Page 63 of Mistletoe Mistake
I simply smiled and took his hand, pulling him through the next door. A large staircase filled the hall in front of us while generations of men looked down on us from gilded frames. I led him over to the first one, the smallest portrait, showing a man in 16th-century dress. “This is the man who built this house. His name is Frederick Redvers.”
“Redvers?” Cole peered at the man carefully before his dark eyes moved back to me. “Your family?”
“Yes. They all are.” I indicated all the paintings on the walls around us. “This is my family's house. One of them, anyway.”
Cole hadn't expected that, and he looked around the room again, as if seeing it for the first time. “And you still have to pay to get in?”
That made me laugh. “We probably didn't have to, but I didn't want anyone to make a fuss about us being here. Most of the staff who work the opening are seasonal, they don't know me.”
“So, you grew up here?”
“No, not really. We only spent a few weeks here every year. My father prefers his London house, and my brother and I went to boarding school, but I always loved the time we spent here, and as I said, it inspired me to learn more about architectural design. It's a special place.”
“I can see that,” Cole agreed. His eyes searched the room again, looking over the portraits as if he might see a resemblance to me in them. “In that case, Gemma, if this is your house, I want the private tour. Not the one you give to everyone.”
“There's a lot of good information in that tour,” I protested, which only made him laugh.
“I'm sure there is. But I want to see the things no one else gets to see.” His voice dipped lower as he brought his mouth closer to my ear. “I want a more intimate perspective. To go deeper.”
He was being very subtle by his own standards, but his meaning still came through loud and clear. God, he really was insatiable, and I couldn't stop my mind from wandering to all the hidden nooks and crannies of the house where we might get a bit of privacy.
“I might know the kind of place you're looking for,” I admitted. “When we get upstairs. Can you wait until then?”
He smirked at me, his eyes dark with desire. "As long as you make it worth the wait."
~Cole~
Gemma's tour of the house kept me genuinely entertained as she led me from room to room, pointing out little architectural details and anachronisms in the decoration. It really was an interesting building, and the fact that it belonged to Gemma's family only made it more fascinating. My family had money, certainly, but that wealth came from my father and from me, both of us building the Stamer Hotels brand from a couple of hotels to a worldwide chain. It felt completely different to the kind of history that stretched back hundreds of years with old oil portraits of ancestors lining the halls.
As we walked, I tried to picture Gemma as a young girl in these rooms with their museum-quality works of art and furniture. Did she play hide-and-seek in the dozens of grandiose chambers, or come close to knocking the vases off their perches while running races with her friends? Or was she a more quiet kind of child, reading books in the window seats and studying the details of the wood panelling?
She seemed at home here, yet she also seemed equally at home in her offices at Anchor Design, or in her ridiculous Santa dress the night we met. She reminded me of a chameleon, blending in wherever she went. Which version of herself was the truest one? One of those, or perhaps the Gemma that only I got to see, alone in my hotel suite?
As much as I enjoyed the educational diversion, when she finally headed towards the staircase, my excitement only grew. She had suggested that we could be alone when we went upstairs, and I was looking forward to it immensely. I already had a few ideas about what I'd like to do when we got there.
“This bedroom was built for Elizabeth I to stay in if she ever visited Wilby Park,” Gemma told me as we walked into a room with more priceless old paintings lining its wood-covered walls, and a large canopy bed in the centre. “However, there's no record that she ever actually came here.”
I couldn't resist such an easy setup, or the chance to make her smile. “They did call her the Virgin Queen. I doubt she came many places.”
Gemma covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile, looking around at the other people in the room. They were all engaged in their own conversations; no one had heard us, but she shook her head at me playfully anyway. “Not your most mature humour, but I did give you an opening.”
She wanted immature humour? I could do better than that. “Any time you give me an opening, Gemma, I'm going to fill it.”
She laughed out loud, and the people closest to us turned to look at her. “You're going to get me in trouble,” she whispered, turning away from me in an effort to remain professional.
“I do like putting you in a tight spot,” I reminded her, leaning over her shoulder to whisper in her ear.
“Okay, stop now,” she pleaded, but I could still hear the smile in her voice. “If you don’t behave, I won't take you on the detour I had planned in the next room.”
“That's an empty threat, since I know you're looking forward to it as much as I am.” My arms went around her waist, and she melted back against me immediately. “You've been thinking about it ever since I first mentioned it.”
A soft sigh left her lips. “Do you ever get tired of being right all the time?”
“I'll let you know when it happens. For now...”
“Let's go to the next room,” she agreed. When she turned back to me, her eyes were sparkling merrily. “But only because I say it's time.”
“Of course,” I humoured her. “It's your tour.”
