Mr. Knightsbridge (The Mister Series Book 2) Read online

  I’d seen it online. The queen of Finland had worn it on her wedding day. Seeing it up close and personal was an entirely different thing. It was almost overwhelming, there was so much to look at. The bottom layer was a headband of huge solitaire diamonds, each one as big as my knuckle. The top was like a string of bunting of alternating rubies and diamonds. From a distance, just the bigger stones were visible, but as I got closer, I could see a top string of small stones that had been strung together with even smaller stones. It was so unusual I wanted to pull out a sketch pad and start to make drawings. I had a notebook and pen stashed in my bag, but I couldn’t see anyone else writing anything down and I didn’t need to draw attention to myself tonight. I stood out as it was. If I didn’t keep my head down, I’d probably get arrested by the plain Jane police likely patrolling here tonight. I was wearing a cheap, slightly too big A-line white dress my sister had loaned me. I’d sewn a line of black sequins around the collar in the hope of passing it off as cocktail attire. I’d even borrowed Autumn’s slightly too small shoes and had newly formed blisters to prove it.

  Blistered feet were a small price to pay for being in this room. I was the intern for a jewelry house that had a real chance at winning the competition. The sheer luck of it all was enough to dull any pain I might otherwise have felt.

  The thought of being part of the team that would bejewel the princess of Finland on her wedding day was the cherry on top of the cake. I’d have been happy with three months’ experience with one of the most successful jewelers in London. This was the push I needed to get a job in New York at one of the big jewelry houses. A dozen job applications had sent the message loud and clear—no experience, no job. But a letter of recommendation from Charles Ledwin, CEO of Sparkle, would open every door that had been slammed in my face. It was my ticket out of my dead-end life in Oregon.

  I glanced around at the display cases dotted throughout the room before clocking the burly security guys at every exit point. There was a lot of money here tonight. A lot of talent. It was intimidating and completely exhilarating at the same time. It felt as if I was about to start a supermarket sweep of knowledge. I’d have three months to grab as much as possible and then the buzzer would sound and my fate would be sealed. Hopefully I’d have done enough, seen enough, learned enough to change my future.

  Why wasn’t there a line to see this tiara? It was so freaking beautiful that I wanted to shout at the top of my voice for people to come see. I guess this way I had it all to myself. I glanced around to ensure no one was paying any attention to me—of course they weren’t—abandoned my champagne glass on a nearby table, pulled out my notebook and scribbled down some ideas.

  The next display case contained a silver hair comb incrusted with pavé diamonds. Another tall waiter hovered next to me with a tray of champagne. Jiminy Cricket, I must have left my glass behind at the tiara display. I never even got to taste it. Could I just take another one? I glanced at the waiter but he wasn’t taking any notice, so I swiped another glass and turned back to the display.

  The comb must have been Victorian, from the date written on a card placed discreetly beside it, but the design was so simple it seemed much more modern. If I’d been to art school or any kind of college, perhaps I’d recognize the jeweler. I’d done my research these last few years, but I barely had time to make and sell the few pieces I could afford to make—let alone find time to study the history of jewelry design. The designs I’d come up with had started as doodles in my break time at the factory. At some point I’d found a soldering kit on eBay, and when I drew something I loved so much I couldn’t just leave it on the page, I saved up for some silver and made my first piece. When I hung that first pendant I’d made—a silver oak leaf—around my neck, something took hold of me. For the first time in my life, I had a goal that was just about me—not making sure my parents made the rent on their trailer or my sister’s tuition was paid. This was a desire for me and me alone. Jewelry was my thing.

  I made a few notes and sketched out a couple ideas. I knew Sparkle wouldn’t consider any of my designs for the competition, but I wanted to learn how to create my ideas on the company’s specialty software.

  This room was full of inspiration, and I wanted to soak it all in while the opportunity lasted. I’d missed out on a lot by not going to college, but I was determined to get as much of an education as I could out of my time in London, squeeze out every last drop of experience.

