Claiming His Hidden Heir. Carol Marinelli

relax.

      As she closed the front door to her flat, Cecelia decided that despite Luka’s absence she would still be giving in her notice today. It would be far easier to do it over the phone or online.

      ‘You’re looking very summery,’ Mrs Dawson, her very nosy neighbour, said as she passed her in the hall. ‘Off to work?’

      ‘I am.’

      The pale lemon bolero didn’t even make it past the escalators to the underground. It was hot and oppressive and as she stood, holding a rail, she saw that Luka’s weekend escapades had made headlines on the newspaper a commuter held.

      She looked at the photo beneath the headline. It was of Luka on the deck of his yacht moving in on a sophisticated, dark-skinned beauty. His naked chest and thick black hair were dripping water over the woman and though their bodies did not touch it was an incredibly intimate shot.

      Cecelia tore her eyes from the picture and stared fixedly ahead but that image of him seemed to dance on the blacked-out windows of the Tube.

      Having left the underground, Cecelia walked towards the prominent high-rise building that housed Kargas Holdings. She smiled at the doorman and then entered the foyer and took the elevator. She had a special pass that allowed her to access the fortieth floor, which was Luka’s in its entirety.

      There weren’t just offices and meeting rooms, there was also a gym and pool, though Cecelia couldn’t recall him using them—they were more a perk for the staff.

      And there was a suite that was every bit as luxurious and as serviced as any five-star hotel. When in London, Luka often slept there when he chose to work through the night or had a particularly early morning flight.

      Yes, it was his world that she entered, but knowing that he wasn’t there meant Cecelia breathed more easily today.

      It was just before eight and it would seem that she had beaten Bridgette, the receptionist, to work. There were a couple of cleaners polishing windows and vacuuming and the florists had arrived, as they did each morning to tend the floral displays.

      Cecelia made a coffee from the espresso machine before heading to her desk that was housed in a large area outside Luka’s vast office.

      The gatekeeper, Luka called her at times, though she felt rather more like a security guard at others.

      As well as greeting his clients and guests, Cecelia was the final hurdle for his scorned lovers to negotiate if they somehow made it past the security in place downstairs.

      Occasionally it happened, though generally Cecelia fielded them by phone.

      And there it was again, springing to mind—the sudden image of him, wet from the ocean and dripping water, and Cecelia shook her head as if to clear it.

      She hung her little cardigan on a stand and was just about to take a seat when his voice caught her completely unawares.

      ‘Is that coffee for me, Cece?’

      Cecelia swung around and there, strolling out of his office, was Luka. Apart from being unshaven there was little evidence of his wild weekend on display. He wore black pants and a white fitted shirt that showed off his toned body and his thick black hair, which, though perhaps a little tousled, still fell into perfect shape.

      And he was not supposed to be here.

      ‘I thought you weren’t coming in today,’ Cecelia said.

      ‘Why would you think that?’

      ‘Because you texted me in the middle of the night and told me you weren’t.’

      ‘So I did.’

      He looked at the usually poised and formal Cece caught unawares. To many it might seem no big deal—she was simply holding a coffee and wearing a summer dress. Usually she was buttoned to the neck in navy or black, but it wasn’t just her clothing that was different today.

      ‘Thanks,’ he said, and took from her hand the coffee she had made.

      ‘It’s got sugar in it,’ she warned as she took a seat at her desk, ‘and, please, it’s Cecelia, not Cece.’

      ‘Habit,’ he said.

      ‘Well, it’s a very annoying one.’

      Good, Luka thought.

      Her cool demeanour incensed him.

      His choice of name for her was deliberate, for he loved to provoke a reaction, even if it was only mild.

      ‘How was your weekend?’ she asked politely, pretending of course that she had heard nothing whatsoever about it.

      ‘Much the same as the last,’ he answered, and then came over behind Cecelia’s desk and, to her intense annoyance, he lowered himself so that his bottom was beside her computer. ‘Do you ever get bored?’ he asked.

      ‘Not really,’ Cecelia lied, for she had realised she had been bored with Gordon.

      He had also worked in the City and they had fallen into a pattern of meeting for drinks on Wednesday, allowing time to catch up with friends on a Friday. It had generally just been the two of them on a Saturday, followed by a vague hint of an orgasm that night and generally a boring drive on Sunday with a pub lunch somewhere.

      And then perhaps another anti-climactic tryst that night.

      It hadn’t been Gordon’s fault.

      Cecelia held back in sex just as she held back in life.

      In fact, the fault lay with the man now lounging against her desk, for he had opened her eyes to sensations that should surely remain unexplored.

      Oh, she should never have taken the job, Cecelia thought as Luka persisted with a conversation she would rather draw to a close.

      ‘But don’t you ever get tired of doing the same old thing?’ he asked.

      ‘I like the same old things,’ Cecelia answered.

      He glanced at her neat, ordered desk and knew that the inside of her drawers would look exactly the same.

      And then, just to annoy her, just to provoke some reaction, he picked up her little pottery jar that held her pens and things and moved it to the other side of her desk. ‘Live a little.’

      ‘No, thank you.’ She smiled grimly and moved the jar back where it belonged. As she did so he got the scent of freshly washed hair.

      That was it.

      Cecelia didn’t wear perfume; there were no undertones that he could note, and not just in her scent.

      She was impossible to read, unlike any woman Luka had ever met. He had long ago given up flirting with her—the disapproval in her eyes kind of ruined the fun.

      And as reckless as he was, Luka only ever played with the willing.

      ‘You look nice,’ he told her, and he felt the scold of her slight frown for daring to comment on something personal. Cecelia kept things very strictly business, yet she responded politely.

      ‘Thank you.’

      But Luka did not leave it there. ‘You’re wearing a dress.’

      ‘That’s very observant of you, Luka.’

      ‘I’m just mentioning it because you don’t usually.’

      ‘Well, it’s been a long, warm weekend. I couldn’t face wearing a suit.’

      ‘No, but—’

      ‘Luka,’ Cecelia interrupted him, ‘if you have an issue with me dressing more casually than normal, then please just say so and it won’t happen again.’

      ‘I have no issue with you wearing a dress.’

      ‘Then there’s nothing to discuss.’

      ‘Are you sure about that?’ Luka