Gold Digger

Lottie

“Cheese and crackers!” I shouted, leaping at least two feet in the air and dropping the Mr Muscle bathroom cleaner and the wet cloth I’d been carrying. Because there, right in front of me, having just emerged from his bathroom and wearing only a towel, was the man I’d been trying to avoid for the last month. The brief flash of his broad, muscular torso I’d had in the bathroom of his club had reigned supreme in all my fevered dreams and fantasies for weeks, but this – this visual with water droplets running into the grooves of his abs and his towels hanging low on his hips – I knew would escalate things significantly. I’d be lucky if I remembered my own name after this, let alone run my vastly complicated life whilst caring for a child. I swallowed and forced my gaze up to his face.

“Get a good enough look?” the duke asked. His smirk was so outrageously sexy that if smoldering looks had the power to melt women, I would be a pool of goo at his feet. As it was, my face felt like it was on fire. Shock rendered me completely immobile. I just continued to stand there staring at him.

“You alive in there?” he teased as he took a step towards me. “Had a stroke or something?”

He was so close now that I could smell him: fresh man mixed with crisp shower gel. I’d only have to lift my hand up a few inches, and I’d be touching him. The thought of touching his bare chest, of being allowed to do that, gave me a headrush so strong I felt like I was going to pass out. So I jerked away and took a couple of rapid steps back. My heart felt like it was beating outside of my chest.

“Sugar, sugar, sugar,” I repeated rapid fire as I used my hand to cover my eyes. “I’m sorry! I thought you were in Paris. Why aren’t you in Paris?” I was desperate to continue backing away but then remembered I’d dropped all the cleaning products, complete with a damp cloth, on his carpet, so with my eyes still covered, I crouched down, feeling blindly on the floor for my stuff. I froze when a large hand caught mine. Then I separated the fingers of my other hand just enough to peer through them at a smiling duke crouched in front of me, his towel very much in danger of revealing more than it covered. I squeaked and snapped my fingers back into place as he chuckled. The Mr Muscle and the cloth were both put into my extended hand and I straightened up like a shot.

“I’m sorry I’m not in Paris, Lottie,” the duke said. Oh, my giddy aunt, the man was apologising to his cleaner for being in his own bedroom, in his own house. My mind flashed to the open textbook I’d left in the snug and I winced, praying he hadn’t seen the evidence of my skiving.

“No, no. It’s fine,” I waved the Mr Muscle in front of me as I backed away. “You can be here… or in Paris. I-I-I?—”

“Lottie!” he said sharply, but it was too late; my feet hit something soft behind me, and I went flying backwards. But before I could hit the floor, a strong hand was at my back, whilst another cradled my head, and I was suspended in midair. I could feel the heat of his body inches from mine, feel the large hand across the entire of my back and in my hair. I still had my fingers over my eyes.

“You must be the clumsiest human being I’ve ever met in my life,” his low voice was shaking with humour, and I could feel his breath on my cheek. He was so close. “Er… Lottie?”

“Yes,” I squeaked.

“I have a small towel issue.”

“W-w-what do you mean?”

“As in, I no longer have a towel.”

“Cheese and crackers,” I breathed, and he chuckled again.

“I’m not sure what savoury snacking has to do with it, but I should warn you that my dick is very much out, so if you don’t want an eyeful, I suggest you keep your hand in place as I lay you down. I’ll go back to the bathroom and call when I’m out of sight, okay?

I nodded.

Now, I’m a good girl. Really, I am. I don’t swear. I look after my sister. I don’t sleep around. I don’t even drink. But I will admit that as that man gently laid me on the floor, the gap between my fingers widened, as did my eyes when I got a good view of what he was packing (and let’s just say the man’s big dick energy was wholly justified). Then my hand may have dropped altogether as he walked back into the bathroom, sans towel.

“I looked at your ding dong.” There, I said it. If he needed to fire me, he could.

“I see,” he said as he strolled through the kitchen in his suit, looking so unfairly attractive and put-together that I felt like even more of a scruffy little perv.

“I would never have gone into your bedroom like that… without knocking, I mean, if I’d have known you weren’t in Paris.”

“You seem to be kept abreast of my movements pretty well,” he said as he started making himself a coffee with his fancy coffee maker. I shifted uncomfortably on the spot.

“Er… well, your mum is… she’s chatty.” Margot was around at least a couple of times a week at the house. She always seemed to have important things to do in London – mostly spending her money and hosting charity events. I liked Margot. She was one of those posh, no-nonsense, horsey women, and she was honest – very honest. With my ability to tell if people were lying, that was really quite refreshing.

“Hmm.” He was watching me over the rim of his cup as he drank his coffee. All the man was doing was drinking a cup of coffee, but I didn’t think I’d ever found anything more attractive in my life. He had stubble today – thick, manly stubble. My mind wandered to how the stubble would feel against my cheek. Then, before I knew it, I was picturing him in all his naked glory again. I felt my cheeks heat and ducked my head.

“Right, well, best be getting on,” I said, my voice unnaturally high as I backed away towards the door.

“Weren’t you in the middle of cleaning the kitchen? Isn’t this where you should be getting on .”

“I… well, I-I-I…” I took another step back, and he frowned.

“Don’t avoid me,” he said in that commanding tone, and I had to grit my teeth to hold back a smart-arse response. I didn’t know if it was his blue blood, his upbringing, his private school education, his general sense of entitlement or just his actual personality, but he was so blooming bossy.

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“Yes, you are.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“You know what? You can’t order someone not to avoid you.”

“Why not?”

“Holy guacamole. Why? Are you serious? Have you ever been told no ?”

He tilted his head to the side and smiled. Honestly, this kind of sex appeal should be illegal. He wasn’t safe for women with functioning ovaries to be around.