  I ducked and weaved through the canapes, crystal glasses and cummerbunds to the next case, and then the next and the next. If heaven turned out to be just like this, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  As I circled a display containing three bracelets, I overheard a group of people standing to my left, whispering about Dexter Daniels. Daniels entering the competition had been a huge deal. He was a virtual recluse and as famous for not having a London store as he was for being incredibly successful despite his youth. He was one of the favorites to win and, I’d heard, devastatingly handsome.

  He’d obviously inherited the family genes—his parents had designed the tiara I’d been ogling. Meanwhile, my family business was dodging landlords and skipping out on rent. To have come from a family who made their mark in history by designing jewels for royalty . . . Dexter must be so . . . Did he even know how lucky he was? To grow up with all this? No wonder he was so successful.

  As I sketched in my notepad, someone on the other side of the display case nudged her friend and stage-whispered, “Over there by the bar. The tall one. That’s him. Dexter Daniels.”

  I glanced up and followed the woman’s pointed finger as a man on the far side of the room turned in our direction. His furrowed brow and pained expression came as a shock. What on earth could make someone so miserable on a night like this, in a place full of beautiful things? He pinched the bridge of his nose, the exasperation of being uber-successful obviously too much to bear.

  He was the most handsome man in the room.

  Perhaps the entire city of London.

  His thick, wavy, almost black hair was the perfect length—long enough to thread fingers through, but not so long it could be tied in a ponytail or even worse, a man bun. He seemed to be the only man in the room who wasn’t wearing a tie with his suit, the open shirt displaying a bronzed v at the notch in his throat. He stood out but not because he lived in a trailer park or was wearing borrowed shoes a size too small. It wasn’t how tall he was, or how confidence seemed to radiate from him, or how his jaw was shadowed by a couple days’ worth of stubble. He stood out because rather than looking like he was among colleagues, he looked like he was a client of the jewelers in this room. He seemed like the guy who could throw a couple mill’ down on a necklace for his wife and pick up something for his girlfriend at the same time. Someone came up to greet him and the pain drained from his face, replaced by a wide grin. It was a smile that could close a deal, make someone feel like the most special person in the room and no doubt had panties falling to the ground.

  Not my panties though. Mine were staying firmly on. I dropped my gaze back to the bracelets and resumed sketching.

  I finished off my notes and scanned the room to see if there were any display cases I’d missed. In the far corner there looked to be a smaller case I could have sworn wasn’t there earlier. I wasn’t sure how I could have skipped it. I checked my watch—still a few minutes before I had to meet the bus.

  As I got to the case I froze and nearly dropped my notepad. Inside was the most beautiful ring I’d ever seen. Far simpler than most of the pieces here tonight, it boasted a large emerald flanked by baguette diamonds. While most of the jewelry on display had demonstrated original designs or brilliant engineering, this ring did neither. It was a classic design with a straightforward setting, but it was quite simply stand-out gorgeous. It must have been an engagement ring. But it was huge. I put my hand next to it to get some perspective on its size. The contrast was almost alarming—my rough hands, subjected to a home manicure, and this elegant, d
ignified, perfectly polished ring. A week ago, I’d been home at the Sunshine Trailer Park, with an Etsy shop that brought in a couple of necklace orders a month. Now I was across the world, surrounded by beautiful people and more-beautiful jewelry, at the start of a three-month internship for one of the best jewelers in the world. Even if hands like mine would never be graced by jewelry this fine, I could still use them to make something beautiful.

  Three

  Hollie

  I needed to leave the party to make sure I found the bus on time, but I just wanted to steal a few more moments with this ring. I shoved my notebook and pen back into my bag and circled the display case again. When was I going to get another opportunity to see jewels like this, with this kind of history, demonstrating this kind of talent and creativity?

