirms it. 'Get on with it, then,' he grunts, trying to relax back in his chair and failing. He's fidgety.

It seems like the photographer spends forever aiming and clicking at my poor Miller, who looks ready to explode with stress. He's directed from one position to another, the guy rounds his desk and gets a shot of the TV monitors with Miller casually observing the screens, and then he asks him to sit on the edge of the desk, all casual with his ankles and arms crossed. It's killing him, and the final straw comes when he's asked to smile.

He looks over at me in disbelief, like how dare they ask such a thing. 'We're done,' he snaps irritably, b.u.t.toning up his jacket and collecting the pad that's been poisoning the perfection of his desk for too long. 'Thank you for your time.' He shoves the pad at Diana Low and strides over to the door, swinging it open and gesturing for them to leave.

Neither the journalist nor the photographer hangs around, both moving quickly across Miller's office to the door. 'Thank you.' Diana stops short of the door and gazes up at Miller. 'Hope to see you around.'

I'm stunned and wondering if this is normal behaviour. She's incorrigible. 'Goodbye,' Miller retorts with utter finality, sending the brash journalist on her way, just as another woman strides into his office.

Miller's business a.s.sociate.

Ca.s.sie.

She appears to be in a fl.u.s.ter and out of breath, but it diminishes the second she claps eyes on Diana Low within touching distance of Miller. Ca.s.sie's eyes narrow on the brash journalist. 'I said he wasn't available for interviews.'

'Yes, I know.' Diana isn't perturbed by the hostility pouring from Ca.s.sie's designer-adorned figure. 'But you were clearly mistaken because a few further calls revealed that he was.' She turns back to Miller and smiles seductively. 'Bye for now.' Her hand raises and waves before she turns a snide look on Ca.s.sie as she sashays out of Miller's office, and once she has disappeared, I know Ca.s.sie's cattish mood is about to be turned on me.

She swings around and for the first time seems to register my presence. 'What's she doing here?' she spits, looking to Miller for an answer. I recoil in shock, as does Miller.

'Keep your nose out,' Miller says calmly, taking her arm and leading her to the door.

'I care about you,' she argues, not putting up much of a fight, her words confirming my suspicions.

'Don't waste your energy, Ca.s.sie.' He pushes her out gently and the door to his office slams shut, sending me a few centimetres back on a frightened jump. He said to trust him and I should have. He really has sent her on her way. He swings to face me, looking grumpy and hara.s.sed. 'I'm stressed out,' he proclaims on a bark, stating the obvious and sending me on another little jump across the carpet.

'Would you like me to get you another drink?' I ask, for the first time thinking that perhaps Miller drinks too much. Or has that just been since he met me?

'I don't need a drink, Livy.' His tone has taken on a throaty edge, and his eyes have landed on me with a bang. 'I think you know what I need.'

My blood reheats under his primal stare, my whole s.e.xual being becoming aware and responsive. G.o.d help me when he touches me. 'De-stressing,' I whisper, looking up through my lashes as he stalks slowly towards me.

'You're like therapy to me.' He reaches me and swoops down, kissing me with purpose and meaning, moaning and mumbling into my mouth as his tongue works mine fluidly. My mind immediately scrambles. 'I love kissing you.'

We're in his office. I don't want to be in his office. I want to be in his bed. 'Take me home.'

'It'll take too long. I need de-stressing now.'

'Please.' I rest my hands on his shoulders and pull away. 'You make me feel stressed when you're all uptight.'

He sighs deeply and drops his head, letting loose the wayward curl. It calls for me to push it back from his forehead, so I do, taking the chance while I'm in the vicinity of his hair to feel all of it. I feel privileged that this complex man has designated me the role of de-stressing him, and I'll relish doing it whenever need be, but I can see there are ways in which he can do this for himself.

'I apologise,' he murmurs. 'Your request has been noted.'

'Thank you. Take me to your bed.'

'As you wish.' He looks down at his suit, scowling at the few creases as he tries to smooth them out. He gives up on an exasperated sigh and c.o.c.ks his head when he catches me smiling.

'What's so amusing?'

'Nothing.' I shrug nonchalantly and set about smoothing myself down. It's a terribly sarcastic act, but when I glance up and see that Miller has pulled an ironing board from a concealed cupboard in the wall and is busy setting it up, my amus.e.m.e.nt soon abates. 'You're not?'

He pauses and casts his eyes over to my bulging ones. 'What?'

'You're going to iron your suit?'

'It's all creased.' He's horrified that I'm clearly stunned by this. 'Someone distracted me before, so I'm going to look like a sack of potatoes in my picture.'

'What about bed?' I sigh, seeing a long stretch ahead while I wait for Miller to perfect on perfect.

'As soon as I'm done.' He turns and takes an iron out.

'Miller . . .' I halt when I detect the very subtle jumping of his shoulders, and totally intrigued, I pace quickly over and round him, finding the biggest boyish grin I've ever had the pleasure of seeing. My mouth drops open. I'm stunned and can't even remember what I was going to say.

'Your face!' he laughs, folding the board and putting it back. Miller Hart, Mr Serious, my confounding, complex creature, is winding me up? Playing a joke? I think I might pa.s.s out.

'It's not even that funny,' I mutter, pushing the cupboard door shut in a childish act of stroppiness.

'I beg to differ,' he laughs, straightening and knocking me sideways with that cheeky grin again. I've never seen anything quite like it.

'Beg all you like,' I retort, then yelp when he picks me up and spins me around. 'Miller!'

'I'm not going to iron my suit because getting you into my bed is of paramount importance.'

'More important than ironing your suit back to perfection?' I ask, threading my fingers through his waves. 'And more important than fixing your hair?'

'Considerably.' He drops me to my feet. 'Ready?'

