Page 18 of Baby Proposal
“No. It’s not a problem, Mr Cavendish.” A bit of formality. Distance, that’s what I need.
“Go out now and buy yourself a new dress and anything else you want. A driver is waiting.” He straightens and I catch his brows furrowing as he tosses a card onto my desk, then turns on his heel and stalks to the open entrance to his office. “Be ready at five.Mrs Cavendish.”
Is that a taunt? I pull it towards me and examine the face. It’s a platinum credit card. And the name?
Mrs Adrianne Cavendish.
That’sme.
* * *
Rhys’ blue eyes light up when he catches sight of me as I walk into the private ballroom of a hotel so swanky I don’t even know its name, but all the staff know mine. It’s intimidating and I feel like a girl playing dress-up as I approach the group of older men—all outstandingly handsome but Rhys with his dark hair and height is instantly recognisable to my eyes, like my body knows him. Dressed in a black dinner jacket, he’s gorgeous like saw-him-in-a-movie stunning. That jawline. Ooof. I’m not a girl in a dress, I’m a bag of hormones corralled into silk screaming for that testosterone-filled man.
He steps away from the knot of a dozen or so well-dressed people he’s talking with, and takes in my deep emerald-green dress approvingly.
I chose it with a lot of encouragement from the personal shopper who met me at the door of the exclusive Oxford Street store. The four bodyguards who followed me around added to the sense of unreality. I wouldn’t usually pick something so showy, but she insisted it made my eyes appear even greener, that she had strict instructions to style me to the highest level, and that I looked great.
“You look beautiful,” he whispers into my ear as he pulls me in for a soft kiss on the cheek. “This was a perfect choice, my good girl.”
I melt.
How does this man not use praise at the office? He could save on staffing bills because all the women would work for free if he just said they were a good girl. They would until I stopped it. Because I’m so jealous. I’d elbow anyone that he calledhisgood girl out the window. I want to be his only one.
He smells like warmth and man and fresh air, and I breathe him in as he holds me for a second longer than a casual greeting.
Then he doesn’t let me go as he whispers, “Ready?”
I nod, even though I don’t think I am. Rhys keeps hold of me as we approach the group, who all look up. They’re mainly couples, and I notice that their age gaps are pretty hefty, similar to mine and Rhys’. The women are all dressed up and regarding me with friendly interest. The men are scowling at each other and you can tell they’re on their best behaviour, but all are armed for warfare. Like they’ve got more serious concerns than mathematics. Their gazes slide right over me to Rhys, like they recognise he’s a lion who might attack if he thinks they’re interested in his lioness.
There’s a pause in the talk.
“This is my wife. Adrianne Cavendish.”
My tummy does a rolling flutter, but violent. The possessive way Rhys says his wife makes me a butterfly caught in a hairdryer.
“Adi, these are the LondonMathsSyndicate.”
A couple of mouths twitch, and one man looks away and coughs.
Hmmm.Maths. Sure. Even I recognise some of these men from the gossip magazines. The mafia boss of Westminster is notorious, seen in all the right places being charitable and exerting influence.
“I’m pleased to meet you all.” I pretend not to notice they’re all pretending for the sake of my husband. It’s rude to point it out, and the last thing I want is for anyone to call me on my faking with Rhys. “Can’t wait to hear about your mathematical studies.”
A blonde woman hides her smile as she steps forward and shakes my hand. “I’m Jessa Lambeth. Let’s leave these growly bears to theircalculationsuntil dinner.”
“Sure.” I go to move towards her, and I swear that Rhys’ fingers tighten on my waist before he releases me.
7
RHYS
Three weeks since I married my secretary, I don’t care that I’m a cliche, because I think there’s progress. Adi is getting increasingly impatient with the rhythm we’ve settled into. Breakfast together. Working together. Lunch and stolen kisses in the office. Then the best bit of the day: taking my wife home, laying her down, and using my mouth and fingers to make her come.
Every day is made up of seventy to eighty hours, I swear. That’s how long it feels, even if I drag Adi out of the office at three.
Today, I can’t leave early. There’s a meeting of my senior team presenting ideas for increasing profitability. I called this meeting, and even chose the time so I could ask Adi to take notes and let it drag on a bit so I’d have a reason for her to stay late with me. Now she’s sitting across the desk as she always does, tablet in hand, typing up notes and looking like temptation in a neat black shift dress that hugs her curves. Her toffee and cream hair is piled up on her head. I’ve never seen it down. Bloody stupid. I’ve kissed her, I’ve made her come, but I haven’t got the guts to confess how much I want to see all that satin flowing over her shoulders or wrapped around my fist.
I try to concentrate on the meeting, and making it end sooner. I should have insisted we reschedule, despite Adi’s protest that everyone had now rearranged their schedule to suit me, and it was being a bosshole to alter it at the last minute.