  It was only now I understood Lord of the freaking Rings. I could happily suspend my disbelief for wizards and hobbits, but I’d never bought into the idea that some mystical band of gold could inspire such risk to life and limb. Looking at this emerald, though, I totally and completely understood how it might be worth a trip to Mordor. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do to put that ring on my finger. Again, I held my hand alongside it. The stone was big, but that was part of its charm. You wouldn’t see anything else when this ring was in your eyeline. My smudged manicure and hand-me-down dress would go unnoticed with this gem on my hand. I might even fit in with the other guests in this ballroom tonight. All it would take was a multi-million-dollar ring.

  “It suits you,” a man said from behind me. His gravelly voice sent an involuntary shiver racing down my spine, as if someone had run a finger across the bare skin of my back.

  I snapped my head around to find the impossibly gorgeous Dexter Daniels grinning at me, his eyes twinkling in amusement. If I’d thought he was handsome from across the room, being face-to-face with him didn’t disappoint. He was broad, filling up the entire space in front of me, and so tall I had to tip my head back to look him in the eye. He was standing close, as if we were already sharing secrets, and a faint woodsy scent came from his custom suit. A curl of shiny black hair fell onto his forehead, and I couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to push it back into place.

  I turned away, unsure if I would be able to form a coherent sentence if I was looking at him. “Sadly, it’s out of my price range,” I said, flattening my hand on the glass case.

  “I’m not sure it’s for sale,” he replied. “But if it was, you should have it.”

  “Right,” I said. “I also deserve a castle in Scotland, but that’s not on this week’s grocery list either.”

  I looked up at him, waiting for a response, but instead he just stared right back at me. When he finally spoke again after a too-long beat of silence, he said, “Your eyes are quite the most beautiful shade of green and have the most glorious flecks of blue, just like a Zambian emerald.”

  I wanted to giggle at his straight-up crazy mixed with a hunk of cheese, but before the corners of my mouth had turned up, he stepped back and his cheeks reddened as if he was embarrassed by what he’d said. As if it had been a slip of the tongue.

  “God, sorry, I sound like I’m coming on to you.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and instinctively I reached to remove his hand.

  “Don’t be sorry. I treat cheese as its own food group. I’m a fan. My name’s Hollie.”

  He chuckled. “Dexter Daniels, and I swear I’m not usually so cheesy. Some people have even accused me of being too smooth.” He narrowed his gaze. “But your eyes are really quite extraordinary.”

  “Yeah, Zambian-emerald extraordinary. I get that all the time, whatever it means.”

  “Wait. You’ve not seen a Zambian emerald?” he said, pulling his cell from his pocket. “Are you not in the gemstone business?”

  I shrugged. “Just an intern.”

  “We all have to start somewhere.”

  “Right,” I said. “This is just the first step.” I thought my Etsy shop would be the first step and in many ways it had been. I just didn’t have the time or money to make enough pieces to turn a profit. My online shop was a hobby, but one that had ignited hope in me, a belief that there was a life for me outside the trailer park once Autumn graduated.

  Dexter handed me his phone, which displayed a huge emerald on it.

  “It’s not as pretty as this,” I said, handing back the phone and nodding at the ring in the display case.

  “Or your eyes,” he replied.

  With a face that pretty and a body that hot, surely this man had women throwing themselves at him left and right. Why was he over here, talking to me about my eyes? Sure, he was gorgeous, but I didn’t need gorgeous unless it could cut glass. I had to stay focused on my internship. I wasn’t in London for a holiday romance.

  “Sorry, more cheese,” he said. “So apart from the ring that goes with your eyes, did you see anything else you like?”

  “What’s not to like? I’m from Nowheresville, Oregon. It all looks good to me. What about you?” I asked.

  “The tiara.” He thrust his fingers through his hair as if he were uncomfortable all of a sudden.

  “It’s very beautiful,” I replied. “The settings for that top layer are genius.”

  He nodded but didn’t elaborate. It was as if his mood had flipped. Maybe he was thinking about the tiara and how hard it would be to design and produce anything as stunning.

