What he wanted to do with her was anything but good. He wanted wicked and reckless. All. Night. Long.
At her doorway, she turned to face him again, a dreamy smile on her lips.
“Is there anything else you need?” Careful politeness was his only weapon against his own desire.
“You,” she whispered just as her eyelids began to close.
You.
She couldn’t possibly have said that.
Or meant it.
Pushing his self-control further past the limit than he’d ever gone, he stepped closer to her, but only to reach for her doorknob. “I’ve got an early meeting, but I’ll pick you up at ten thirty tomorrow. Why don’t you go to bed now?”
“Okay.” She fluttered her fingers at him over her shoulder. “Good night, Cal.”
“Good night, Lyssa.” He closed the door and leaned against it, still hearing her voice.
You.
If she’d been any another beautiful woman, he could have dealt with his desire, either by getting it out of his system or by ignoring it. But Lyssa was impossible to ignore. He didn’t think he’d ever get her out of his system.
She was intelligent, funny, dedicated, caring. All he’d ever asked for in a woman.
She was also Lyssa Spencer, the Mavericks’ younger sister.
She worked for him.
And he was too old for her.
Off.
Limits.
Forever.
Chapter Four
Lyssa woke refreshed from last night’s adventure. Her body still remembered just how good it felt to be in Cal’s arms. So good.
Something else played in the back of her mind. A conversation they’d had before she’d crawled into bed. But she figured it couldn’t be all that important if she couldn’t remember it.
She glanced at the clock. Nine thirty in the morning. She’d slept for twelve hours. But she remembered every one of her very sexy dreams about Cal.
She had no illusions that he would fall madly in love with her. He was her boss. He was years older. And he was also her brothers’ friend, which made him as off-limits as they came. But, she thought with a smile, that didn’t mean her subconscious couldn’t have some fun dreaming about him.
She bounded out of bed when the phone rang on the bedside table. When she picked up, a man from the front desk told her, “Your breakfast has arrived.”
Realizing Cal must have ordered for her, she threw on a robe and opened her door. The waiter rolled in a trolley, and she tipped him as he left.
Her mouth watered as she uncovered poached eggs and toast, coffee, and juice. The toast was English style, stacked upright in a rack. The coffee was hot and the egg yolks perfect for dipping her toast into.
She’d been too tired last night to put away her clothes, so between bites of toast and egg, she cleaned up the room. After drinking a second cup of coffee and munching on another piece of toast slathered in jelly, she got into the shower. By ten twenty-five, she was heading down to the lobby to meet Cal.
As always, the sight of him sent a jolt through her, especially when she remembered his arms around her and the feel of his body as they danced. She wouldn’t allow herself to get all dreamy about it, however.
Only a fool would dream of romance with her off-limits-in-every-way boss.
They sped across London in a taxi, neither of them speaking much—apart from her thanking him for sending up breakfast—as they reviewed their presentation one last time.
They pulled up in front of a townhouse on a street that looked like something out of a Jane Austen novel—a pale sandstone façade with a wrought-iron railing and wide front steps flanked by red, white, and pink geraniums that were still blooming despite the October chill.
Cal pressed the bell, a gong reverberating inside the house. The door was opened by a stiff-necked butler, his jowls fleshy, his eyes rheumy, and his bearing haughty.
“Miss Spencer, Mr. Danniger. Mr. Harrington is expecting you.” His low baritone was soft with solemnity as he opened the door and signaled them to enter.
The foyer was as big as a hotel lobby, the marble floor intricately laid with a mosaic of prancing peacocks. A grand staircase led to a landing adorned by a huge painting of an eighteenth-century noblewoman fluttering a fan of peacock feathers.
“Mr. Harrington will see you in the parlor,” the butler said as he led them through double doors to the right. “Please take a seat while I bring refreshments. As Americans, I assume you prefer coffee.”
“Either coffee or tea would be fine, thank you,” Cal replied as the man backed out, closing the doors behind him.
The parlor was magnificent, with old-fashioned chintz furniture that, while pretty, looked as unyielding as a park bench. The carpet was a plush Aubusson that Lyssa recognized because Will had imported several similar rugs from France. A chef could have roasted an entire cow in the fireplace, while the mantel was marble, and the lion-shaped andirons looked like bronze. All around were delicate figurines on tables, some with skirts that looked as if the lace had been dipped in porcelain. Lyssa was afraid to sit or even move in case she broke something.
When the doors opened, she expected the butler returning with their coffee, but the man entering was much taller and much younger, his short hair very dark, his eyes very blue, his features aristocratic.
Dane Harrington looked as though he could have stepped out of a Jane Austen novel too, apart from the fact that he was wearing jeans and a sweater.
The two men shook hands first. “It’s great to meet you, Cal.” Then Dane turned to her. “And you must be Lyssa Spencer. I appreciate both of you flying to meet me here, as we’re two weeks away from opening my latest resort at Dunston Castle, just outside London, and I couldn’t have gotten away until the launch was over.” He waved a hand at the sofa and chairs. “Please have a seat.”
Cal chose the nearest chair, while Lyssa looked nervously at the various antique options, terrified the delicate sofa would crack beneath her. Once Dane Harrington sprawled his long body in that creaky chair and it didn’t even strain, Lyssa finally relaxed.
The butler entered with a coffeepot, cups and saucers, and a plate of English tarts.
Dane smiled at the man. “Thank you, Fernsby.”
Fernsby set the tray on the delicately painted coffee table, pouring the coffee, then pointing to the plate of treats. “Butter tarts and Bakewell tarts. Both delicacies here in England.”
Dane laughed. “According to Fernsby, no one bakes as well as the British.”
Fernsby gazed down his nose at his employer. “There is a reason we have The Great British Bake Off, sir.” Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the room.
Dane was still laughing as he said, “Don’t let him know I said this, but I think he’s right.” He lowered his voice as if he were confiding a secret. “Bakewell tarts are the best.”
“Your house is amazing too,” Lyssa said. She’d pored over brochures and magazine shots of his resorts when she was researching, but this place, with its period furniture—not to mention a butler right out of the Victorian era—was a far cry from his contemporary resorts.
“When I first saw it after buying it with all the furnishings, I originally intended to redecorate.” He smiled. “But it’s growing on me. It feels like a stepping stone back in time.”