Jesus Christ. When he started on the other foot, I resolutely didn't make a sound as he worked his way up. This time, he was far more businesslike as he worked up my thighs. And then he stood abruptly. "All right, your legs are all set. Let me do your arms." One by one he worked that, and then he smiled. "See? No problem."

  "Um, my back please."

  He frowned. "Y-your b-back?"

  "Yeah. The blouse has dips in the back."

  "Right. Of course, the arsehole would like something that shows off your skin."

  "It's fine. Let's just get it done."

  I held the towel to me, and he frowned. "I can't get to your back, Tabs."

  Ugh, Jesus Christ. I stood and managed the work the towel so it covered my front and left my back exposed. He worked in the muscles, his hands large enough to bracket my whole back. When he worked his thumbs up the center of my spine, his fingertips brushed along the sides and my breasts tingled in anticipation, waiting for him to touch, even torture them.

  He didn't though. When he had my whole back done, he frowned. "Um, please God, tell me you do not need your front. That wouldn't be a good idea."

  "No. I'll figure that part out. But can you help me get my bra clasped?"

  He sighed. "Right yeah, bra. Uh, I have to warn you, I have much more experience taking them off than putting them on."

  "Yeah, I figured,” I said with a caustic chuckle.

  With much shifting and shuffling around with the towel, I managed to get the bra sort of in position and he snapped it in place. I dropped the towel, leaving me in what was essentially a bikini.

  "Thanks, I can do it from here."

  He just shoved my hands away, took the bottle of lotion, smeared it on his hands, and proceeded to smooth the lotion all over my stomach.

  All I wanted was his hands to go up and over and mold his palms to my breasts. My nipples tingled. Heat pooled in my core as my pussy pulsed, needing him, wanting him to touch me.

  His fingertips kept working right to the edge of my knickers. I held my breath as our gazes locked in the mirror. His eyes were hooded, his lips parted, his fingers working into my skin. And finally, he stopped abruptly, and I felt it as he shifted closer, the thick length of his erection pulsing at my lower back.

  There was no mistaking it. His gaze met mine and we were locked in that dance. His hands on my stomach, twisting the muscles there, working over my freckles, my belly button, my lower abdomen, closer to my knickers. My breath was coming in shallow pants, and all I wanted was for his fingers to slide into my knickers and relieve some of that ache for fuck's sake. But they never did. And when he smoothed his hands back up my belly, just to the underside of my breasts, I thought he would ease that sweet ache, but again, he didn't. Instead, he cleared his throat and backed away.

  “Yeah, let's get you dressed now."

  I didn’t know how much more of this Gabriel torture I could handle.

  The skirt was simple. The blouse took more effort. My arms slid in easily, and he adjusted the fabric so it sat on my shoulders just right and then did the front buttons. Each tiny one. As he worked, he said nothing. When I was dressed, he brought my shoes over and steadied me as my feet slipped inside.

  He cocked his head. "Do you need help with the makeup?"

  I shook my head. "Um, I might just go natural today." My voice was husky. Low. Desperate. Needy. Fuck, what was wrong with me?

  He cleared his throat and stood back, the tension crackling between us like we were encased in our own cocoon.

  Fucking hell.

  His gaze zipped to my lips as he stared at me. "Yeah, um, grab your stuff and something to eat, and come over to my side so I can brief you."

  When he backed away, every nerve and cell in my body wanted to reach for him, bring him closer, beg him to touch the places he hadn't touched. I wanted to cry. I wanted to moan. I wanted to throw myself in his arms, but I didn't.

  Instead, I muttered, "Yeah, I'll be right there."

  Gabe Webb was the real danger in this scenario. And I didn't know how I was going to survive the day knowing that he was watching me. Knowing where his hands had been. Knowing where I'd wanted them to be.

  24

  Tabatha

  My hands still stung, and I deliberately kept on my gloves. They went with the outfit, so that was helpful.

