Timeless. Daisy Banks

      A teeth-rattling knock battered the door, startling Magnus awake. He hauled himself from the comfort of the wing backed porter’s chair, glanced at his watch, and exasperation rising, stalked over to open the door. A chill blast hit him. Raindrops pelted the marble tiled portico, spotting his polished shoes.

      He sucked in the cold air, speechless at the sodden young woman who stood before him.

      Clutching the neck of her coat and dabbing her cheek with a tissue, she seemed unconscious of his gaze. Runnels of water dripped from her brandy colored curls to form tiny puddles on the shoulders of her coat.

      “Miss Armstrong?” he asked.

      Her bright green eyes flashed up at him as she wiped a raindrop from the end of her nose. Once she’d flipped back her lapels, she shook her shoulders, splattering more water, and smiled with slick, pink shimmering lips.

      “Mr. Johansson? Hi, I’m from Gorsewell Productions, I believe you’re expecting me. Sorry I’m a bit late. You know, you’re not on the GPS. Hell of a place to find, this, but I made it through the sticks at last.” She held out a black lace, fingerless gloved hand in greeting.

      The sharp rainstorm hadn’t dampened her sultry tones. They slid over his skin to leave a wave of gooseflesh. His irritation she’d arrived over two hours late ramped up a gear. Not only was she behind schedule, but hardly his idea of an executive producer. Her disheveled, bawdy looks belonged to one of the long vanished waterside stews he’d once reveled in.

      “Miss Armstrong, how do you do?” As he shook her hand, flames of sensation eddied on his skin. Her smooth, pale, lace covered flesh nestled briefly in his palm. He took his hand away, flexed his fingers to ease the scorching flickers around his hand.

      “I’m fine, and yourself, Mr. Johansson?” Hoisting a large bag on her shoulder, she took a step, edging him back, allowing her to enter. The portico door slammed shut, its eighteenth-century glass rattling.

      “I am quite well, thank you,” he said.

      Without the buffeting wind to drain it away, her fragrance teased like an invisible mist in the air as she stepped into the hall. Sensual, like her voice, warm, feminine and appealing, the scent of her stoked the dormant need he’d squashed for decades, kindling life where none should be.

      The thick, damp curls reached almost to her waist as she tilted her head back to gaze up to the gilded ceiling. “Awesome,” she murmured, and he nodded, though it wasn’t the view of the familiar ceiling prompting his agreement.

      Here stood the worst surprise he’d received this millennium. But he’d spent years working to build up immunity to her kind, and this exquisite little dolly mop wasn’t about to break through his shell.

      Straightening, she slid the strap from her shoulder and dumped the sports bag on the polished mahogany floor. “Is it like this throughout?”

      Teeth clenched, he winced at the thought of one of the bag’s metal clips tearing into the wood, now silky smooth after restoration. Thoughtless wench.

      “Yes.” He lifted the bag and set it on the marble topped hall table. “My home is over four hundred years old, a rarity which follows the Baroque style. Much of it is now very close to the original standard of craftsmanship. May I take your coat?”

      He approached, and a tiny flicker appeared in her eyes. Her pupils expanded a fraction, the first step in an ancient dance, and her response thrilled him in a way it had no right to.

      Miss Armstrong slid the coat from her shoulders, and his neck muscles bunched in tension. The garment, a garish neon pink darkened by rain, was lined in heavy purple silk. A lovely foil to her pale skin, more of which was revealed by the way the scarlet bolero draped down so low, exposing one naked shoulder. He’d nearly forgotten the appeal of such skin. Porcelain, yet far more delicate than the object itself, and not icy cold, but warmed with the flush of lifeblood.

      He hung the coat in the vast closet, stifling the vortex she’d raised in him.

      She swiveled on crimson patent, six-inch heels that could also damage the floor. They were somewhat at odds with her olive-green leggings, which ended mid calf, leaving an expanse of rain-dampened flesh. Pale flesh, spattered with tiny dark specks she must have kicked up on the cinder path while running from her car to avoid the rain.

      She flipped open her bag, took out an iPad and stared around her again. “Perfect.” The word oozed from her like a low satisfied purr, and provoked his instant response.

      Shock radiated through him. He wanted her, all of her. This moment, he could revel in taking her and enjoy a taste of paradise.

      Swallowing his desire, he fought to master his thoughts, while she stared up at the painted panels in the interlaced plasterwork moldings above the stairs.

      She must go. He’d show her the rooms he’d discussed with the owner of the company then send her packing.

      An age or more had passed since one such as this had disturbed his equilibrium. A flash of need ripped through him. He’d been unprepared to receive her, hadn’t expected such a creature. What had happened in the world, he should have to deal with the likes of her?

      He stepped back, turned past the tall, long case clock, and entered the main hallway, where he placed his hand on the comforting familiarity of the rosewood handrail.

      This visitor dazzled like an exotic butterfly. In her thigh skimming, mustard yellow tutu with its froth of spangled lace trim, she emanated life, exhaled vitality with each breath as she stepped toward him, tilting her shapely head to view the paintings. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Too late, he fought her careless snare, for pure unadulterated passion coiled from her.

      Here walked one worthy of the chase as he’d once known it.

      He gestured to the ceiling and the corridor, which led to the main rooms of the house. “I thought you would find the house suitable from the information I received when I contacted Mr. Gorsewell. I take it, he’s briefed you.”

      Her concentration fixed on the ceiling, she nodded, moistening her sugar pink lips with the tip of her equally pink tongue. He glanced away, but his gaze had reached into the deep shadow of ripe cleavage revealed by her corseted bodice. An unwelcome shudder ran through him. Someone ought to explain to this little hussy how to dress for a business meeting.

      He dragged his mind from her attractions. This remained business, no matter how outlandish or desirable the company’s representative might be. Commerce had always struck him as a sordid affair and until recent years, he’d rarely engaged in it. This afternoon’s only objective must be the promise of a large amount of easy money to top up his funds so he could continue renovations on the house. The fact Miss Armstrong oozed the sex appeal of a lively whore had nothing to do with it.

      Business. That’s all. He’d spent too long in control of things to let them slip now.