The Casanova (The Miles High Club Book 3)

“What do you mean?” I frown.

“That’s Elanor, our sister.”

“Since when?”

“What are you talking about?”

“This woman.” I tap her face on the photo. “That’s Harriet Boucher, the artist I met in France.”

“What?” He screws up his face in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“The artist, the one whose paintings I love, it’s this woman.” I tap her face on the glass again. “Her name is Harriet.”

“No. It’s Elanor, you’re mistaken.”

I stare at the photo. “I swear, it’s her.”

“It’s not, you’ve got the wrong woman, maybe someone who looks similar. Elanor doesn’t paint . . . not at all.”

“Oh.” I think on it for a moment. “Hmm, maybe it isn’t her.” I give an embarrassed shake of my head. “I feel like I’m going crazy lately.”

He smiles. “That’s okay.”

I nod.

“I’ll let Kate know you dropped by.”

I give him a lopsided smile. “I just want her to come home.”

“She will.”

My eyes hold his.

“Give her time, she’ll come back.”

I smile, feeling a little better, and I shake his hand. “Thanks for listening. I’m completely out of my depth here with Kate, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re doing okay, keep doing whatever it is that you’re doing.”

“Thanks.” I walk back out to the car with a spring in my step.

She reads my letters.

Trust your gut.

I frown; why did that thought just come to me? Trust your gut.

It was Harriet . . . I know it was.

What if?

No . . . couldn’t be.

I march back and knock on the door.

“What now?” Brad sighs as he opens it.

I bring up a picture on my phone and show it to him. “Have you ever seen this painting before?”

He screws up his face as he tries to focus on it. “I don’t know.”

I scroll through to another pic. “What about this one?”

He shrugs. “Not sure.”

I scroll through again. “This one?”

“Hmmm . . . don’t know.”

“Fuck’s sake, think.”

“Why?”

“I think . . .” I pause. “I know this sounds ridiculous and maybe I am completely off track here. I think—”

“What?” he cuts me off.

“I think the paintings I’ve been buying off Harriet . . . are Kate’s.”

He chuckles. “You’re delusional. And correct, that is ridiculous.”

“Can you ask her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Without telling Kate why, ask her if she painted these pictures.”

“Don’t you think that if Kate was a famous artist, she would at least know?”

“Can you just do it? What’s your number? I’m sending you the pictures now.”

He finds his phone and saves the images I send him. “What will I ask her?”

“Um.” I try to think. “Just say you found these pictures; does she know who painted them.”

Brad shrugs and texts Kate.

Hey, I found these paintings in a charity shop.

They looked familiar, are they yours?

My heart is hammering hard and I pace. “What did she say?”

“No answer yet.”

I close my eyes and walk back and forth as my hands run through my hair.

“She’s typing, the dots are moving.” He holds his phone out and we both stare at it, waiting for the answer.

Now, there’s a blast from the past.

Yeah, they’re mine. I painted them years ago.

God knows why Mum insisted on keeping them.

I can’t believe Elanor thought someone would actually want them.

Lol, hilarious.

The air leaves my lungs and I grip the wall to steady myself.

Brad drops to sit on the couch and we stare at each other, eyes wide.

“So this means . . .” Brad frowns as he connects the dots.

“It was always Kate,” I whisper. “Of course it was.”

KATE

I wait on the porch and look up the road. “Where is he?” I glance at my watch. Richard didn’t bring me a letter yesterday . . . and he’s late today.

I didn’t realize how much Elliot’s letters brighten my day . . . or how much they mean.

I twist my hands in my lap as I wait. “Come on,” I whisper. “Where are you?”

What if he’s met someone else?

Regret fills me that I haven’t responded to him at all. I should have said something, if even only a thank you. What must he think with no correspondence back?

A car comes around the corner and I hold my breath—it’s a different car.

Red.

It’s not Richard. My shoulders slump with deflation.

The car pulls up to a halt outside my place and I frown as I watch. Who is it?

Elliot gets out of the backseat and my breath catches.

What?

He looks up and his eyes find mine . . . Oh.

Seeing him in the flesh opens old wounds and an unexpected rush of emotion sweeps through me. My eyes well with tears.

Glued to the floor, I stand and watch him as he leans in and takes out an overnight bag and pays the driver, and I want to run to him . . . and kiss him and tell him everything.