  "Thank you for bringing me to see the private collection. That was stunning. I've never seen anything like it in my life."

  He laughed. "Well, Justin Wells is a friend. My family has known his since long before we were at Eton."

  I didn't miss the old money references and the subtle way of telling me that his family was one of those kinds of families. Like he had the kind of connections that someone like me didn't have but would truly benefit from.

  "No, I mean, some of those pieces were gorgeous. I really appreciate it." I did my best to bat my lashes, but I wasn't really that lashes kind of girl.

  The drizzle began, and I could almost feel my hair puffing up. He frowned and opened his umbrella so we could stand beneath it. "I suspect you're getting wet now?"

  "I don't think it's real rain. I think it's that nonsense pseudo-drizzle which is only meant to annoy."

  "Yes, but I know how women are about their hair, right?"

  I bit my tongue, but Tabatha Smith couldn't say shit. Tabatha Bracknell would cock her head and also not say anything, because Tabatha Bracknell was trying to get this dufus of a man to expose himself. I asked, "Would you like to get something to eat?"

  "Yeah, let's do that. I know a delightful restaurant not a far walk from here if you don't mind. Or we can call the driver,” he added.

  "No, the open air would be nice. We can walk."

  "The chef and I are old friends. He'll even sit us in the kitchen and everything. You'll get a cooking lesson."

  I tried very hard not to roll my eyes. But this was the gig. I was supposed to feel besotted, like I was falling in love with him.

  As we walked, he talked more about art and name-dropped famous British celebrities. And it wasn't that I didn't care that he knew Freddie Highmore. Freddie Highmore was a very talented actor. It was more that this was really what he was attempting as a form of dating.

  What do you know about dating? It's been ages since you've been on one.

  He continued, "Oh, I meant to ask. I know you're still hesitant to date me, but I feel like we're out of that client sphere now, especially since I've taken you to a private art collection."

  "You’re still my client until the results come back."

  He frowned. "Well then, how about this? In the interest of our partnership, and you, uh, working for me, I would like to have a business discussion over music."

  I frowned. "A business discussion over music?"

  "Yes, we will have a meeting."

  "Okay," I said with a startled laugh. "Where are we having this meeting?"

  "At the opera."

  My brows lifted. "Oh, yeah?"

  "It's one of my favorite operas. Carmen at the English National Opera. I'd like you to accompany me."

  "Wow, that's extremely generous, but—"

  He shook his head. "I insist."

  "Do you even care if I like opera?"

  His brows lifted. "Don't you?"

  "I've been once or twice, but you should probably ask,” I chided.

  His return smile was teasing but made my stomach turn. "Well, if you ask first, you leave room for someone to say no. And I was taught in business that you never, ever do that."

  I acquiesced because I was supposed to, not because I wanted to. "Well, okay then, the opera. Sure, why not?"

  I didn't want to go to the opera, but Tabatha Bracknell needed to. I needed to advance this to get closer to him. We still hadn't gotten what we needed from him. We'd gotten some details from the bugs, but not enough. Nothing really impactful. There had to be somewhere else where we could get information.

  "I wish my mother was in town. She loves the opera, and she would have loved to meet you. She's always been on me about finding the right kind of woman. She will love you."

  "Oh, I don't know about that. After meeting your father, maybe I’ll pass."

  "Don't worry. My mother is progressive."

  I blinked at him slowly. "Progressive?"

  Not realizing that he'd stepped in it, he kept on talking. "Oh yeah, she's not small-minded at all. You know, she once did Peace Corps work in Africa. She’ll be thrilled at the prospect of brown grandchildren."

  My gut turned. "Oh, Peace Corps work. That’s great."

  Don't even get me started on the Peace Corps. While there was good work to be done, the methodology of carrying out that work was often problematic. But okay.

  "She's very open-minded."

  I knew he was saying, ‘She might not care so much that you're black.’ Unlike his father.

  "Well, that's lovely."

