Chapter 7
I straighten up and scan the space, noting the obscene leather-framed bed, the gigantic chandelier suspended from the ceiling, and the floor-to-ceiling windows, with the most amazing view across the city. I shouldn’t be so stunned. I knew his place was palatial, but this is something else. I see two doors across the room, and deciding that one should be a bathroom, I make my way across the squidgy cream carpet and open the first one I come to, forcing my eyes to avoid the huge bed. It’s not a bathroom, but it is a wardrobe, if such a vast space could be classed as a wardrobe. The square room has floor-to-ceiling mahogany cupboards and shelves circling the three walls with a freestanding cabinet in the centre and a couch backing onto it. The surface of the cabinet displays dozens of small jewellery boxes, all open and exhibiting an array of cufflinks, watches and tie pins. I get the feeling that if I moved one of those boxes, he’d know. I quickly shut the door and hurry to the next one, pushing my way into the most ridiculously regal bathroom I’ve ever seen. I gasp, my eyes bugging. A giant claw-foot tub sits proudly by the massive window, with intricate gold taps and steps leading up to it, and the shower walls are adorned in a mosaic of cream and gold tiles. I try to take it all in. I can’t. It’s too much. It’s like a show home. After washing my hands, I wipe up carefully and straighten the towels, not wanting to leave anything out of place.
As I exit his bedroom I freeze, coming face to face with Miller. He’s frowning again. ‘Snooping?’ he asks.
‘No! I was using the bathroom.’
‘That’s not the bathroom; that’s my bedroom.’
I look down the corridor, counting two doors before the one I’m standing outside of. ‘You said third door on my right.’
‘Yes, and that would be the next door.’ He points to the next door, and I look, completely confused.
‘No.’ I turn and point in the other direction. ‘One, two, three.’ I indicate the door behind me. ‘Third door on my right.’
‘The first door is a cupboard.’
I can feel that irritation rising again. ‘It’s still a door,’ I point out. ‘And I wasn’t snooping.’
‘Okay.’ He shrugs his perfect shoulders and slowly blinks those perfect eyes, before taking his perfection in its entirety and strolling down the corridor. ‘This way,’ he calls over his shoulder.
Irritation flares. Who does he think he is? My Converse start a moody march down the corridor in pursuit of him, but when I arrive in the lounge, he’s not there. I gaze around to the various doorways, leading to God only knows where, but he’s nowhere to be seen. All of these unfamiliar emotions are driving me insane.
Irritation, confusion . . . desire, want, lust.
I stomp across to the hallway, yank my bag from the table and head for the door.
‘Where are you going?’ His smooth tone tickles my skin and I turn to see him with a refilled glass.
‘I’m leaving. This was a stupid idea.’
He walks forward, a little surprised. ‘You made a silly mistake by taking the wrong door and that’s a cause to leave?’
‘No, you make me want to leave,’ I counter. ‘The door has nothing to do with it.’
‘I make you uncomfortable?’ he asks. I can detect a little concern in his voice.
‘Yes, you do,’ I confirm. He makes me very uncomfortable, and on so many levels, which begs the question why I’m here.
He walks forward and takes my hand, tugging gently until I allow him to pull me back into the lounge. ‘Sit,’ he orders, pushing me down onto the couch. He takes my bag and phone and places them neatly on the table before squatting in front of me. He has me with those eyes again. ‘I apologise for making you feel uncomfortable.’
‘Okay,’ I whisper, my eyes dropping to his parted lips.
‘I’m going to make you feel less uncomfortable.’
I nod because I’m too rapt by the slow motions of his lips as he speaks, but my vision is broken when he rises and puts his glass on the table, tweaking it slightly before collecting his jacket and leaving the room. I follow his back, frowning, and hear a door open and close. What’s he doing? My puzzled face flicks around the room, admiring the art briefly and thinking his apartment is too neat and perfect to actually live in, before I’m back to wondering again. Then I hear the door open and close, and I nearly choke on my own tongue when he strolls back into the room, wearing a pair of black, loose sports shorts – nothing else, just some shorts. Yes, his suit-adorned perfection is a little intimidating, but bloody hell, this won’t help. Now I just feel even more inadequate and even more lustful, my hands mentally exploring the sharpness of his chest and stomach, my lips meeting the tanned smoothness of his defined shoulders, and my arms snaking around his tight waist.