‘I’m an Interior Designer. I’m here to measure up the new bedrooms.’

She arches an eyebrow, flicking her hand in the air to get Mario’s attention. This woman is something else, with aloofness in equal measure to Wards boldness. Her blonde, layered hair is flicking here and there, her lips the same pouty red as they were on Friday, and she’s wearing a fitted, grey trouser suit. I’m being unkind when I put her at forty. She’s probably mid-thirties – far closer to Ward in age than me. I quickly reign in my wandering thoughts, mentally slapping my own desperate arse.

‘Sloe gin and tonic, Mario,’ she demands past me. No please and no smile. She really is quite rude. ‘You’re a bit young to be an interior designer, aren’t you?’ Her tone is unfriendly, and she doesn’t look at me when she speaks.

I bristle. I really don’t like this woman. What does Ward see in her, apart from over inflated, pouty lips and obvious breast implants? ‘I am.’ I agree. She feels threatened by my youth as well. Good.

I’m beyond relieved when John appears in the doorway. He pulls his glasses down, giving Sarah a peculiar look before nodding at me. What’s with all these looks being thrown around? I don’t dwell on it, though. John’s nod is the cue I need to escape this woman. I place my empty glass on the bar more forcefully than I intend to. Mario’s head snaps up, and I smile an apology, lowering myself from the stool.

‘Nice meeting you, Sarah.’ I say pleasantly. It’s a lie. I don’t like her, and I know the feeling’s mutual.

She doesn’t look at me. She accepts the drink that Mario hands her, without so much as a thank you, and walks off to chat with a male business type at the other end of the bar.

When I reach John, he leads me up the grand staircase to the gallery landing and through to the new extension.

‘I’ll be fine on my own, John. I don’t want to keep you.’ I offer him the chance to leave me to it as he leads me down the corridor.

‘S’all good, girl.’ he rumbles, opening the door into the furthest room.

We start measuring up, working our way back through the rooms. John dutifully holds the tape measure for me, nodding every so often when I give direction. The phrase “A man of few words” was invented with John in mind, I’m sure. He talks with his nods, and even though his eyes are covered with his sunglasses, I can identify when he’s looking at me. I make all the notes I need in my folder, ideas thrashing around in my head already.

An hour later, I have all the measurements I need and we’re done. I follow John’s huge body back onto the gallery landing, as I search for my phone within my bag. I soon realise that in my desperation to get shot of Sarah, I left it on the bar.

‘I’ve left my phone in the bar.’ I mutter to John’s back.

‘I’ll make sure Mario’s picked it up. Jesse wanted me to show you one of the other rooms before you go.’ he informs me evenly.

‘Why?’

‘So you get an idea of your brief.’ He puts a keycard in the slot, opens the door and ushers me in.

Oh, okay. It can’t hurt, and I am interested.

Wow! I walk into the middle of the room. Well, mini-suite would better describe it. The floor space is probably bigger that Kate’s flat. Hearing the door close behind me, I turn to see John has left me to take it in on my own. I stand absorbing the opulent spender of the décor.

These rooms are more lavish than the ones downstairs, if that’s possible. A giant bed dominates the room, dressed in rich satin linen in deep purples and gold. The wall behind the bed is papered in an embossed, intense swirling of dull gold, and heavy thick curtains pool the thick, bouncy carpet. The lighting is dim and soft. One of Ward’s key requirements was sensuality, and whoever designed this room has achieved it in abundance. Why doesn’t he just re-employ this designer?

I wander over to the huge, sash window and look out over the rear grounds. The land The Manor stands on is vast, the views tremendous and the lush greenness of the Surrey countryside is rolling for miles and miles beyond. It really is quite special. I walk over and run my palm across a lovely dark wooden chest of drawers. I place my folder and bag on the top before lowering myself onto the chaise lounge in the window.

I sit and take in my surroundings. It’s incredible and would undoubtedly rival many of the most famous hotels spread across the world’s biggest cities. A huge wall hanging grabs my attention. It’s quite odd but beautifully made. It must be an antique. Half attached to the wall and drifting up onto the ceiling where the huge beams span, it’s grid like in appearance, but there’s no material or lighting adorning it. I tilt my head on a frown, but then fly up to standing position when I hear a noise coming from the bathroom.

Oh shit. He’s put me in an occupied room…or has he? I can’t hear anything now. I keep myself still and quiet, trying to listen for movement, but there’s nothing. I relax a little, but then I hear the door handle on the bathroom shift and my head snaps up. Oh, heck.

I should be running to escape before some poor sod comes out of their bathroom, possibly naked, and finds a strange woman, standing like a complete plum, in the middle of their posh suite. I pelt towards the chest of drawers to retrieve my bag and swing around towards the exit. I gasp, dropping my bag to the floor.

I’m frozen on the spot and staring at Jesse Ward. He’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a pair of loose fitting jeans.

Chapter 5

He remains silent as I look at him in shock, waiting for an explanation. I get nothing, except for his intense, green eyes gazing at me from across the room. I feel like I’m under a microscope, and that glass of wine is on spin cycle in my stomach, churning around and around as I shift nervously on my heels.

‘Is this some kind of joke?’ I half laugh. I’m still waiting for enlightenment, but it’s not forthcoming.

I try to ignore the mass of magnificent man and frantically search my brain for guidance or instruction. It’s useless. I’m not blind. I’ll happily volunteer that I’ve imagined his chest, more than once, and it exceeds even my highest imaginations and expectations. This man is way past perfect. What should I do? He’s just standing there, with his head slightly lowered, staring up at me through his long lashes. His eyes are piercing me, his mouth slack, and I can see the rise and fall of his incredible chest. There’s some serious definition; not too bulky, just clean…cut… perfection. If he’s devastating fully clothed, then he’s seizure worthy now. I take a deep breath.

Oh God, he has the V. His heavy breathing is causing his muscles to roll and ripple, the increased swells putting the stoppers on his attempt to appear unaffected. He’s really affected. What’s he doing there like that? Stood with only a pair of jeans on, looking all freshly shaven, revealing even more beauty? I mentally slap myself. It’s obvious what he’s playing at. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him. He’s unreal and so bloody forward – it’s almost unattractive…almost.

I laugh lightly to myself. It’s not unattractive – not at all. I’m a pooling mass of want.

Was I hoping to see him? Yes, I’ll admit that. But like this? Yes, actually, I was. I’ve thought of little else since I laid eyes on him.