reasons. When that hadn’t worked—because we’re not the plot of a Mills and Boon novel—I’d taken his diary and systematically gone through it. I’d booked another room for him on each stopover—the smallest room possible—and happily taken the bigger one for myself. The whole thing had seemed to amuse him, which just goes to illustrate how truly contrary the man is.
“Oh?” the receptionist says, obviously confused. All the staff are aware of who Max is. He’s only gotten more famous over the years, the mystique and glamour of being a foreign correspondent having stayed with him as he switched to being an international bestselling author.
“Yes,” I say perkily, putting the card in my wallet. “He believes in keeping his staff happy.”
“That’s me,” Max says. “I’m a people pleaser, through and through.” He gives me a sultry look.
“Make sure you wrap up your people pleaser, or you might get an infection,” I say tartly.
His laugh echoes behind me as I make my way to where our bags are waiting. The staff at the Ritz is very efficient. There’s a lot to be said for travelling with Max. He doesn’t spare any expense. I remember him saying once that he’d eaten and slept in some of the worst hellholes imaginable, and he’d always sworn that when he got home safely, he would never skimp on comfort.
And everything about him is quietly luxurious, from the clothes he wears, which flatter his long body and broad shoulders, to his cottage in the Cotswolds. I think of the little house and smile. It was so snug and warm with books everywhere and deep, comfortable furniture that just begged you to sink into it.
But then, he can afford this life. I’ve been liaising with his agent over the last few days, and the figures he disclosed have made me blink. Max is undoubtedly successful. I think of my narrowboat and want to laugh because this is the sort of thing I need to focus on. The disparity in our income and lifestyles. Max shops at Ralph Lauren and eats at The Ivy. I live on a narrowboat and eat pot noodle.
I concentrate on that thought as we climb into the car and his scent of sandalwood winds around me like a cat looking for a scratch. After we split, it never got any easier to be near him in a confined space. Only then, I’d usually had a man to force between us, and now there’s just us. Him, me, and his wonderful scent and the heat his body gives out.
I sit absolutely still, and he shifts. When he moves again, it catches my attention, and I look up only to get caught in his eyes. They’re full of heat, and to my absolute horror, I feel my cock stiffen.
“Felix,” he says in a low, hoarse voice, and instantly I bend, reaching for my iPad in my bag and brandishing it as though it’s a barricade between us.
“Emails,” I say brightly.
He sighs and sits back, shaking his head. “Emails,” he echoes.
I pull up the app and scan down the list. “Ooh, how scrumptious. You’ve got another letter from your number-one fan.”
“Oh God, no,” he groans.
“And this is such a lovely one. He’s devoted ten pages to the mistakes you made in your last novel. You know, I think I’d like to meet this man.”
“I don’t think my health would stand it,” he says sourly. “You’d just give Annie Wilkes a hand with the sledgehammer.”
I laugh. “I’d certainly move the focus from your leg upwards to your groin. Give the twinks of London a respite.”
He shakes his head. “There are no boys in London. I keep telling you that.”
“I wonder why I don’t believe you?” I say lightly, keeping my eyes on the email.
“Maybe you don’t want to believe me.” The words are low, and my head shoots up.
“What do you mean?”
He settles his arm to a more comfortable position. Even wearing a sling, he looks distinguished. “Maybe you don’t want to believe that I’m not shagging anyone because that means you can’t use them to keep a gap between us.”
My eyes narrow. “And why would I need to do that?” I ask dangerously.
Caution wars with honesty in his eyes. The driver says something about the weather, and caution wins. He answers the driver with some random reply, and I return to checking the email, determined to avoid this subject for a while. Maybe until the end of my life.
I carry on reading the message from his