Page 74 of X: Command Me through Alexander’s Eyes

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Iwait for Clara near a Tube station, unhappy that she insisted on taking one from work. I wanted to send a car, but she reminded me that it would be easier for her to slip out if my private security wasn’t standing by.

I had Norris send a man in plain clothes to follow her anyway, just like he’s doing now. He managed a security sweep of the restaurant Clara picked for this afternoon. I couldn’t talk him out of it. But I’d been firm on wanting to do this—meet her family—on my own.

So far, I’ve only spotted two undercover guards casually milling on the same block. At least, they aren’t planning to sit next to me at dinner and poison test my soup.

Clara arrives in a flood of passengers, pushing her way through the crowd, handbag on her shoulder. Her eyes scan in front of her, teeth sinking into her lip. A few others glance curiously at her as though they recognize her, but no one stops her.

I wonder how much longer she’ll enjoy this already-questionable normalcy. She stops and lets the other passengers continue in a surge toward their own lives, and I wait, keeping her in my sights until she’s the only one left lingering in front of the station. She’s still wearing the light blouse and tightly fitted skirt from this morning. My mind skips to the lacy thong I know she’s wearing underneath, and my cock stiffens.

Forcing myself to ignore the growing ache in my balls, I prowl toward her. Clara turns her head as if sensing me and startles for a second. Her momentary panic quickly shifts, though, and she presses her lips into a tight line.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” she admits.

I catch her in my arms, pleased when she wilts against me. She reaches up and tugs the bill of my baseball cap.

“The Yankees?” she says with a raised eyebrow.

“I have a thing for yankees,” I say meaningfully, stealing a swift kiss. Even the momentary brush of my lips to hers is like an electric jolt. But it’s not centered in my groin this time. It hits directly in the center of my chest like I’m being brought back to life.

“Oh really?” She pulls gently away, slipping her hand into mine.

I let her take the lead, completely willing to be at her mercy this evening. She’ll be at mine later tonight. “I think they gave it to me on my last American tour.”

Clara stops, blinks hard, and lets out a deep sigh.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, instantly concerned.

“It’s going to take some time to get used to hearing about things like your American tours.”

“I’ve only been on one,” I tell her, starting forward to keep us moving. “I think I was twelve. It’s a bit of a blur.”

“It suits you,” she says, an undeniable note of affection in her voice. “You look very American. No offense.”

“You’re American, so I’ll consider it a compliment,” I murmur. Jeans and trainers had felt like the easiest way to keep a low profile. I’d even go as far as to put sunglasses on under the cap. I start to apologize for my casual appearance when she tugs away and darts over to a shop stall.

Adrenaline rushes through my veins, pounding harder with each step it takes to close the new distance between us. The shopkeep says something to her, and I fight the urge to snap at him. Clara holds up a book and responds before putting it back on the table with a laugh.

As soon as I’m closer to her than he is, I relax a little. By the time she turns back to offer her hand again, I’ve rearranged my face into calm.

“I love Notting Hill, don’t you?” She asks with a sigh. “I’m always finding little treasures.”

I nod, gripping her hand more tightly so she won’t be able to let go of me so easily. I have never been to Notting Hill. I don’t admit this to Clara. I’ve driven through naturally. I’m aware of it, of course. There are plenty of places in London I’ve never actually visited. Given that I’m usually surrounded by a security team in public, I don’t adventure out often. Tonight, though, I find myself in the bustling neighborhood. There is something wonderfully ordinary about its streets. People move about, going to and from their lives.

And by some miracle, I’m managing to blend in.

“It is a little warm.” Clara presses a hand to her neck, and I see it’s slightly dewy. She points to an antique shop. “I should go in there. I need a lamp.”

“From the nineteenth-century?” I tease.

“I like old, beautiful things,” she says, pretending to be offended. “Antiques have better stories, I guess.”

“You’re going to love my house,” I mutter absently.

Clara blows a stream of air from her lips and pulls me toward another stall. I can’t blame her for wanting to avoid my family after the disastrous party. That’s not going to make what I’m planning to ask her later any easier.

We wander down the streets, slipping into an easy conversation. As twilight deepens, Clara begins to check her watch, then fidget. Finally, we find ourselves in front of a cozy bistro.