Cocky Duke: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Endowed Book 1) Read online

  My uncle uses the smile he reserves for TV reporters. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

  I've got to hand it to them. For two men who were at each other's throats the other day, they're embracing the genteel act pretty convincingly.

  “I trust your mother is well?” Uncle Stig adds.

  A pensive look traverses Alex's face. “As well as can be expected, thank you.” His grin appears again. “Please, let's get inside. My man George will take your luggage in.”

  We trail after him, our footsteps echoing in the massive hall. My eyes devour the details greedily, my gaze landing on a perfect, gilded Louis XIII table. Can that really be a genuine piece? I step toward it and run my fingers along the bumps of the ornate edge, the way you're never allowed do in museums.

  Alex slides up beside me. I feel his presence behind my back. I remember how his fingers felt on my neck in Jayvee's and my hairs stand on end again.

  “You like it?” He catches my eye in the mirror that hangs over it.

  I whip my hand away. “It's exquisite. Is it genuine?”

  “As far as I've been told.”

  “Wow.” I can't resist gliding my fingers over the polished surface, as others must have done down the centuries.

  “Touch all you like,” he says. His gaze is unwavering in the antique mirror, and I can't hold it for long. My face starts to burn. Swiftly, he turns and walks over to Uncle Stig. Inexplicably, my body wants him back beside me. My mind wants him talking to me like this.

  Touch all you like.

  Yeah, right.

  When I glance over, my uncle's got a half smile on his face as he eyeballs Alex and me.

  I roll my eyes and go over. I don't want anything being decided behind my back. I refuse to be a pawn in this game. Since I got off the plane two days ago, I haven't taken a solitary step in this country that hasn't been somehow dictated by some man or another. I should be trying to find a plan B, but without money to spare, the options are few. Maybe hitchhike to the Scottish Highlands?

  “… delicate situation,” Uncle Stig's saying in a hushed tone. “But I'm grateful for your help.” He sounds like a contrite offender. It gets on my nerves. The magnanimous look Alex gives him in return only makes matters worse.

  The tension of the past twenty–four hours has twisted my body into knots of agitation. I'm ready to explode. I've never been good at holding my temper, or counting to ten, or any of that shit.

  “Look, this is all your fault.” My raised voice echoes in the cavernous hall and I lower it slightly. “If you hadn't messed with my uncle's business, he could have done what he needed to and I'd still be touring galleries.”

  Alex turns to me with an unreadable expression in his glittering eyes. “If you hadn't chucked your phone in the Thames, I could've told you yesterday how much shit you're in.”

  I turn to Uncle Stig and he just nods.

  “How do you know about that?” I fume.

  His bright blue eyes drill into me. “Sources.”

  So, I was being followed. I knew it. That guy with the newspaper. Creepy. It's like Alex is showing off, making it clear who the alpha dog is when it comes to being ahead of the law. And frankly, I'm disappointed with my uncle getting himself into a position where he has to kowtow to this guy. “I suppose you've got the whole of Her Majesty's secret service wrapped around your finger?”

  “Hayley, please.” Uncle Stig takes a pained breath.

  “Okay, okay.” I prod my fingers against my forehead. “Is there—like, a bathroom or a bedroom or somewhere where I can just go and be alone for a while? I think I've got a headache coming on.”

  Like a chameleon, he's back to all lord of the manor courtesy then. “I'm so sorry. I'm being unforgivably negligent. Mrs. Bershley—we just call her Mrs. B—she'll look after you. I'll call for her. Please, come with me.”

  I'm unable to say anything because Alex's hand is on the small of my back guiding me along, gentle, but insistent. Much as I hate it say it, it's the first thing that feels good today.

  8

  ALEX

  IT'S HALF PAST FOUR and it's time to check on my guests. I've given them two hours to get settled in their rooms with the help of the ever–capable Mrs. Bershley. Back in the south tower—a separate building holding our business offices—Ken and Letty are negotiating the final wording of our Saudi wedding bid, which is, of course, where I should be, but the temptation to bunk off work is just too much.