But my feet are set in concrete, frozen with fear. The hurt he caused me, magnified all over again. I thought my disappointment and anger were over—maybe not.

He stands on the curb with his bag in his hand, staring up at me, and as the car drives off, he gives me a soft smile.

And with my heart in my throat, I smile.

Oh . . . I’ve missed him so.

He slowly walks up the steps and I walk down them and we meet in the middle.

“Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi.”

“I came to bring you home.” His eyes hold mine as he swallows a lump in his throat.

He’s nervous.

My eyes well with tears, because suddenly everything is crystal clear: he is my home.

Elliot Casanova Miles is the great love of my life, and I don’t know how it worked out that way, but I honestly don’t think I can go on without him. I wouldn’t want to.

“Took your time.”

A slow, sexy smile crosses his face, and he wraps me in his arms and holds me tight.

And he squeezes me and I melt into him as our lips touch.

“Don’t ever fucking leave me again,” he whispers.

“Don’t make me.”

He kisses me, his tongue slowly sliding between my lips as he holds my face in his hands and, oh . . . the way he kisses. I had nearly forgotten.

Elliot Miles kisses from his soul.

Every chink in his armor, every weakness he keeps inside, all the passion in the world. I can feel it all. And fuck, do I love it.

We kiss again and he pulls me toward him, hugs me tight in his arms as the horror we’ve been through becomes too much.

The emotion between us . . . too much.

Sacred.

“We need to talk,” he says as he takes my hand and leads me up the steps.

“I know.”

His eyes flick back to me as if questioning my statement.

Huh, what was that look?

I frown as uneasiness runs through me: he’s here to tell me something.

There’s more.

Did he sleep with his artist?

My heart begins to race as I brace myself. Somehow, I don’t think our reunion is going to stay happy.

We walk into the living area and he turns toward me. “Sit down, baby, I need to tell you something.”

I drop to the couch without question.

Thump, thump, thump sounds my pulse in my ears.

He goes to his overnight bag and takes out a large, yellow envelope and passes it to me. “Images of Harriet Boucher.”

“Who?” I frown.

“The artist I was looking for, these are the images that were sent to me from the private investigator.”

“Why would I want to see who she is, haven’t you hurt me enough with her?” I spit.

“Open it,” he demands.

“I don’t—”

“Open it,” he barks.

I open the envelope and pull out the large A4-sized photographs, and I frown.

It’s Elanor.

I flick through them—image after image of Elanor. Black and white, color, different locations.

I shake my head, confused. “I don’t understand.”

He passes me a white envelope. “These are the paintings I have bought at auction.”

I screw up my face; what the fuck is he going on about? “Elliot, I don’t—”

“Open it,” he barks.

Jeez, psycho . . . I open the envelope and my eyes widen. I flick through the images, confusion takes me over. I know these paintings . . . I did these paintings.

My eyes rise to meet his.

“All those years, all that time . . . it was you,” he whispers.

Goosebumps scatter up my spine.

He drops to his knees on the floor in front of me, takes my hands in his. “It was you who was calling me through those paintings.”

My eyes well with tears as my world spins on its axis.

“It’s always been you,” he whispers. “I knew in my heart that I was called to them for a reason. It’s you, Kate, you are the reason.”

I drop my head, overwhelmed. “I don’t . . . how . . . I mean . . .” I look up at him. “How did this happen?” I whisper. “I don’t understand.”

“Brad and I have pieced this together.”

“Brad?” I frown. “Brad knows about this?”

He nods and leans up and kisses me tenderly as if to soften the blow, but I can’t feel it. I’m numb.

“Elanor cleared out your parents’ house to hide a crime.”

My eyes hold his.

“She had been selling your old paintings from the attic at auctions using a pseudonym. And she knew that once you and Brad cleared out your parents’ house, her crime would be discovered.”

Horror dawns.

“What she didn’t count on, was that one particular art collector, me, would become obsessed with the paintings and hire a private investigator to find her.”

My chest rises and falls as I scramble for air.

“And she would have gotten away with it, too. If she hadn’t got greedy and wanted the fame that my name delivered.”

Elanor is the artist he met in France?

“She agreed to meet with the full intention of seducing me, but what she didn’t count on was that I was already in love with someone else, and I wanted nothing to do with her plan.”

I put my head into my hands. “Elliot,” I whisper.

