Earl Power: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Endowed Book 2) Page 13

  It will be nothing less than the second grand home of the Belgrave Estate and, with proper landscaping and a good driveway, a sight to behold. Even without planning permission to extend the grounds, it will work, although ideally, I’ll be able to get the land too, some other way.

  I’m at the Millhouse gate now, looking up, imagining what it will be like. “What do you say, Samwise? Good plan?”

  The dog barks enthusiastically.

  My new residence will accommodate Rachel and Orla in the east wing with its five bedrooms. I will take the quarters in the west wing, which has an equal number of rooms, and contains the living room Mara loves so much. If I don’t get on well with my relatives, it won’t matter; the house will be spacious enough to keep everyone separate if need be. And I’ll have done my duty by them, for as long as they need me. Who knows—we may even all get along.

  Projecting even further ahead, I can move the Belgrave Farm offices to the restored mill and create better office facilities than the current rambling tower at Belgrave. Ken and Alex can come over here to work for me. I have to say I like the idea of His Grace the duke having to commute to my residence to work for me. He wouldn’t have a choice in the matter.

  Things are going to change. I can’t wait to run these plans by Mara. She’s the one who made me stop and really think about what I want for a change. I want to get out of Belgrave Castle. With her. I don’t care how long I’ve known her. I know myself, and I can’t imagine feeling this way about somebody else. Ever.

  Now I just have to book the flight.

  18

  MARA

  WHAT THE FUCK IS this? No, seriously, is it April first? No, it’s not. Do they happen to celebrate April Fool’s Day on September thirteenth over in Britain? No, they don’t. Then why the hell is he sending me this? What in the name of the freaking Queen of England has gotten into him?

  I doublecheck the sender again, still not willing to let go of the idea that’s it’s some stupid joke by Hayley or something. But no, the sender is Sebastian Belgrave.

  The mail itself is harmless, I suppose:

  Check this out. Just got it done up temporarily until you got the chance to work your magic on it.

  xSeb.

  It’s the attachment that gives me heartburn. At first glance, I wasn’t sure what the sketches were. Then I recognized the building and my cry of dismay made Mike startle and look up from his work.

  Has Seb gone utterly and completely mad? I can’t work with this monstrosity. This is the Millhouse, I see that now, but it’s the Millhouse on steroids. At first I think he’s got the scale all wrong but then I see that, no, he’s added a whole goddamn story on top. And the outhouses in the back are connected, by weird tunnels, to the main block.

  I’m breathless with shock. Make that horror.

  I flick through the images again on my screen. To put it mildly, it doesn’t fit in with the environment. In theory, it might look acceptable to someone who has never seen the real thing, but I’ve been there and I know this won’t work with the lay of the land, with the trees. Half the light will be blocked at the back now. Whatever crummy architect he commissioned to do this up can’t have actually been on site, or if they were they must be blind and completely soulless.

  Seb himself must know better.

  Mike passes behind my chair on his way from the coffee machine. He peers into the screen and laughs. “Isn’t this what you always wanted? A big project?”

  I glare at him. Mike’s no fool—he sees exactly what I see.

  I slump back in my chair. “It was perfect. Now it’s …”

  “Big.” Mike scratches his beard as he contemplates the screen. “Is this guy overcompensating for something?”

  An image flashes in my brain of a certain male organ, which has no size issues whatsoever. “No.”

  “What kind of car does he drive?”

  “A Bentley. A tractor. I don’t know! Mike, this isn’t funny.”

  With a chuckle Mike totters away, stirring his coffee.

  Oh, I hate my dirty old boss sometimes.

  But what is this about? Because it’s is a crime against the aesthetics of the land, against everything we discussed. It’s an act of desperation and I need to get over there.

  But Seb’s not asking me to come. No, this sounds like a done deal. A don’t-question-my-authority kind of thing.

  I inhale sharply and my body goes cold. Or is this just his warped way of telling me he’s moved on?

