Page 86 of Midnight Enemy

“Well, I might not be Scrooge McDuck, but Kingi and I run quite an empire. We know a lot about finances, but we still have financial advisors, bankers, and tax advisers. Twenty or so other staff at Te Aranui, including security, secretarial, HR, that kind of thing. A hundred staff at the Midnight Club and the resort, but they don’t work directly for me—secretarial again, waiters, maintenance, cleaning, gardeners. I had an interior designer when I first moved in here who decorated it for me. I have a chauffeur sometimes.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, on longer journeys when I’m not flying, so I can work rather than have to concentrate on the road.” He smiles. “It’s not unusual in the world I come from.”

“It is in mine.”

“I can see that.” He rolls over and gets up. “Come on. We’ll ask Gina to make us some breakfast.”

My jaw drops at the thought of asking someone to make breakfast for me. I’ve never done that, and the notion feels incredibly selfish and decadent. Still, when in Rome… I shouldn’t criticize his lifestyle if I don’t want him to criticize mine. No judgement, Scarlett.

Somewhat disappointed that our snuggling time is over, I get up and tug my dress on, Orson opens a door and goes into another room, and I follow him over and stick my head in. Holy shit, it’s a walk-in wardrobe. It’s as big as my bedroom at home. Wardrobes line three walls, with the fourth once again full of windows that look out over the city.

He slides open one of the wardrobe doors, revealing shelves of T-shirts all neatly folded in every color, jeans of various shades, track pants, cargo trousers on hangers, shorts, and a rail of casual shirts, also in lots of colors. While he pulls on a pair of black track pants, I open the next wardrobe. This contains his suits. I brush a hand along them. “So many,” I say. “You’re a real clothes horse, aren’t you?”

“A bit,” he admits, coming over to join me.

“These are a slightly different cut,” I comment, realizing the rail is divided into two. On the left, the jackets that hang over the folded trousers are longer, the shoulders are lightly padded, and there’s a small pocket above the normal one. The ones on the right are slim and tailored, with no flaps over the pockets.

“British, from Savile Row,” he says, gesturing to the left. “Smarter and more formal for work.” He indicates the ones on the right. “Italian, from Milan. Evening suits, more flamboyant. I’ve got more of them at the Club.”

“Do you have them tailor made?”

“I do. My English tailor is called Alastair. My Italian one is Elio.”

“Have you met them?”

He tugs on a T-shirt. “Of course. You have to, to be measured.”

My eyebrows shoot up again. “You mean you actually go to London and Milan to get your suits.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t everyone?” He gives me an amused look.

Taken aback, I walk along the rail of shirts. Some are plain, others feature stripes, and the last dozen are fancier paisley-patterned ones. There are also two hangers, each holding about thirty ties.

I stop by the last wardrobe. “Can I look?”

“Sure.”

I open it. This contains every other piece of clothing a man could ever need—sweaters, non-suit jackets, coats, and racks of shoes—from smart leather Oxford lace ups to Converses to running shoes.

He slides his arms around me from behind, hugs me, and presses a kiss on my shoulder. “Would you like your own one of these?”

“One of what?”

“Rooms.”

I laugh. “My clothes would take up about a third ofoneof those wardrobes, if that.”

“I’d buy you clothes to fill them up.” He kisses my neck, then my ear. “Dresses and jeans and tees and blouses and sexy underwear,although you probably wouldn’t wear any of it.” Chuckling, he moves away. “Come on.” Taking my hand, he leads me out of the room, across the bedroom, and along the corridor.

My mind is spinning a little. It was a throwaway comment, but for the first time I wonder what it would be like to be married to a guy like this. To have your own wardrobe, full of pretty things. To live in a penthouse apartment, or maybe to buy a house somewhere out of the city, on the beach, with a garden that your kids could play in. To wake up every morning next to a man you wanted to make love to, and who wanted to make love to you.

“Gina!” Orson leads me across the living room toward the kitchen. A woman is putting groceries away in the cupboards, but she turns as we approach. She’s probably in her early forties, pretty, with blonde hair dyed pink at the ends, lots of black eyeliner, and a stud on the side of her nose.

“Oh,” she says, eyebrows rising as she sees us. “Good morning!”

“This is Scarlett,” Orson says. “Scarlett, this is Gina.”

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