  "And you love art. She'll be enamored by you. I can see her now saying, 'My darling, what an unusual shade of hair.' You two will be fast friends."

  "Oh, I'm glad you think so. Is she not in town? When do I get to meet her?"

  "No, she's in the States for a bit. And then she'll likely be off to the summer house in Runnymede.”

  Bingo. "Oh, you have a summer house?"

  He laughed. "Yes. Not that she's there often, but it's her favorite residence. She spends some time there, and then some time in Paris, and of course, Saint-Tropez. It's sort of our summer round up."

  "Wow, will you be joining her?"

  "Some when I'm not working. Mum and I are very close. But if you join us, it will be even better."

  "That's great."

  He stepped back, taking me in. "Now that I think about it, if we’re going to the opera, you will need something appropriate to wear."

  "I'm sure I have a dress somewhere."

  "No, not just a dress, love. It needs to be appropriate. Come on, I'll take you shopping. We'll hold off on eating for right now."

  My eyes went wide. "I honestly don't need you to take me shopping."

  "Please, I insist. I want to spoil you."

  "And I keep telling you I don't need to be spoiled. I’m also telling you I’m sure I have something adequate."

  "That's what I love about you. You won't let me lavish you with gifts. You're a real person and not a gold digger. Which mother will also appreciate. And while you have something appropriate, I’m sure, you need something befitting being on my arm."

  "Wow, gold digger. That word’s not misogynistic at all."

  He winced. "I'm sorry. I know there's a lot I need to unlearn. Isn't that what the kids say these days?"

  The hits just kept on coming. "Well, all that unlearning should really come from inside, don't you think? Things you want to change. Not things that someone tells you to change."

  "All I know is I want to be a better person than my father."

  "That's a good start, I guess."

  "Let me take you window shopping at least so we can look at some options. And that way we can coordinate."

  I frowned at him. "Coordinate?"

  "Yes. We'll order my vest. I'll get a tuxedo that matches your dress in some way."

  "Wow, I didn't know this was a thing that you were doing."

  "Of course, it's a thing," he said with a laugh.

  As we stood at the corner, he wrapped an arm around me, pulling me in close. "I did need to talk to you about something."

  "Okay, what is it?" I asked pulling back slightly.

  "The other night, with my father…"

  I winced. "Yes, well, that did not quite go the way I thought it would."

  "Me neither. And I know I have apologized for him and the situation he put you in, and well, for him being a twat."

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "It's done. We don't have to talk about him."

  "No, but what I do want to talk to you about is the fact I'd meant to have that proper date."

  I shifted on my feet. "We talked about this. It's not really something I can do. I love my job. I don't want to lose it for any inappropriate relationships."

  "I understand. But I was thinking, I can't ask a woman to risk it all for me if she doesn't know what she's risking it for."

  I laughed. "What does that even mean?"

  "Well, I planned on kissing you that night and watching our chemistry explode."

  I froze. "Oh. I see." Because what was I supposed to say? 'Please don't put your lips on me. I have a tendency to stab things that I don't like?'

  He pulled me closer, and I forced myself to take deep even breaths. It was only a kiss. I could fake it. Hadn't I faked it before? How many bad dates had I kissed? He placed his lips over mine, and I held myself still. Zero magic. Zero anything. I might as well have been kissing a pillow.

  Suddenly, we were jarred. He released me from his grip, and I stumbled, teetering on my heels. Jennings was scowling at a retreating form. A familiar retreating form. Tall, broad-shouldered. He had bumped into us.

  Gabe.

  He’d heard that whole interaction. He’d found us on the street and interrupted that kiss.

  There was a part of me that was grateful, but also a part of me that wanted to throttle him. Why the fuck was he interfering with my mission? And as soon as I had a moment, I was going to let him know exactly how I felt about it. Who knew, maybe I was going to use my knives?

  Tabatha

  Boring didn’t begin to cover how this date was going. Minus the little Gabe interruption several blocks back, I was the textbook definition of bored.