'I was looking forward to you taking me for dinner.'

'Dinner or bed?' He scoffs. 'Now you're just being silly.'

I smile. 'What would one have to do to skip the club's waiting list?'

His eyes lose a little sparkle when they narrow, his lips straightening. He's trying not to laugh. 'One would need to know a member.'

'I know the owner,' I declare confidently, but very quickly remember his comment to Miss Low. Will he say the same to me? I know Miller, but does he agree?

He nods thoughtfully and paces over to his desk, opening the drawer and pulling something out. Whatever it is gets swiped, bleeped, and scanned on a section of the flat-screen monitors before they disappear into the depths of white desk.

'Here.' He hands me a transparent credit card with one word engraved in small block capital letters through the centre.

ICE.

Turning it over, I see a silver strip, but that's all nothing else. No details of the club or the member. I look up suspiciously. 'This is a fake, isn't it?'

He laughs lightly and leads me out of the room and back up to the main club, but he doesn't take his usual hold of my neck, instead draping his strong arm over my pet.i.te shoulders and hugging me into him. 'It's very real, Olivia.'

Chapter 22.

As soon as he's carried me up the stairs to his apartment and let us in, he runs a bath and strips us both down before cradling me in his arms, carrying me up the steps, and lowering us into the hot, bubbly water. It's not his bed, but I don't argue. I'm wrapped in his arms where I'm happiest. It's more than good enough.

I sigh, completely content, while he devotes our bath time to smothering me in his body, feeling me everywhere and squeezing me tightly. He's humming that soft tune. It's becoming very familiar to me now. I know when he's going to draw breath and when the tone changes, and I know when a small pause is approaching, when he's sure to take the brief silence as an opportunity to press his lips to the top of my head.

My cheek is resting on his wet chest as I slowly circle his nipple with my fingertip and stare across the vast expanse of his skin. Relaxed and tranquil go nowhere near to describing how I'm feeling. It's these moments when I feel like I'm experiencing the real Miller Hart, not the man who's hiding behind fine three-piece suits and an impa.s.sive face. The serious Miller Hart, the man disguised as a gentleman, hides his inside beauty from the world, leaving it facing a man who seems h.e.l.l-bent on repelling any friendliness he encounters or confusing people with his impeccable manners, which are always delivered with such aloofness, they snuff the fact that he is, in fact, well mannered.

'Tell me about your family.' I break the silence with my quiet question, almost certain he'll brush my enquiry aside.

'I don't have any,' he whispers simply and softly, kissing the top of my head again as my brow wrinkles into his chest.

'None at all?' I try not to sound disbelieving, but I fail. I haven't a family, so to speak, just my nan, but the value of at least one family member is . . . well, invaluable.

'Just me,' he confirms, leaving me silently sympathetic and pondering the loneliness his admission signifies.

'Just you?'

'It doesn't matter what way you say it, Livy. It'll still just be me.'

'You've got no one?'

My body lifts and falls with his chest when he sighs. 'That's three. Shall we go for four?' he asks gently. He's not displaying exasperation or impatience, although I can tell if I try for that fourth he might do.

I shouldn't find it so hard to believe, given my own spa.r.s.e family. I have Gregory, too, and George, but only one blood relative. One is more than none, and one is a piece of history. 'Not a living soul?' I wince as soon as the fourth slips from my lips and immediately apologise for it. 'I'm sorry.'

'You've no need to apologise.'

'But no one?'

'And we have number five.' There's humour in his voice, and hoping I might catch a glimpse of that rare smile, I lift from his chest, but all I find is his wet, impa.s.sive beauty.

'Sorry.' I smile.

'Accepted.' He manoeuvres me, taking me to the other end of the bath, and lays me on my back. My thighs are spread and he kneels between them, taking one of my legs and lifting my foot until my sole is resting on the middle of his chest. My tiny size five looks lost in the vast expanse of muscle, even smaller when his manly hand starts stroking over the top as he watches me thoughtfully.

'What?' My voice has been reduced to nothing more than a breath of air under the piercing pa.s.sion of his blue gaze. Miller Hart has pa.s.sion seeping from every pore of his striking body and even more through that purposeful blue stare. I'm hoping it's special and kept only for me, but I know I'm hoping in vain. Perhaps Miller Hart only ever expresses himself and removes that mask when he has a woman to indulge in.

'I'm just thinking how lovely you look in my bath,' he muses, lifting my foot to his mouth and slowly, painfully slowly, licking from my toes, over the top of my foot until he's at my shin, my knee . . . my thigh.

The water ripples around me from my mild shift, and my hands splatter against the sides of the tub, slipping on the shiny porcelain. My skin is warm from the heat of the water and the steam in the bathroom, but with the heat of his tongue burning through my already heated flesh, I'm on fire. I'm quietly gasping. I'm closing my eyes and preparing myself to be worshipped, and when he reaches a point where my thigh meets the water, he slips his forearm under my lower back and lifts effortlessly, bringing me to his mouth, making the need to shift my hands essential if I'm going to stop myself from slipping under the water. I find the rim of the bath and grip as best I can, being gently guided into his realm of utter rapture a place where the throes of pa.s.sion are intense and where I fall deeper and deeper into the curious world of Miller Hart.

His light nips over my c.l.i.toris are difficult to deal with. The light dashes of his tongue that follow each one of those nips are torturous. But when he slowly slips two fingers inside me and thrusts lazily in time to his nips and tongue dashes, I lose any hope that there was of maintaining the silent serenity surrounding us.

I whimper and bow my back, the muscles of my arms that are holding me up instantly aching and my stomach muscles tensing in an attempt to control the sharp twinges sparking in my groin. My mounting desperation only encourages him, his thrusting fingers upholding his desired pace, but the strokes becoming firmer, more determined.