Wild Child by Christy McKellen

Author:Christy McKellen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2018-07-30T12:44:49+00:00

Benedict

‘We shouldn’t do this here—not right under your father’s nose,’ I say, drawing away from her even though the whole of my being screams at me to keep kissing her and be damned.

But I can’t do that. I mustn’t. It’s too damn dangerous.

She withdraws from me and smiles, then shrugs, but it looks awkward and stiff.

‘Okay, but you realise I’ll be out of your company and out of your life any minute anyway? Now that he’s back?’ she says. ‘After that you can pretend I don’t exist.’

‘Don’t say that.’

I’m hurt that she’d think I’d be so cold as to want to do that.

She shrugs. ‘It’s fine. I get it. I’m not the type of woman you’d be looking to settle down with. It’s not my style anyway. I like the thrill of the chase, but I get bored easily.’

There’s something in her face, though, when she says this, that makes me think it’s a line she’s reeled out to protect herself.

‘Maya—’

She flaps a hand. ‘Look, don’t worry about my father. If by some miracle he finds out about us he’ll just assume it was all my fault anyway. He knows what I’m like—he’s not exactly my biggest fan.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, disturbed by how casually she says this.

‘Oh, I don’t know... I’ve always disappointed him. He and I have never seen eye to eye,’ she says, turning away and walking over to a mirror on the wall to check her lipstick.

Her posture is stiff, and I get a strong sense that there’s more to this than she’s letting on.

But I don’t push it. I can’t allow myself to get emotionally involved with her. I already care about her more than is healthy for a short-term fling.

While she wipes away a bit of mascara that’s smudged under her eye, I try to distract myself from the concern looming at the edge of my consciousness by walking to the bookcase on the other side of the room, which has a shelf full of framed photos, lined up in a neat row.

They’re all a bit faded, so they must have been there for some time. Most of them are of Maxim with people from the social scene, but others are actors or famous politicians. It suddenly strikes me that there are no photos of his family anywhere in the room. Not even one of Maya’s mother, who famously died ten years ago in a skiing accident.

‘It’s an impressive line-up,’ I say, nodding towards the photos as she walks over to join me.

I turn to look at her and breathe in her unique, alluring scent, my skin rushing with pleasure as I inhale it deep into my lungs. It’s the smell I go to sleep with in my nostrils every night. She’s somehow permeated every part of my life.

‘Yes, my father likes to collect people like trophies,’ she says, with a cynical lift of her eyebrow.

Her comment makes my insides squirm, and I wonder for a second whether he’s doing that to me.

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