He hugs me and pulls my head to his. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

A thought comes to me and I pull back to look at him. “How much did you pay for those paintings?”

He puffs air into his cheeks. “Around twenty million dollars.”

I put my hands over my mouth as my eyes widen in horror. “You idiot. Daniel is completely right, you do have more money than sense. They’re abysmal, Elliot.”

His face softens, then he smiles and chuckles.

“I would have given you those paintings for free,” I scoff. “Hell, I would have paid you to take them away.”

He tips his head back and laughs hard, as if the weight of the world has been lifted.

“Oh no.” I stand as another thought comes to me. “What about Elanor?”

He falls silent, his eyes hold mine.

“Elliot, what about Elanor?”

“She will be dealt with by the law.”

“No.” My chest tightens. “I don’t want . . .”

He takes my hands in his. “We’ll talk about Elanor on Monday,” he says sternly.

“Monday?”

“For now”—he kisses me softly—“I just want to talk about us.” He kisses me again as he holds my head to his. “Can we just fix us before we worry about your witch of a sister?”

Elliot Miles calling Elanor a witch brings an unexpected smile to my face, and I know it shouldn’t, but it does.

“You think this is funny?” He smiles as his lips take mine; he walks forward and I walk back.

“This just confirms what I always knew,” I reply.

“What’s that?” He smiles against me.

“You are an idiot.”

In one sharp movement, he bends and throws me over his shoulder. I laugh out loud and he slaps my behind. “Where’s your bedroom, wench? You’re about to get it.”

“Aren’t you all wanked out?” I laugh as I hang upside down. “I saw the blisters.”

“Behave.” He slaps my behind again.

He carries me into the bedroom and throws me on the bed, and I bounce as I land.

With his eyes locked on mine he takes his shirt off over his head. His chest is broad with a scattering of dark hair, his tanned shoulders and arms cut with definition, his stomach rippled with muscles. But it’s his eyes that arrest me, filled with desire and love and a sense of belonging.

Home.

In slow motion he slides down his trousers and my breath catches. No matter how many times I see him naked, I’m never prepared for his powerful beauty.

Elliot Miles is a million things, but most of all . . . he’s mine.

He crawls over me. “You owe me for the hell you’ve put me through,” he says as he nips my hip bone through my dress.

“Oh.” I sit up, remembering something. “Come.”

“What?”

I jump up and take his hand. “I have something to show you.” I drag him out into the other room and hold my hand up toward my easel.

It’s a huge oil painting of the two of us together; I’ve been working on it for weeks. We are in each other’s arms, staring lovingly at each other.

A moment of intimacy between us, captured in my memory.

His breath catches as he stares at it, and he runs his finger over the title of the painting at the bottom right corner.

Forever Enchanted.

His nostrils flare and he presses his lips together, overwhelmed with emotion.

His eyes find mine. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you.”

He kisses me and we melt together and, oh . . .

“Marry me.”

I pull back to look at him. “What?”

“Marry me, Kathryn. I know this isn’t the most romantic proposal . . . but our story and this painting.” He wells up. “I just . . .”

Oh, I love him.

“Elliot Miles, are you asking me to marry you, buck naked with an erection?”

He looks down at himself and then breaks into a slow smile. “I guess I am.”

He kisses me and pulls me close, and I can feel every hard inch that he has. “Well, what do you say, Landon?” He drags me over his hard cock.

I giggle. Only him.

He jerks me against him, demanding an answer.

“Yes. I’ll marry you.”

We laugh against each other’s lips and he picks me up and carries me back to the bedroom, then he lifts my dress over my head and then takes off my bra and panties and lays me down.

He lies down beside me and spreads my legs; his fingers find that sweet spot as he kisses me deeply. My back arches off the bed as he works me harder, and harder. The sound of my wet arousal echoes around us but he doesn’t stop, he pushes me.

“Elliot,” I murmur.

“I have to warm you up, angel . . . because, fucking hell, I’m about to blow. Hard.” His voice is deep, commanding, and I know he’s running on pure instinct. The urge to fuck has taken him over and he’s losing control by the second.

I slide my hand down and feel him: he’s rock-hard with pre-ejaculate dripping from his end.

God, how did I ever think I could live without this? Without him.

“Now, El,” I whisper as I pull him over me. “Please.”