  It's nice and quiet in the main house. Mother's out to afternoon tea with Lady Penrith–Jones. I haven't figured out how I'm going to explain to everyone the presence in our home of a disgraced US ambassador and a YouTube starlet. They've all seen the videos. As of yet, nobody but the staff knows they're here. I could pass it off as a diplomatic courtesy but everyone in my family knows what I think of Stig Lawson. The most plausible excuse for having them here and forbidding my family to speak of it is the media uproar I've caused. I'll pretend to feel guilty.

  Marty says I have to keep them here for at least a week. Because, as he put it, a week is a long time in dirty politics. By then, the Azerbaijani oil barons will enter some alternate agreement with Lawson, or his lawyers will find some way to threaten them back. Boom. Done. Marty claims that this kind of thing happens all the time with diplomats. I told him I didn't want to know.

  I'm appalled that such a man can become ambassador, and from such a family. His father was nothing short of a criminal the way he built up his newspaper empire. His sister, Hayley's mum, was apparently an artist, but I'd bet my bottom dollar that gallery was just a vehicle for money laundering. They're the kind of people my mother would witheringly call “opportunistic.”

  I've seen the way the uncle eyes me like a juicy steak whenever I talk to his niece. It's clear he's got some designs on her future here. I wonder if she shares his delusion. There's only one way to find out.

  Hayley's bedroom door is closed, so I knock. I told Mrs. Bershley to put the uncle on the third floor, away from Hayley's on the first and mine on the second. I don't want him monitoring who goes in or out of our rooms.

  “Come in,” she says. So I do.

  She bolts upright on the bed as I close the door behind me. Eyes wide, hair a little mussed, cheeks pinker than before.

  “Oh I didn't—”

  “Expect me?”

  Nice try. I hide my smirk by strolling to the window. There, I turn, lean my arse against the windowsill and watch how the light falls on her face, her throat, that tremendous au naturel rack of hers. She's wearing a baggy T–shirt and trousers. I guess they're her pajamas. There's nothing sexy about them, but the way she fills them out is accidentally erotic.

  I shift my weight onto my other foot. Her eyes are following my hands, so I drop them to my belt, hooking my thumbs inside. Of course, I could accelerate the proceedings. Talk a bit, draw her out, get her to laugh, move close, make her feel she's beautiful, make my move, but I want her to come to me, begging. That's the fantasy I started with, so I'm going to see it through. I want her to be wet. I want her eyes to be hungry. I want—

  “Alex?” she says and my eyes pop open. What just happened there? Had I closed them?

  “Yes, Hayley?”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “You asked me to.” Begged. You begged, didn't you? And while that felt really good on the phone, it's going to be a hundred times better now, in person. As soon as she gets over this disinterested little act of hers. Doesn't she realize I've seen it a hundred times before?

  A frown creases her forehead. “But you could have refused.”

  “It's not my style to refuse a damsel in distress.” I attempt a grin, but her voice, it's getting to me. The fact that she's talking at all is getting to me. She should be moaning. She shouldn't be sitting there with her questions and with her tits ready to burst through the fabric, a little gold chain tantalizingly trapped between the two firm mounds of golden, sun–kissed skin. She should be flat on her back offering those beauties
to my mouth. I'd know how to look after them.

  But no, she's still just sitting there, propped up against the pillows, legs stretched out. Legs I want with all my being to ease apart as I lick my way to their apex.

  I leave my place at the window and approach the bed. I stand there, looking down. She should be doing something by now, something to show she's interested, but she's just staring back innocently. My shadow falls across her outstretched legs. She inhales a sharp breath as she continues to look up into my face. I cock my head like a goddamn spaniel but my focus homes in on her nipples, which have oh so gloriously hardened, punching tiny bumps though the fabric.

  I allow my gaze to linger on those hardened pebbles, letting her know I know. I look up to see her gaze flickering down to my crotch, as if to say touché. Finally we're getting places. By the time she looks back into my eyes, her cheeks have become infused with a darker shade of pink and her breath is coming faster. I'm sure mine is too. I love this part. The part when she says something coy and breathless and gloriously silly. Bonus points if she then removes some clothing, without my asking her to.

