The Casanova by T L Swan

Chapter 18

KATE

I smile softly, my eyes still closed as I feel the soft fingertips trail up my arm and over my shoulder. My hair is carefully pushed back from my face and a soft kiss dusts my neck, then another, and another.

He holds me tight and takes my hand in his, his body snuggled up behind mine.

Waking up in Elliot Miles’s arms will never grow old.

It’s as if the anger of his world disappears while he sleeps and he wakes a demure, more tender version of himself.

“Good morning,” I whisper.

He kisses my cheek. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

I smile—I love it when he calls me that. I roll onto my back to face him. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a log.”

I cuddle up to him. “And what a handsome sleepy log you are.”

He kisses me softly. “Of course, it could do with the fact that you are fucking me into unconsciousness.”

I giggle and then I remember something and look over to him. “What happened with your ducks?”

“Ah.” He smiles and rolls out of bed. “Apparently . . . they were just hungry.”

“What?” I smile as I look up at him.

“I would go as far as to say fucking starving, actually.” He stands, completely comfortable with his nudity. My eyes roam down his body, over his broad, thick chest and olive skin. He has hardly any body fat, revealing every last sinew. Muscular and fit, with thick quad muscles and a defined abdomen. His arms are strong, with rope-like veins running down his forearms.

My eyes drop lower, to the well-kept, dark pubic hair and large family jewels.

There’s no denying that Elliot Miles is the epitome of male perfection, but there’s a lot more to him than meets the eye. Just what that is, I’ve yet to discover.

But unlike most men I’ve met in the past, the more I get to know him, the more I like about him. He’s like an onion, slowly being peeled back layer by layer before my eyes.

He gives himself a slow stroke and my eyes rise to meet his and he shrugs. “If you’re going to look at me like that, I may as well give you something to look at.”

“Like what?” I smile.

“Like you’re going to eat me.”

I burst out laughing. “I was not.”

He picks his T-shirt up and whips me with it. “Don’t deny it.” He throws his T-shirt over his head and pulls his boxer shorts on.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve got to feed the ducks before they go postal.”

“What?” I sit up on my elbows.

“True story.”

“Are you really knocking back sex . . . to feed your ducks?” I laugh.

He climbs over me and holds my hands over my head. “Hold that thought, I’ll be back.” He kisses me and I smile against his lips.

“If they chase you again, I’m filming it.”

“Come on.” He pulls me up by the hand. “Rise and grind.”

“What?”

“Rise and grind,” he says as he rakes through his closet and throws me his robe.

“Is that what you do every day?” I ask. “Rise and grind?”

“Nope.” His eyes dance with mischief as they hold mine. “Only the days that you’re here.”

“Ha, nice save.”

He takes me in his arms roughly and bites my neck, then we make our way downstairs and into the kitchen and I watch as he carefully pours pellets into a container. “How did you find out they were hungry?”

“A letter was left.” He gestures to the letter on the countertop and I pick it up.

Dearest Mr. Miles,

Congratulations on your new home.

I trust our beloved Enchanted Estate will bring you much joy.

My late husband and I were lucky enough to spend the last sixty years here and they were the happiest days of our lives.

As you know, at the tender age of eighty-eight and with pressing health conditions, the time has come for me to move into a retirement home.

Thank you so much for agreeing to take on our beloved animals.

They are all fourth or fifth generations born on the estate and have known no other life.

The thought of them being evicted broke my heart. It made me so happy when I found that I could leave them in your loving care.

I have listed below some simple care instructions for them. Please call if you need any help with anything.

I can be reached on 0434358922

The local veterinarian  Max Manalo  99952132

Rosie the Shetland pony is found in the bottom paddock. She has a lovely temperament and thrives on human company. She has chaff feed kept in the stable at the bottom of the property and is mostly self-sufficient.

Billy the goat is kept in the far paddock. He is a little rebellious but a nice goat all the same. He eats mostly natural feed but has a bag of feed, also in the stable. It is marked clearly with his name.

The ducks.

Our lovely ladies are a source of many hours of pleasure. However, they do get anxious when they haven’t been fed.

There isn’t enough natural food for them in the lake and they will need to be given their pellets each morning. Adhere to their regular feeding schedule and all will be easy with them.

Humphrey the ram.

Now, Humphrey was my husband’s and is an acquired taste.

He doesn’t like people, and will become violent if confronted.

He is completely self-sufficient and it is best not to toy with him.

Call the veterinarian if you need any assistance on his welfare, do not attempt to tend to it yourself.

The only person he ever took to was my beloved husband and I’m afraid he hasn’t been the same since he passed.

Thank you so much, Mr. Miles.

You have no idea what a relief it is to know that they are to be cared for.

Yours sincerely,

Frances Melania

I look up at Elliot in surprise.

“Can you believe that shit?” he asks.

My eyes skim the letter again. “So . . . you’re a fully fledged farmer now?”

“No.” He takes the container of pellets to the back door and peers around the side of the curtain. “It’s just temporary until I get something sorted.”

“No, Elliot. You gave her your word, or at least your solicitor did. They have to stay.”

He gives a disgusted shake of his head and opens the door in a rush. The ducks catch sight of him and begin to run toward him with their wings in the air, squawking loudly.

He runs down the lawn and throws the pellets in the air in their direction, and then he bolts back to the house. He rushes in and slams the door behind him as if a wild animal has just chased him. “There,” he announces proudly. “See . . . I know what I’m doing.” He dusts his hands together as if he’s just fought a dragon and won.

I smile broadly; the poor bastard is scared for his life. “I’m very impressed, Mr. Miles.”

Elliot takes my hand in his. “Come on, we have to get back. It’s going to be dark soon.”