  “It sets the bar for this competition pretty high,” I said.

  “I was born for the challenge,” he replied. His mood flipped again and he grinned widely. “My parents designed and made that tiara.”

  “I heard that. So, winning this competition is your . . . destiny?”

  “More like my responsibility.”

  That hadn’t been what I was expecting him to say. I was starting to see that beneath the near-offensive level of hotness and the oh-so-relaxed attitude, Dexter Daniels had hidden depths. And the longer I stood here, breathing the same air as him, the more I wanted to know.

  “That’s an interesting way of looking at it,” I replied. “Holy Hercules,” I said, catching a glimpse of Dexter’s watch. “I was supposed to meet my ride fifteen minutes ago out front.”

  “Let me walk you out,” he said, putting his hand to the base of my spine and making me shiver again as he guided me out.

  I hoped the bus would wait. I didn’t have money to splurge on cab fare and I hadn’t figured out the subway yet.

  “Who’s lucky enough to be taking you home?” Dexter said. “Jesus, everything I say to you sounds positively fondue-like. What is it with you?”

  I laughed. “You think it’s me? I’m cheese-inducing? That’s like the best compliment ever,” I said as we reached the entrance of the hotel. I craned my neck but couldn’t see the bus at the promised pick-up point. Would they just leave me? Weren’t the British too polite to do something like that? “I was meant to be meeting my colleagues.” I was stranded. I didn’t pick up my UK phone until tomorrow, and my thousand-year-old flip phone with an American number and no international roaming plan was back in my room at my short-term rental. It wasn’t like I’d swapped numbers with my new Sparkle coworkers anyway. What use did they have for the intern’s phone number?

  I needed to find a way home, but not before I cut Dexter loose. He’d already distracted me and made me miss my ride. God knew what would happen if I let this go on even one minute more.

  I held out my hand. “It’s been good to meet you, Dexter Daniels.”

  He grinned as he gripped my hand with his.

  “But if you’d point me in the direction of the subway, I’ll be on my way. These Zambian eyes need their beauty sleep.”

  “Please,” he said as a car pulled out in front of us and he opened its back door. “I’ll drop you. Where are you going?” He gestured for me to get inside.

  “This is your car?” I asked. “My mom warned me about getting into cars with strangers.” Of course, that was a lie. It was the kind of thing I warned my siste
r about, but that my mother would have positively encouraged if it meant we saved on bus fare.

  “We’re friends now, though, aren’t we?” he asked. “Not strangers.”

  Silently I weighed my options. Get into the car with the most handsome man in Europe, who would either take me safely home or he’d chop me into tiny pieces and feed me to his dog? On the other hand, I could wander the streets for the evening and end up meeting a murderer anyway. Seemed like even odds on getting home or getting axe-murdered. “You promise me you’re not a serial killer?”

  “Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up three fingers.

  The way his eyes twinkled as he said it suggested Dexter was about as far away from Boy Scout as it was possible to be. But I was lost in a big city, and whatever decision I made would be a risk.

  I took his hand as he helped me into his car. When the door shut, the man at the wheel said, “Good evening, ma’am.”

  He probably thought Dexter was taking me home. Which he was, but not like that. No siree. I wasn’t shopping for distractions.

  “Where are we going?” Dexter asked as he got in beside me.

  I leaned forward to give the driver my address and Dexter chuckled from behind me. “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said as if he’d just discovered a secret about me I didn’t know I’d revealed.

  “You want me to tell you my address so you can tell the driver? Do you have control issues you need to discuss with your shrink?” I teased, grinning. I just hoped he was a guy who could take a joke. “You may be surprised to learn that in America, women can give out their addresses without any male assistance.”

  “Across the pond, but an entirely different world,” he said, unable to contain an answering smile.

  After I gave the driver my address, I settled back into the plush leather seat.

  “So how long have you lived in London?” he asked.

  I counted on my fingers. “Six days. Well, six and a half, if you count the time difference. I arrived last Saturday morning.”