  "Excuse me, did you have something to tell me?" Her voice is flat, not a hint of coquetry. Her eyes are glinting with something hard.

  “Actually, I wasn't planning on doing a lot of talking.”

  “Well if you expect me to kneel down and suck your dick to show my gratitude, don't bother, because I'm packing my bags right now.”

  I back up, hands raised and nearly trip over the rug as I step away from the bed. “Whoa, easy there.”

  This has never happened before. I tend to go for older, experienced types who are more likely to advance on me. She's what? Twenty? Twenty–one? Not very experienced. She doesn't seem to have even caught on to the fact that she's expected to be paying me some dues here.

  I resume my place at the window, watching her. Several deep breaths later, I've calmed down. All right, there's no hurry. I've got time to do this right since she's stuck here for a few days at least, according to Marty. She's not going anywhere, because she's got nowhere to go.

  I can teach her stuff she's never experienced with anyone else. Teach her how showing appreciation is meant to be done. I can be the one in control and tease out her pleasure … slowly, so she's desperate to give me everything she's got. But first I need to train her not to fear me.

  “Dinner.” I say heading for the door. “Will you be joining us for dinner? It's at six if you feel so inclined. I'll come back then to collect you.” I'm fighting to keep frustration out of my voice, but I feel proud, too, at my self–control.

  “Dinner?” I hear her say faintly as I go out the door. The scorn in her voice makes me grit my teeth.

  That didn't go the way I meant it to.

  9

  HAYLEY

  IS A BEDROOM DOOR KEY too much to ask, goddammit?

  By a quarter to six, I've recovered, somewhat. Alex bursting in on me in my unsexy pajamas wasn't one of the greater moments of my existence. In my defense, minutes before that, I was all good and ready to sink my head into those heavenly goose–down pillows and forget the world. I mean, everybody's touchy when they're half asleep.

  I'm feeling perkier after that shower—a gloriously hot jet–spray, way better than in Winfield House. Escaping from Uncle Stig for a few hours has also elevated my mood to the point where I'm ready to take on any bullshit Alex decides to throw at me and fling it right back at him. There was a moment where he looked completely caught off guard—lost—and I'm replaying that over and over again. All I need is a little chink in his armor.

  After much deliberation on what to wear to a duke's dining table, I've chosen a white top—polyester, but might look like silk by candlelight—a small string of pearls, classy black jeans with no rips, and black pumps. This is the height of sophistication that can be mustered out of the contents of my suitcase.

  I dial up Skype. I got the password for the Wi–Fi by simply asking Mrs. Bershley. I've had plenty of time to concoct a story for Dad. The poor man thinks we cut our trip short because Uncle Stig wanted to attend an urgent meeting and that we're sitting on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic by now.

  Dad's face is already wincing up in fatherly concern as I breezily tell him that my uncle has to meet some businessmen and I've been invited by a duke to stay at Belgrave Castle and it would be impolite to refuse so we've decided to change our return flights once again.

  “Duke? Who's this duke?” Dad asks in understandable exasperation.

  “He's a friend of Uncle Stig's.”

  “That's not reassuring.”

  At least this means Dad still hasn't seen my YouTube clip. I'm beginning to wonder just how isolated he keeps himself when I'm not around. He's probably spent most of his time alone out fishing. “It's a beautiful castle and a lovely family who've made me very welcome, and it's a fabulous opportunity to spend a few more days in England experiencing the culture. And the art, Dad. The walls are dripping with it.”

  He rubs his forehead. “Those are not your kind of people.”

  Behind him, the kitchen looks suspiciously clean, bathed in orange morning sunlight, the wooden surfaces clear, the floor mats positioned at right–angles instead of diagonals which I'd have insisted on. No fresh flowers. A tell–tale stack of empty pizza boxes. He hasn't been eating properly. I get a pang for home. “Come on home now, Hayley.”

  “Dad, it's not that simple.”

  “I think it is.” Dad's forehead creases into deep grooves of worry. It's weird to talk to him on camera, which seems to amplify the anxiety in his face.

  “I'm fine. Really.”

  “Why wouldn't you be fine?” he asks, suspicion now trumping concern. It's really hard to lie to Dad.