Hand in hand we begin to walk up the hill toward the house. It’s been the best day. We’ve spent it walking around the property and checking things out. It really is beautiful and there is so much to see.

“When did you buy this place?”

“Last year, in June.”

“Over six months ago?” I ask in surprise.

“Yes. She wanted to stay as long as she could after I completed on the property. So, I waited.”

I smile as we make our way back up the hill. “It was worth every second, it’s breathtaking.”

Elliot’s eyes roam over the rolling hills before us. “From the moment I saw it, I knew that it would be mine.”

I smile at his dreamy stance. “Have you always wanted to live out here?”

“No. For a long time I resented having to live in the UK. I just wanted to go back to New York.”

I frown as I listen. “You couldn’t go back?”

“I could, but not if I wanted the job that I have now. It could only be here. Jameson is the CEO in the States.”

I nod as a clearer picture comes through. “What changed?” I ask. “To make you want to . . .”

“I don’t know,” he says as he walks. “A few years ago, I went home to New York and I was sitting in a bar with a big group of friends that in the past I had always missed.”

I listen intently.

“And not one of them had one thing to say that interested me.”

I frown.

“It was like a lightbulb went off, and I had an epiphany, one that for some reason had previously eluded me. I realized that my only connection with America and New York was my family, and I see them all the time wherever I am. I decided that day, then and there, that I would make my life here.”

I smile.

“And besides”—he picks up my hand and kisses the back of it—“I have a thing for English girls.”

I smirk. “Plural, Elliot,” I remind him.

“Girl,” he mouths.

We walk for a while. “And the art thing?” I ask.

“Ah.” He smiles, as if he’s been waiting for me to ask. “I’ve collected art since I was old enough for pocket money.”

“Why?”

He raises his eyebrows as if searching for an answer. “It calls to me.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” His gaze goes over to the paddocks as he contemplates his answer. “It’s like I feel the artists’ emotions as they painted.” He bends down and picks a flower and passes it to me.

I feel my heart constrict.

“There’s this one artist, for instance. Harriet Boucher. I am totally and utterly besotted with her.”

I giggle. “Should I be worried?”

He picks up my hand and kisses my fingertips. “She’s old.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, I think in her nineties. I’ve been searching for her because I know my time to find her is running out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I own all but three of her paintings that are out in public. But there are more that I don’t own, and they’re probably all in storage somewhere. I want to find her before she passes so that I can make her an offer and ensure that they aren’t lost.”

I frown. “What’s so good about these paintings?”

“Everything.” He smiles. “I know it sounds ridiculous but I have an affection for them that I can’t explain. I stare at them for hours and still I need more. It’s like they speak to me in an otherworldly way.”

I smile as I listen.

“I have a connection to the artist.” He shrugs as if embarrassed, bends and picks another little pink field flower and passes it to me.

“Thanks.” I take it from him.

“I don’t know what it is. Perhaps we knew each other in another life.”

Goosebumps scatter up my arms as I stare at him and, unexpectedly, I well up, and blink to try and hide my tears.

“What’s wrong?” He frowns.

I shrug, embarrassed. “Nothing.” I give a subtle shake of my head. “That’s just . . . probably, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard anyone say. You need to find this old woman so you can tell her in person.” I smile dreamily. “I can’t imagine how happy you will make her heart.”

“Most people think I’m crazy.”

“I think it’s . . .” I pause as I search for the right word. “Magical.”

He smiles shyly. “I don’t know about that, it could be one big wild goose chase.”

“Well, you were chased by ducks.” I widen my eyes to accentuate my point. “Kind of the same thing . . .”

He goes to grab me and I pull out of his grip and take off up the hill. He lets out a roar and chases me and I laugh out loud.

It’s been a great day, the best.

Whoever named this estate was right on the money. I am totally enchanted.

Monday morning, 11 a.m.

I sit in the boardroom along with my colleagues, waiting for Elliot for our monthly meeting. After the most incredible weekend in history, I’m floating on cloud nine.

Elliot walks in, back ramrod-straight and in a perfectly fitted blue suit. His dark hair is messed up to a perfect just-fucked look and his eyes find mine across the room. “Morning,” he says as he closes the door behind him.

His presence instantly takes over the room, power personified.

My stomach flutters. Good grief, I’m totally fan-girling over this man.

In my defense though, there’s a damn lot to fan over. I’ve never met anyone quite like him.

“Good morning.” I concentrate on keeping a straight face and acting normal.

He puts his computer down on the large boardroom table. “How was everyone’s weekend?” he asks as he looks around.

“Good thanks.” They all start to answer and chat.

“How was yours?” I ask.

His eyes find mine and he gives me the best come-fuck-me look I have ever seen. “Exceptional.”

My heart skips a beat.

I bite the inside of my lip to stop myself from openly swooning at his feet.

Get a hold of yourself Kate, slow it down.

He begins to read through the meeting notes from last month and my stomach contracts with a sharp pain.

Oh no.

My period.

I close my eyes. Damn it. Not now.

The meeting continues as pain throbs through me, and perspiration wets my skin.

Elliot is standing at a whiteboard talking with a marker in his hand.

My stomach twists hard and I drop my head.

Oh. . . this hurts.

His eyes come to me and a trace of a frown crosses his face as he talks.

He continues but I feel the hot release and stand in a rush. “I’m sorry, I have to leave,” I whisper through pain.

“Is everything alright?” He frowns.

“I’m unwell.” I rush for the door. “I’m sorry, I’ll catch up in the notes.”

I make it down to my floor, grab my handbag, and practically run to the bathroom.

I don’t have time for this crap.