  My skin was still tingling from everywhere Gabe had touched me in the flat. Even as I left the flat, memories of his hands on me were like a thrumming echo that I couldn't shake. And now as I walked through the Fox Gallery with Jennings, I was still thinking about him.

  Thinking about the way his fingers had trailed down to just above my knickers, and the way his gaze had met mine in the mirror. Thinking about the way his thumbs had traced just underneath my breast, I couldn't shake it.

  "Earth to Tabatha. What are you thinking about?"

  Jennings’s voice jolted me out of my reverie, and I forced myself to smile up at him. "Oh, just this great artist that I found. She’s fantastic. And she's royalty. Queen Penny of the Winston Isles. I found some of her early works she donated for a charity auction. And they are stunning."

  "Oh, wow. I'd heard she was an artist before she married the king. I thought all of those would be locked up in a box somewhere."

  "Most of them have been, I think. But occasionally, she releases some of her work. They're gorgeous, really. And it’s very nice of her to do so for a good cause."

  "Well, if you would be willing to arrange a viewing, I would love that."

  He tucked his hand along my lower back as he directed me along. We oohed and aahed at the canvasses on display. Most of them were too modern for my liking, but I'd been coached well on what to say, what to hold back from. What might be Tabatha Bracknell’s style.

  But what the hell did I know?

  I was teetering on the edge.

  I didn't want to be here. But I had to be. This was the gig. While Tate and I were here, my team had slipped in as house staff. Kaya, Mabel, and Isabel had all been hired on as maids. Kaya was thrilled to actually be in the field, although it was relatively low risk. They were gathering intel and data, mapping the rest of the property that was not on the schematics we had.

  "I have to say, you're distracted today."

  "I'm sorry." I patted his arm. "This is beautiful. And I'm having a good time, honestly. I'm just a little focused on work."

  He took my hand and squeezed it, and I winced slightly. I knew what he'd want tonight, and I hoped to God my team was getting what we needed because there was no way I could stomach him touching me.

  It won't get to that. At the very least, you can feign illness.

  Yes, that was an option. But if we couldn't get the information we needed, then we were up a creek. My cover would only hold for so long. He wasn't going to need me for much longer.

  Unless you want to date him for real.

  Well, not for real, but I knew that this was a possibility. Still, it made my gut twist.

  He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and directed me along. "Come on, let's get out of here. Take a walk."

  I laughed. "Walk?" I glanced down at my shoes.

  "Yes. It's a nice night. And don't worry, the crowd won't be far away."

  "All right."

  He led me along Soho streets pausing at the small boutiques along the way. He paused in front of the jewelers, asking me questions, trying to ascertain if I was taking any interest in anything.

  Finally, he led me into a shop that screamed ‘out of your price range,’ François. He used something that looked like a membership card to get in.

  Had I heard of the brand? Yes. Had I ever even looked at the brand? No. Because, essentially, this brand of dress was for the uber-wealthy, duchesses, princesses, and queens like Beyoncé. But here I was, following along with him because he was a member. "Look at anything you like."

  He frowned as his phone rang in his pocket. "Excuse me, I'll be right back."

  I ambled along, careful not to touch anything, attempting to look every bit the poised plaything of a billionaire I was supposed to be. Since I was a guest of Jennings Tate, no one followed me, made me uncomfortable, or made me feel like I didn't belong. That was interesting. Places like this had always shunned people who look like me.

  My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my purse.

  Gabe:

  Grab something and bring it to the fitting room.

  I frowned. How the hell had he gotten in the fitting room?

  It's better if you don't question these things.

  I grabbed several dresses. Something that would take a reasonable amount of time to try on, and I was led into the back. Well lit, with each of the doors locked, and there was no one else in the store. "Take your time. Let me know if there are any undergarments you'd like me to bring to you as you're trying on the gowns. Is there anything in particular you're looking to wear for Mr. Tate?"