With his dark eyes locked on mine, he rolls over me and nudges my opening with his tip, and I feel the burn of his possession.

Every time with this man is like the first.

His size, unforgiving.

“I love you.” His eyes flutter closed.

I smile against him and then he pushes in hard, nailing me to the mattress. Forcing my body to accept his.

His sweet words in vast contrast to his hard actions.

I cling to his broad shoulders and I close my eyes as I try to deal with him.

Ouch.

Elliot Miles was born to fuck, unapologetic, and hard.

He pulls out and slides back in, his eyes dark with want. He rotates his hips one way, and then the other. Stretching me, opening me up for his pleasure.

“You alright?” he murmurs, his eyes locked on my lips.

I nod. “I’m good. Go.”

He bites my neck as his hips begin to pump, hard, thick, and fast, and oh hell.

I arch my back, his cock working at piston pace. His big hands grab my inner thighs as he holds my legs open, his knees spread wide, and I can see every muscle in his torso as it contracts. The sound of the bed hitting the wall with force echoes around us and I scream out as I come hard. I hold him tight, through the ecstasy, as all the pain from the last few months is washed away with love. He holds himself deep and I feel the telling jerk of his cock deep inside my body.

And he kisses me, tenderly, with so much love that I can hardly stand it, and my world stops.

And another life begins.

Mrs. Miles.

Elliot takes me by the hand. “Do you have everything, sweetheart?”

I look around the airplane. “Yes, I think so.”

“Nice to see you, Mr. Miles,” the pilot says. He turns to me and nods kindly. “Have a nice night, Kathryn.”

“Thank you.”

Elliot shakes his hand and leads me down the stairs where the black Bentley is parked. Andrew gets out, and he smiles broadly when he sees us. “Hello Kate.”

I skip over to him and go up onto my toes and kiss his cheek. “Hello Andrew.”

“I hear that congratulations are in order.” He beams.

I giggle and hunch my shoulders up in excitement. “Can you believe it?” I gush.

“I can actually.” He smiles as his eyes flick to Elliot, who smirks in return.

Elliot can’t even act grumpy. In fact, that sexy-as-fuck smile hasn’t left his face, and after the dreamiest five days in Oahu, we’ve landed back in London.

Elliot publicly announced today that we are engaged to be married, and in some kind of strategic plan he told me that I would be photographed tonight, which I’m guessing was code for . . . don’t wear your sweatpants on the plane.

I did wonder why he changed into a full three-piece suit before we landed.

Andrew and Elliot load all of our things in the trunk and I get into the backseat. Elliot slides in behind me and picks up my hand and rests it on his thick quad; he always has to be touching.

“Are we still sticking to the schedule, sir?” Andrew asks as he makes eye contact in the rearview mirror.

“Yes,” Elliot replies.

Schedule . . . there’s a schedule?

We zoom off into the night and twenty minutes later we come around the corner into the street where Elliot’s swanky apartment is; there are photographers everywhere. I feel my anxiety rise and instead of pulling into the private undercover parking lot, Andrew pulls the car up right next to them.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

Elliot leans over and kisses me. “Giving them what they want.”

“What?”

“Once they have the first photograph of us together, and it’s published tomorrow, they’ll leave us alone and we can go home.”

I stare at my beautiful man. This goes against everything he is, but he wants me to be left alone, he’s doing this for me.

The door opens in a rush. Andrew stands outside as the cameras flash.

Elliot gets out, takes my hand, and helps me from the car. I climb out to the blinding lights of flashes and the sound of photographers screaming over the top of each other. “When is the wedding?”

“Congratulations, Mr. Miles.”

“Kathryn, who’s designing your wedding dress?”

Elliot takes my hand and in slow motion lifts it to his lips and kisses it.

They go wild.

“Kathryn,” someone calls. “How does it feel to know you finally tamed the elusive Casanova Miles?”

Elliot chuckles, our eyes are locked as electricity bounces between us, and he raises an eyebrow as he waits for my answer.

If only they knew that the supposed Casanova is a romantic fool.

I turn back to them and smile. “Wonderful.”

We pose for a few shots and then he leads me into the building by the hand as they yell to us in the background. I get into the elevator with the love of my life.

He smiles down at me and I smile right back up at him.

Turns out I do believe in fairy tales.

And fate.

Never give up, he will find you.

Love always,

Kate.

Xox