  “Can’t you discuss it face to face?” Mike asks. He knows I’ve been on tenterhooks for ten entire days, waiting for Seb to schedule the damn flight.

  “Right now, I wouldn’t advise Seb to come within hitting distance of me,” I growl.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Mike asks.

  “Do you have any more of those doughnuts?” I wail.

  ◊◊◊

  My irritation at Seb is forgotten when, that afternoon, I’m standing on the infamous green carpet of Portland airport, waiting for Hayley to step off her flight from Santiago de Chile. She and Alex took separate flights; he’s headed to London via Madrid.

  When she comes sauntering out of the baggage claim area, she looks more or less how I expected her to look after such a trip—slightly browner, straggle-haired and laden down with a heavy-duty backpack with hiking boots and a water bottle swinging off them.

  “Hey, Ms. Globetrotter. Welcome home.”

  “Not the most romantic state of affairs after a honeymoon, I’ll grant you,” Haley admits laughing, as we make our way to the airport parking. “Poor Alex, I left him in Santiago airport with a bout of Montezuma’s Revenge. But I had to see Dad as soon as possible. And you.”

  “So how was it?”

  “Great!” Pink seeps into Hayley’s cheeks. “Fucking amazing.” She lowers her voice. “Amazing fucking too.”

  “This was before the Montezuma’s Revenge, I presume?”

  She laughs. “Oh, Mara, you haven’t changed.”

  “Why would I change? Anyway, Dave’s doing well. I stopped by to check on him last night. He was playing poker with Joe, knocking back the beers. Seemed pretty okay to me.”

  “You’ve been so good to him.” She squeezes my forearm. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Come on, Duchess,” I swat her hand away. “He’s practically my dad too.”

  “Yeah.” Her face goes serious. “What did Steve and Angela say when you got back? Were they telling the neighbors you’d gone all posh, hobnobbing with the queen?”

  “I haven’t been to see them yet,” I admit. “There’s a family dinner in two weeks. Time enough.”

  She nods, understanding.

  I debate mentioning Seb’s madness to her now, but I want to be somewhere cozier when I tell her, maybe a coffee shop. “Hey, I never get to see much of the city these days. Quick coffee before we head out to Dave’s?”

  “God, yeah, I’d love that,” Hayley says, eyes shining. “The coffee was terrible down there.”

  In Martha’s Coffee Shack, after she’s popped two sugars into her extra-foam latte, I tell Hayley about Seb’s plans. He’s told me it’s okay to mention Rachel and Orla.

  I shrug. “I’m hoping we can work it out.”

  Hayley draws back, fingers at her mouth. She can’t stop the silly grin that takes over her face. “I don’t believe I’ve heard you say those three words before.”

  “What?”

  “‘Work it out.’ It’s usually ‘dump ‘em at the first sign of trouble’ with you.” Hayley’s eyes are shining when I look up from my coffee. “Wow, can you imagine, we’ve fallen for two brothers.”

  I sigh, unable to deny it. Then I grin. “Yeah.”

  She’s silent for a while. “You know, I’d like to warm to him, but I’m still a little scared of him. He’s so… controlled.”

  “I know. And he’s an unstoppable force of nature when he sets his mind on what he wants.” My stomach does a flip just saying this. “I just hope he wants
the same thing as me.”

  19

  SEB

  TICKET BOUGHT. LONDON-JFK-Portland. Not even a royal summons from Elizabeth herself is going to stop me taking the plane to Mara. Just one more day. My spirits are skyrocketing as I drive down to London in the Bentley. I’ll be sleeping in the city tonight and will jump on the plane first thing in the morning.

  Rachel and Orla agreed to meet me in the Fairfax Hotel at two in the afternoon. They’ve been in the country three days already; plenty of time to recover from their jetlag. Rachel wouldn’t hear of me collecting them at the airport. She wanted to be “fresh, acclimatized, and in her normal mind” when she met me. This insistence on controlling circumstances reminds me so much of myself. I get a ripple of anticipation in my belly as I wonder what other similarities I’ll find in her. And in my half-sister, too.