“Rarely,” he conceded.

“Well, I’m not avoiding you. And even if I were, could you blame me? I don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed as I was that night in the bar, which you own. Is there anything in London that you don’t own?”

“Don’t be embarrassed.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Again, a little coaching on basic human interaction, which I fear may be a good thirty years too late, but you can’t just order someone not to be embarrassed.”

“I just did.”

“Well, it doesn’t work that way, you numpty.” I froze before my eyes went wide. Was I trying to get fired?

“Numpty?” His smile was wide and glamorous now – it was like looking into the sun. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me a numpty before. I like it.” Instead of the irritation or annoyance I would have expected to feel filling the room, all I could detect was amusement and… interest.

I blinked. Okay, so not fired. “You’re a bit of a rare one,” I whispered, and then he did something almost magical: he laughed. It was deep and rumbly and glorious. I could have listened to it all day.

“You definitely know how to throw a compliment around,” he finally said through his laughter, his eyes still dancing. I shrugged as a small, involuntary smile tugged at my lips. It was literally impossible not to smile surrounded by that rich laughter. I took a step back towards the kitchen island and away from the exit, shuffling carefully as if approaching an unpredictable large predator. The duke shifted away slightly like he was giving me space to come further into the room, trying not to spook me. I cleared my throat and squared my shoulders to do something I should have done a month ago.

“Thank you for helping me keep my job at the bar,” I said quietly, putting my kitchen spray down on the marble of the island. His smile dropped as he lowered his mug to the counter and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

One side of my mouth quirked up at that. The world didn’t work that way. Just because I didn’t do anything wrong didn’t mean I wouldn’t have been fired for causing a scene like that. People like me had to toe the line, however unfair that line was, and people like him would never understand that. There was no point explaining it to him.

“Is there better security on the floor now?” he asked, and I cocked my head to the side.

“Er… sure.”

“You don’t sound sure.”NôvelDrama.Org owns this.

“I am,” I said firmly. “It’s a great place to work.”

Okay, so yes, there were bouncers in the club now, and nobody touched the waitresses, but that didn’t change the overall vibe of the place – rich, powerful men served by young women in four-inch heels. The physical harassment may have stopped, but the verbal…

He frowned. “I own the freehold, but I don’t have much to do with the running of the bar. My brother-in-law, Blake, sorts that side of things.” I held back a cringe. His brother-in-law was a drunk (I was guessing that he wasn’t one of the people who’d received a lifetime ban as I’d seen him since that night), but I was filing that info in the not my blooming business category. No way would I bad mouth the duke’s family to his face. “Why are you working there anyway?”

I held back an eye roll. Rich dudes, honestly. “Oh, you know, it’s always been my dream to serve overpriced drinks to rich people. I feel like I’m fulfilling my life’s calling. It’s where I’m meant to be .”

“Lottie,” he said in a warning tone, and that’s when I did roll my eyes.

“I need the money, dufus. Why do you think I’m working there?” He blinked again.

“Dufus?”

I bit my lip. What was wrong with me today? Luckily his frown had melted to a smile. For a duke, this guy seemed to really enjoy getting insulted. Despite his naturally overbearing nature, which he’d demonstrated on a few occasions now, the duke surprised me. For some reason he clearly didn’t want me working at that bar, yet he hadn’t ordered me not to. Instead, he did this:

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“What?” I said in shock.

“You know, tea,” he said in a patient tone. “Brown, British, hot liquid. You drink an inordinate amount of the stuff. Tea.”

“How do you know I drink tea?”

“You leave little clues,” he said as he pulled down one of the super-fancy, ultra-delicate china cups from the display cabinet just along from where all the standard mugs and kettle were. The teacup looked totally ridiculous in his huge hands as he raised it toward me. My face flooded with heat. I was the worst cleaner in the history of cleaning. Not only had I been using those beautiful, exquisite, antique china cups to drink my tea out of, but I’d been leaving them dirty around the house for my employer to find.

“Cheese and rice,” I breathed as he flipped the kettle on to boiling. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have been a) stealing your tea, b) drinking it out of priceless china or c) leaving said priceless china around your house.”

He smirked as he pulled a matching saucer out of the same cabinet, then carelessly chucked the teacup onto it so that the china rattled.

“Careful!” I snapped before I could stop myself. “Or I mean, it is your china so I guess, er… be careful if you want to. It’s just it’s really pretty and…”

“I think my favourite teacup findage was the one I discovered in my shower, right there with the shampoo.” He was opening up the teabag tin now and putting one directly into the cup. I bit my lip to stop myself from telling him that you don’t make tea that way – you have to use the pretty teapot and the tea-cosy, then let it brew for at least five minutes, then add a splash of milk to the cup, then and only then do you add the tea. “You don’t take sugar, do you?”

“You can’t make me tea,” I said in a horrified whisper. He looked between me and the teacup and raised his eyebrows.

“Evidence would point to the contrary,” he said in a dry voice. Point to the contrary – he was so posh! Who spoke like that? Dukes, that’s who.

He’d now chucked the teabag onto the counter (there was clearly a limit to a duke’s kitchen abilities) and was about to hand the cup to me when he paused. “Oh, I nearly forgot.” He grabbed the biscuit tin, selected a custard cream, put it onto the saucer next to the cup and then brought it all over to me.

“You know that I eat your custard creams,” I whispered, mortified.

He chuckled. “Lottie, you eat about three packets a week. Who do you think makes sure there’s a steady supply?”

I slumped into the kitchen stool in front of my tea. What was the point of pretending to be the perfect professional now? May as well enjoy the tea (despite the substandard way it was prepared).

“So,” he said, taking the stool next to me and making my heart skip a beat when his leg brushed mine. “About the chess game…”