‘Don’t question my morals when it comes to Olivia Taylor, Mr Anderson.’ Miller’s grip on me increases. ‘Never do that.’

The animosity bouncing between these two powerful men is intoxicating. My head is awash with questions of associations and worlds colliding, and that’s on top of the list I have ready for Miller.

‘Do the right thing,’ William says before turning greys onto me. ‘You’ll call me.’ He slides effortlessly into the car without waiting for my agreement and pulls away fast, leaving me on the pavement, tense and bracing myself for a round of questions from Miller.

It’s a few silent moments before he speaks, and when he does, it’s not at all the reaction I’ve been bracing myself for. ‘Well that was a surprise,’ he muses quietly, making me frown. ‘How did you come to keep company with William Anderson?’

I’m totally perplexed. ‘He was my mother’s pimp,’ I remind him, holding back on the information that I’ve recently been enlightened on. And I know Miller won’t appreciate the reminder of my encounter with William during my reckless spell, so I omit that, too. ‘And while we’re on the subject,’ I fire, turning in his arms and stepping away from him, ‘how did I come to be keeping company with you?’

He looks at me a little bemused. ‘You’ve already defaulted on your no touching and tasting rule.’ Stooping down, he lands me with a cheeky peck on my lips. Damn me, I don’t shy away from it. ‘It would be silly to reinstate it now.’ His eyes are sparkling wildly, his face full of unseen victory. Silly because it was a given that I’d fail, or silly because of where I might end up should I give in, which is ultimately in Miller’s bed being worshipped.

‘It wouldn’t be silly at all,’ I counter with grit. While Miller-style worshipping is the ultimate escape from my troubles, I need to maintain my strength, no matter how much I want him to indulge me and swallow me up in his mind-blowing world of pleasure. ‘Are we having dinner?’

‘Yes.’ He gestures across the road and, when I glance over, I see his car. ‘After you.’

My brow puckers, but I turn towards the restaurant instead. I don’t get very far.

‘Wrong way,’ he says simply, taking my nape and guiding me in the direction of his car with a little twist of his hand on my neck.

‘Dinner and a talk,’ I remind him. ‘You agreed to meet me for dinner and a talk.’

‘Yes, I agreed to meet you at the restaurant. You never specified that the eating and talking should happen there.’

I laugh nervously, wondering where he plans on doing the eating and talking. ‘You can’t twist my words.’

‘I’ve not twisted anything.’ He guides me across the road with ease and places me in his car. ‘We’re having dinner at my apartment.’ The door shuts on me and the locks click into place.

Now I’m freaking out. Being at Miller’s is a bad, bad idea. I try the door, to no purpose whatsoever. I heard the locks. Then I hear them again and I try the handle once more but get nowhere. He slides in beside me. ‘This is kidnapping!’ I protest. ‘I don’t want to go to your apartment.’

‘Why?’ he asks, starting the engine and pulling his seat belt on.

‘Because . . . I . . . because . . . it will . . .’

‘Be natural for us to make love?’ He slowly turns his eyes to me. Serious eyes.

The words alone send my pulse into overdrive. I’m feeling hot, lustful and helpless, and that’s a dangerous situation to be in with Miller Hart. ‘Talk,’ I murmur weakly.

He shifts in his seat and rests his forearm on the wheel. He can see my wanton condition. I’m breathless. ‘I’ve always promised that I’d never make you do anything I know you don’t want to. Haven’t I?’

I nod.

He smiles a little and reaches over to rearrange my wild blond hair. ‘Do you know how hard it is to refrain from touching you, especially when I know that you want me to?’

‘I want to talk,’ I affirm, finding my very last scrap of strength to utter my demand, leaving me defenceless should he choose to ignore my request.

‘And I want to explain, but I’d like to do it in the comfort of my own home.’ He says no more and returns his attention to the road, pulling away from the kerb. There’s no speaking or even any glances across the car to me. The only thing I have to focus on, except my racing mind, are the words of Portishead’s ‘Glory Box’ that echo in the enclosed air around us.

They sink into my mind, making it spin, and then I hear Miller utter two words to himself, so quietly I barely hear. ‘I will.’

Chapter Ten

I’m regretting insisting on the no tasting and touching rule. I’m close to collapsing by floor nine as we climb up to his penthouse, and Miller’s knowing look is a clear sign that he can detect my regret. But my hot face and aching calves also remind me of the first question I’d like to ask.

He unlocks his black shiny door and stands to the side, holding it open for me and revealing the inside of his palatial apartment. The urge to run overwhelms me.

‘I’m not allowed to physically restrain you, so I beg you don’t run away from me.’

I turn my face up to his and find blue eyes full of pleading. He’s being that respectful, loving man, the one I love most of his split personalities. ‘I won’t run,’ I promise, stepping over the threshold and tentatively rounding the table in the entrance hall. The front door shuts behind me and Miller’s fancy shoes click on the marble as he approaches.

‘Would you like some wine?’ he asks, removing his jacket and draping it neatly over the back of a chair.

‘Water, please.’ I’m dehydrated after my marathon stair climb, and I need a clear head.

‘As you wish,’ he says, disappearing into the kitchen and quickly returning with a bottle of spring water and a glass. He walks over to his drinks cabinet, pours two fingers of Scotch, and then turning to face me, he brings the glass to his lips slowly, making me avert my eyes to avoid the pleasurable sight. He knows what those lips do to me, and he’s brandishing them unethically. ‘Don’t deprive me of your face, Olivia.’

‘Don’t deprive me of your respect,’ I retort calmly.

He has nothing to say to that, so instead he says, ‘Sit,’ as he makes his way over with my water.

‘I thought we were having dinner?’

He falters midstride. ‘We are.’

‘In the lounge?’ I ask, my voice loaded with sarcasm. I know Miller Hart and his obsessive world of perfection, and there is not a chance in hell he would eat off his lap.

‘There’s no need—’

‘Yes, there is,’ I sigh. ‘I assume we’re eating in the kitchen.’ I take the water being offered and leave Miller to head for the kitchen, coming to an abrupt halt at the doorway on a little gasp.

‘You didn’t give me a chance to add the finishing touches,’ he murmurs from behind me. ‘Candles, music.’

The smell of something delicious permeates the room and the table is laid Miller-perfect. I could have wandered into the Ritz by mistake. ‘It’s . . . perfect,’ I breathe.