  Nobody at home knows I’m doing this. Not even Alex. He’s got enough on his plate coping with post-honeymoon blues and the alarming fact that, yes, I do expect him to take over the Southwell tenants’ account management and not just swan around in his precious helicopter with his billionaire Sheik friends. I thought he’d turned over a new leaf, but with Hayley away in Oregon, he seems to lapse back into old behavior.

  Mother’s still in the doldrums about the whole idea of me associating with my blood relatives. Ken is being weird—about everything, and I don’t have time to figure that one out. And Letty… I don’t know, I have huge problems telling Letty I’m going to meet another sister. Silly of me, perhaps, but I’m not sure her ego can take it.

  I park in the hotel’s underground garage and wait in the reception area. It’s not the worst hotel, I suppose; clean, anyway. Popular with Chinese tourists.

  Just as I’m unfolding the Financial Times for a catchup, they appear before me, mother and daughter. I purposely hadn’t pictured them, because I didn’t want to be disappointed. But now I’m fascinated. The girl—woman—Orla is tall with an upright posture, and she’s got my eyes. Dark wavy hair tumbles down her broad shoulders, the way mine would if I let it grow. Her mouth and chin are different though, lighter; inherited from the father, whoever he was. I know he’s dead now.

  My mother is a little broader, and has the same dark eyes and strong brows as Orla and I, making her look intense, stubborn, and totally on top of things, standing there in her red trench coat. Her hair is streaked with grey that she hasn’t bothered to color. She’s got a protective arm around her daughter. It’s then I notice the swell of Orla’s stomach. She’s, what—four months? I’m no expert in human pregnancies, but should she be so big already?

  I cast the newspaper aside, rise, and indicate they should sit in the armchairs at my little table. A white-coated waiter who can’t be more than seventeen brushes past suddenly, standing too near to Orla as he gathers dirty plates off the table. I feel a wave of annoyance, and reach forward and press him firmly away from her.

  “Careful, my good man,” I say. “And kindly bring us water and some tea.” I look for confirmation from the women that this is their choice of refreshment.

  Rachel and Orla nod dumbly.

  “Fresh tea,” I add.

  When the waiter scurries off, Orla bursts out laughing. “You actually speak like that,” she says in a broad Australian twang, showing nice white teeth.

  “And you, like that,” I retort.

  “No arguing now,” Rachel says, as if scolding her children—which is, I suppose, exactly what she’s doing.

  We all smile at each other tentatively, feeling the uncanniness of it all.

  But the ice isn’t broken yet. Or at least not with my mother. I do my fair share of simply staring at Rachel’s face as she talks about her trip in response to my enquiries. Most of the time I’m not listening as her accent pulls the vowels out of all shape and slurs half the consonants. I’m just thinking, how could you just abandon me as a baby? Who the fuck does that?

  They, in turn, are looking at me warily over the rims of their teacups. Like they expect me to explode. I don’t like it. I wish they’d act normally. The laughter lines around Rachel’s eyes and mouth suggest she’s usually more fun than this. I’m guessing they have a healthy relationship, because they exchange glances every time I say something they think is unusual.

  I get down to business and tell them my plans for the Millhouse. They listen wholeheartedly, never taking their eyes from my face.

  “While we’ve no intention of hiding, we’d kinda prefer to stay out of the way of the Belgraves,” Rachel says with a hint of pride. “How far away is this … Millhouse from Belgrave Castle anyway?”

  “Four miles; seven kilometers. I’ll live in the other wing of the house to make sure everything runs smoothly. It’ll take a few months to get it ready but it will be in time for the birth.” I smile at Orla.

  I show them the extended plans that I brought with me on paper.

  “That’s quite a mansion,” Rachel says, tracing her finger over the length of the façade. She looks up, misgivings flashing in her eyes. “All we really need is a comfortable, quiet house near a good primary school, not too far from a hospital.”

  “This is a comfortable quiet house,” I insist.

