Page 57 of Redeem Me

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t need any more Lego.’

My heart melts.

‘How about we wash Patches in the sink together?’ I’ll get laundry detergent on that thing one way or another.

Owen’s head snaps up. ‘If I say yes, then can we go to the Lego Store?’

Orla rolls her eyes. ‘But it’ll take ages for him to dry and everything will be closed before we get there,’ she complains.

‘We’ll dry him with a hairdryer. That can be your job, Orla. We can pretend it’s a salon.’

Orla perks up. Playing salon is one of her favourite games. It usually involves her dragging a brush through my hair hard enough to rip it from the roots, but it keeps her happy.

‘Fine, you have a deal.’ Owen sticks his hand out to shake on it. Oh yes, he’s a mini-Caelon alright.

‘While Orla is drying him, I’ll stitch his eye on.’

My phone buzzes again.

Caelon: You have a habit of getting your way with Beckett boys. Impressive.

Stop spying on me.

Caelon: It’s my favourite pastime.

Get some work done so you can come home.

Caelon: And there was me thinking I was your boss, but I like your thinking. Call you later.X

That single kiss sets a fresh bout of butterflies swooping through my stomach. Fuck’s sake, I’m like a schoolgirl with a crush.

I wink at the camera. When another text doesn’t immediately ping in, I gather Caelon’s getting on with his day. And I need to get on with mine. Easier said than done when every time I move a muscle, it feels like I’ve run a marathon.

I know I promised no one would touch me but him, but with yesterday on repeat on my brain, it will be easier said than done.

Besides, I quite like the idea of seeing how he’ll punish me.

How much could it really hurt?

Chapter Twenty-Six

CAELON

‘I don’t give a flying fuck who you need to bribe or blackmail. Just get that fucking planning approved.’ I bang the phone down, glancing around my office in Beckett’s Monaco Bliss Boutique Hotel. It’s anything but bliss for me. However tortured I was before, I’m a million times worse now. Knowing Ivy is in my house, wandering around in yet another low-cut sundress, while I’m stuck here under an avalanche of administration, is driving my dick demented.

I’ve already been here two nights and there isn’t a hope of hell I can get back for at least another two. I have meetings lined up with investors tomorrow, a new team of architects the following day, and a charity event, brushing shoulders with Monaco’s elite, that evening. Networking, James calls it. I call it a waste of my fucking time. The organisers should save everyone an evening of ass-kissing and let me get home.

Stephanie, my PA, sticks her head around the door with a grim look. Whatever she’s about to say, I already don’t like it. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Beckett, but there’s an article I think you’ll want to read. I forwarded it to you, but when I saw you hadn’t opened it, I thought I’d better pop in.’

It must be urgent because Stephanie never ”pops in”. No one does.

‘Thanks, Stephanie.’ I wave her out the door. She’s been with me for two years, and travels everywhere with me, but I know no more about her than when I hired her – other than that she’s efficient, discreet and reliable.

I find the email and click on the attachment with a clenched jaw. Probably another damn hoop to jump over with some bullshit architect with a stick up his ass, pointing out some obscure planning regulation. Honestly, I have to deal with so many anal quibbles. My hotels bring so much trade to the area, to the surrounding restaurants, and a hundred other tourist-dependent businesses, yet it seems I’m constantly faced with red tape.

But it’s not more red tape. It’s a giant red flag.

The article is from Tattler’s Tale, Dublin’s trashiest blog and includes a photo of Ivy and me on the pier two days ago, lip locked in the most sensual kiss of my life. My hands are on her hips, holding her tight and her fingers gripping my neck like she’s afraid I’m going to pull back. The headline reads, ‘Money Can’t Buy Privacy: Caelon Beckett caught kissing on camera with mystery woman.’

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