Page 36 of Falling for Raine
And it was…confusing.
Julia had burst into tears when I’d confirmed that I knew Mr. Edwards wasn’t an ideal candidate. She’d confessed to being distracted by her personal affairs and also admitted to being charmed by him in spite of his habit of spilling coffee and tripping as he entered a room. I understood completely.
She interviewed new candidates, triple-checked CVs and referrals, and asked HR to do the same, then hired Claudine, a perfectly nice young woman in her thirties with a no-nonsenseaura. Julia’s new assistant seemed more than qualified to take over for her, which should have concluded the matter once and for all.
But I couldn’t get Raine out of my mind.
He crept into my subconscious randomly during the day. I thought I’d seen him standing on the roundabout, leaning on the statue of Charles I in front of Trafalgar Square. I did a double take and muted my conference call before rolling down the window to get a better look from the back seat. It wasn’t Raine.
I thought I’d seen him at the crosswalk at Charing Cross Station and again at Caffè Nero next to the Shard. Wishful thinking? I couldn’t say. He was gone, but he was impossible to shake.
I had flashbacks of the night we met—sipping scotch whilst talking about London and laughing about nothing in particular. I thought about him straddling my lap on the ride to the hotel—his tongue in my mouth, his hands in my hair. And yes, I thought about fucking him.
He’d starred in my fantasies for a week straight. I’d stroked myself in the shower, in bed, on the sofa with the telly tuned to some idiotic program, daydreaming of Raine’s lips wrapped around my cock or better yet, my cock in his ass. I’d resurface from a mind-blowing orgasm with cum on my stomach or on the bathroom tile, gasping for air, and more determined than ever to forget Raine.
It wasn’t working.
Last night, I’d dreamed about him. He’d been sitting atop a bar in a dark pub, taking questions from an audience of faceless men in suits with no shirts while I’d stood off to the side, alternately hanging on his every word and yelling at strangers to put on their clothes. He’d been unable to see me. And every time he’d glanced my way, he’d looked through me.
I’d woken up frustrated and annoyed, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I didn’t pine over men and I wasn’t the sort to romanticize…anything, but I wondered what he was doing, if he’d gone home or found another job here. He’d said he’d never been to the UK. I wondered if he’d done any sightseeing or if he’d thought about visiting France or Italy or?—
“Sanjay is on line one, Mr. Horsham.”
I jolted in my chair and stared at the intercom on my desk for a beat.
“Thank you, Bernadette.” I put my earbuds in and pressed the blinking button. “What did you find, Sanjay?”
“The property is called Deverley Manor, Grade I, built in 1523 on an ancient site predating the Romans. It’s on the coast, located five kilometers south of Tintagel Castle. It was purchased by General Alistair Cooperton in 1904 and is now owned by the Montgomery Trust, a private holding under the umbrella of Mint and Cooperton Financial.”
“Private, as in ‘not on the books’?” I inquired.
“Correct. Montgomery Trust was named with zero value, but the property would have come up eventually. It’s worth eleven million pounds,” Sanjay said. “Upkeep is substantial and has largely been ignored. It doesn’t appear to generate any revenue to offset maintenance costs. In short, it’s a money pit, which perhaps is why they failed to report it. It’s not so bad, though. It could be donated to English Heritage for a substantial tax break. As far as unexpected curve balls go, this is a jolly good one.”
I stood and gazed at the gray winding river below with hands clasped behind my back. “I don’t think so. Blower wants to preserve it for the trust.”
“He wants to keep an eleven-million-pound asset? Is he mad?”
“No, he’s stalling. He wants us to spin our wheels looking for buried treasure while he hustles a more lucrative deal with Lloyd’s.”
“They can’t offer more than us,” Sanjay assured me. “What could he possibly gain by prolonging the merger…besides bad press?”
I inhaled deeply as I stepped away from the window. “I think that’s exactly what he wants. Bad press for us, that is.”
“Hmph. I’ve run the numbers, and they’re solid on our end. Unless he’s hiding gold in Padstow,” he half joked. “Shall I forward my findings to Julia? Perhaps her team can dig a bit deeper in Cornwall and?—”
“No,” I intercepted. “She has enough on her plate. I’ll handle it. Thank you.”
We turned to other business, like new opportunities in Melbourne and Dallas. Sanjay tapped numbers onto a shared virtual spreadsheet while I grunted or hummed as proof I was paying attention. I wasn’t.
My mind whirled in a spiral of anxious thoughts. I hated feeling like I was one step behind when I was supposed to have the upper hand. This wasn’t about money anymore. This was Blower preparing one last parting shot. Something personal and damaging…meant just for me.
I answered a few emails after I ended the call. And a text from Julia.
We heard from The Times again. They still want to do a write-up for the M and C merger and would like to make an appointment for an interview. They’re set to meet with Lloyd’s next week. Shall I schedule something for you?
I huffed irritably.No. We’ll get back to them.
Yes, sir. Is there anything else you need before lunch?