  “Look, I'll ask Uncle Stig to book us for Friday. Give us ‘til Friday? Please?” I'm hoping three days is long enough for my uncle to sort out whatever he needs to with those Azerbaijanis. As Dad as always said, he's the kind of guy who could negotiate his way out of hell if it ever came to it.

  “Friday,” Dad repeats.

  I hate lying. I want to comfort him and to reassure him everything's going to be fine, that I'm safe, but am I?

  A knock on the door interrupts us. “Dad, sorry, I need to go. I'll call you again later.” I click off the camera before he can protest.

  I open up. It's Alex. Dashing as ever in a light blue shirt that I'll admit does wondrous things to his eyes.

  “Hello.” I flash him a small, insincere smile.

  His full grin appears. “You look fantastic. Are you guarding the Crown Jewels behind that door by any chance?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  He knocks on the wood. “You're gripping onto it for dear life.”

  He's right. Relax, Hayley. Even if he is so … overwhelming, that doesn't mean he's out to take advantage of me. Maybe he does just want to help out of the goodness of his heart. I need to cut him some slack here. Maybe it's normal for them to walk into each other's rooms all the time. It's a family home after all, not a hotel. I hold open the door wider.

  He remains in the corridor. “Come on out, sweet girl, I won't bite.” He sounds like the wolf talking to Little Red Riding Hood.

  “You won't?”

  His smile broadens. “Only if you'd like me to.”

  I laugh. “Let's not ruin your appetite before dinner.”

  As we saunter down the corridor, I feel him watching me. My top has a low back but it's otherwise demure. I wonder what he's thinking, so I turn around and his eyes dart back up to my face.

  “This way.” His voice is soft and low in my ear. Goosebumps form all down my arms when he guides me with a caress above my elbow. We're turning left.

  “Your uncle's room is up this way,” he says as we reach the staircase. Funny, I expected Uncle Stig's room to be nearer to mine. Are they trying to give us the impression that they actually use all the intervening rooms?

  On the second stair, his thumb grazes my shoulder blade th
rough the opening in my blouse, as if accidentally. I stiffen and stop moving. Then his entire hand is splayed against my spine, half way down my back. It's a brazen gesture but I do nothing but stare straight ahead at the stairs we're supposed to ascend. Finally, his hand slides down to my lower back leaving a rippling trail of pleasure under my skin. My groin tightens. I'm light headed. I want him to keep doing that.

  His voice comes as a low rumble in my ear. “My room's to the right.” I follow his pointing finger to the second door on the right.

  “O–kay. Good to know.”

  “Just in case.”

  I look up into his face, challenging him. His body may have temporarily given me a thrill, yes, but he shouldn't think I'm so weak that I can't question his motives. He's soon going to find out that I can resist him just fine and have my own life, which is every bit as important as his, waiting for me back in Laxby, Oregon. “Just in case what?”

  “You get scared.” His hand on my spine rotates in a tiny circle, kneading the muscles. It's mind–numbingly pleasurable as his touch gets softer and sexier, like a feather. “We have ghosts and shit.”

  “I'll bear it in mind,” I murmur, biting my lower lip as I continue climbing stairs. His fingers remain on my spine and with every light press of his fingertips into my skin, I want him to move further down, or up, I don't know which. The way he plays me feels so damn good. His hands are nowhere near my front, but my nipples are painfully hard. And something tells me he knows this, that he's been reading women from an early age.

  At the landing of the third set of stairs, I clasp the thick banister and take a long, shuddering breath. I'm a mess and he knows it as he stands there cool as, well, a cucumber.

  “Okay, let's go get your uncle,” he says. His hands fall away from my body. I gasp at the loss but I cover it up with a cough.

  10

  ALEX

  AS WE MAKE OUR APPROACH to the dining room, it's all I can do not to let Ambassador Lawson wander on ahead so I can corner Hayley in an alcove and begin this thing. Despite her scornful tone, she seems to wants it. Well, her body does, even if her brain might need persuasion. We may have some fun after dinner. That is, if my family doesn't tear her to pieces first.