  “No, Seb, it’s a fucking castle,” Orla says. She clamps a hand over her mouth.

  Her mother frowns at her. “I’m so sorry,” she says to me.

  “Perfectly fine.” I like Orla all the more for it.

  “You said Fernborough has good healthcare facilities and schools?” Orla asks, in a meeker voice.

  “School, yes. The healthcare, not by default. But we’ll organize that.”

  Whatever hurts lie underneath, I will restore dignity and pride to this branch of my family. They’ve been through a lot, I can tell. They deserve to live in decent style, and I’ll see to it that they do. Once I persuade Mara to come live with me—sometime, whenever she’s ready—then my happiness with be complete.

  20

  MARA

  I'M TAKING THE PAPER bins to empty in the back yard when a shadow flits against the wall. Someone’s coming around the corner.

  I drop the bin. Shit. Mike always told never to empty the bins after dark and to always to leave the office through the street entrance. Why don’t I ever listen to him?

  The man is upon me before I can run or find a weapon. Tall and strong-looking. Deadly. All in black. A scarf obscuring his face.

  He reaches up and unravels the scarf.

  I gasp. “Seb? What the—?“

  And he grabs my shoulders, pulls me in and sinks his mouth onto mine. Hot, needy, possessive. My mouth remembers him with joy.

  Omigod, omigod, omigod.

  I back towards the door and crash it open it with my butt. “Come on in.”

  Kissing me still, he pushes me through the doorway.

  “My office,” I say as we shuffle across the threshold.

  Working our way backwards, I lead him, out of sheer habit, to my desk.

  “Your desk?” he asks, grabbing the sides of my head and plundering my mouth again. I love how his tongue explores me, getting comfortable with old territory.

  “Yes,” I gasp.

  He’s on his knees, pulling down my jeans. Then my panties. I have no idea which ones I put on today. In the semi-darkness with only my computer screen illuminating us in a weird blue light, I guess it doesn’t matter.

  “Seb,” I thread my hands in his hair as his tongue finds its way through the throbbing folds between my legs. This is hot. Seriously weird, but very hot. My knees start to buckle when he finds my clit, the hot wetness there so unexpected.

  He teases me with precise thrusts of his tongue. A few deft strokes has me quivering in desperate need for more.

  “Oh God,” I moan.

  “Always talking about that guy,” he says. “I came eight thousand kilometers to hear you say my name.”

  “Sorry,” I say, giggling.

  “You will be,” he says. He straightens up.

  My eyes widen. Is
he going to leave me like this, trembling?

  He strokes my hair gently and whispers in my ear. “I want you to turn around.”

  His hands are at my hips, guiding me as I turn—shuffling, because my jeans are at my ankles. My naked ass is up against his pants and I feel every inch of his hard erection though the soft wool.

  “Now bend over.”

  “The desk?” I ask stupidly.

  He doesn’t answer, just pulls my chair away to give me access to the desk.

  I step out of my fallen jeans and put my hands down on my desk either side of my keyboard. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at this keyboard in the same way again.

  “Stay like that,” he says, his commanding tone deep and rich.

  I’m leaning over my desk, my ass exposed to the air, thighs clenched. I hear the rasp of metal as he undoes his pants. I hear the crinkle of the condom wrapper and the sigh of contentment as he comes up to me again. His hand smooths over the hypersensitive curve of my buttocks.

  “Relax,” he says in my ear, his hands making long sweeps over my butt and thighs, making me quiver and throb. “Let yourself enjoy this, because I know you’ve dreamt of me doing it.”

  I inch my hands forward on the desk, face burning at the truth of his words.

  His fingertips trace along where my thighs join. He doesn’t have to tell me what to do. I move my feet apart. Then some more.

  “That’s it,” he says.

  His hand smooths in leisurely fashion down my spine. My vagina feels like it’s huge and heavy and throbbing, begging his attention. So much so that when he moves his silky touch to fondle me right there, I groan aloud, “Seb… oh Seb, yes.”