Fighting Mr. Knight: A Billionaire Office Romance (The London Mister Series Book 3)

For two hours, I play the role of a dutiful bridesmaid. I laugh at Sean’s mum’s unfunny stories and I pretend not to notice Uncle Dom staring at my tits.

Fortunately, Jack took a call before Max could go into any more details about our CVs. Jack’s mum and sisters are nice, so I guess I can’t tarnish them all with the same brush. His twin sisters are closer to my age, thirty at a guess, and pretty chatty. The flower girl, Poppy, one of the twins’ daughters, seems to rule the roost.

Kate offers to show us our rooms so that we can finally freshen up.

“Holy shit.” My voice echoes as we ascend the grand staircase. “It’s the English equivalent of The Shining.”

An explosion of paintings with people from centuries past stare down at us like an eerie dead audience.

“According to the website, these poor souls were murdered by the knight and still roam the castle. Legend has it if you look at them too long, you’re beckoning them from the other side,” I deadpan.

“What?” Nisha grabs my arm. “I don’t believe this shit, but I can’t unhear that now.”

“People have reported that they woke up in the middle of the night to find the knight watching them sleep.” I bite back laughter.

“Will you stop being an asshole?” Nisha hisses, stopping sharply.  “I’ll be standing in the shower feeling like dead people are watching me instead of enjoying the billionaire bar of soap. If I hear noises, I’m gonna jump out the window. Next time we’re going to Ibiza.”

“Don’t worry.” Kate laughs. “Any loud moans or lights flickering will be the living Knight banging the bedposts. Did you know that Michelle Allard is coming to the wedding?”

“The supermodel?” My eyes widen. “I didn’t realise he’s seeing her.”

“Uh-huh.” Kate smiles conspiratorially. “I don’t know how serious it is, but he must like her as he hand-picked her last year to be the Lexington hotel ambassador.”

I nod, remembering I had seen her in an ad for the hotel chain, and then I gawk up at the crucifix greeting us on the wall at the top of the staircase. “He might burst into flames if he gets up to anything naughty here.”

“You’ll know, Bonnie.” Kate smirks at me. “You’re staying in the room next to him.”

“Where the fuck am I staying?” Nisha asks. “I’m not sure I want to sleep by myself.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re being a tad dramatic, Nish.”

Kate stops outside one of the doors as her phone buzzes. “Nisha, this is your bedroom.” She glances down at her phone. “Oh, shit, it’s the caterer. I need to let them in downstairs.”

She waves an envelope at me.

“Call into Jack’s room and give this to him, will you?”

“Me?” I grimace.

“No, her.” She points to the woman in the black and white portrait staring down at us. “Yes, you, silly. What’s the problem?”

“Maybe you could give it to him later,” I suggest. “He might not like me interrupting him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffs, shoving the envelope in my hand. “He won’t mind. Go. He’s in the last room at the end of the South wing called ‘Knight’s Tale.’ You’re in the one right next door.”

Fitting.

Max’s voice fills my head. Be the best version of yourself. You’re representing Bradshaw Brown. What does Max expect me to do? Ask the priest to deliver subliminal messaging through prayer?

I nod and leave them, following on down the eerie hallway. My footsteps echo as I try to avoid eye contact with the ancestry of whatever knight beheaded everyone.

What’s the best version of myself?

An intelligent, accomplished architect who keeps up with world affairs and can engage in witty and dynamic conversation with a brooding asshole billionaire.

I’m half expecting the girl twins from The Shining as I turn the corner to the South wing.

“Jack?” I say loudly as I knock on his door. No answer.

I knock louder.

A muffled voice responds to me, telling me to come in. I think.

Turning the handle, I peer into the room. Room is an understatement. It’s a studio with a separate lounge area the size of my rented London flat.

Scattered evidence confirms Jack’s presence—expensive watch, wallet, beard oil, his trademark gold necklace, skipping rope. I divert my eyes quickly from his boxers on the sofa.

Where is he?

“Jack?” I call out tentatively. Maybe he’s in the bedroom.

I take a few steps forward as the bathroom door swings slightly ajar and I glance through the door crack.

Fuck. Me.

Jack stands in the steam with nothing but a flimsy towel resting dangerously low around the most mouth-watering body I’ve ever seen. His tousled waves are slicked back and black from wetness, like a feral ovary-whispering Italian Tarzan.

I stare, slack-jawed, as he runs long strokes of the blade down the angular curve of his jaw.

I don’t know how to breathe. Pheromones have blocked my nose.

Wearing wireless earphones, he talks, or more accurately, growls, into thin air.

Pierced nipple.

I wasn’t expecting that. Or the adrenaline pumping through me at the sight of it.

Lucky water droplets trickle down the grooves of carved, tight, ridiculous abs, culminating in the muscled V before disappearing into a treasure trail of dark hair . . . oh fuck.

So, this is the Jack effect.

Turns out I’m not as immune as I’d hoped.

I catch a few words as he growls at whoever is on the other end about compliance regulations and flood risks, oblivious to the perv party behind him.

Like a horny hedgehog, every hair on my peeping Tom body stands to attention. This is probably how Kate’s creepy uncle, Dom, started out.

I haven’t seen another dick but Max’s in five years. This could send me to an early grave. The weekend is in danger of turning into one wedding and a funeral.

I’m thinking with my vagina and my vagina does not appear to discriminate against assholes. My therapist never warned me about this.

Drop the towel, Jack, my traitorous vagina begs. It should be a song. Or a prayer. If a god is up there or a friendly ghost in the house, help a woman out.

Let there be a freak-of-nature gale force wind in this room. Please.

As if he is telepathic, or a past tenant of the manor is answering my prayers, he casually tugs the towel off, like he has no further need for it, so I can see every inch of his long, thick deliciousness in the full-length mirror.

Jack Knight stands as naked as the day he was born.

You can send me to hell, I’ve lived a good life.

The Knight’s jewels jut out between his legs, as arrogant and dangerous as the rest of him.

It’s beautiful.