Читать книгу The Millionaire's Proposition - Avril Tremayne - Страница 9

KATE LET HERSELF into her apartment, tossed her bag onto the couch, kicked off her shoes, wiggled her toes…and let out a tortured groan that had nothing to do with her sore feet and everything to do with the divorce party.

Which had been a disaster.

She couldn’t believe she’d been smut-talking about a stapler and a Rubik’s cube. As bad as Dirty Martini Barnaby! Flirting with that hot, gorgeous hunk like a horny teenager.

And then to discover that the hot, gorgeous hunk practically was a horny teenager…

She let out another tortured groan.

Not that twenty-seven really was teenaged.

But she was thirty-two, for God’s sake! A my way or the highway woman of thirty-two!

She opened the French doors and stepped onto the expansive terrace of her apartment. She’d chosen the apartment for the view—not the Harbour Bridge in the distance, even though that was her favourite Sydney landmark, but the boats. Something about them, bobbing gently in Rushcutters Bay, soothed her. The escape daydream, she called it. Sailing away from her troubles to a world of possibilities. A world of adventure…

She tried to bring herself back to earth by reminding herself of the time she’d forced the husband of one of her clients to sell his boat and hand over half the cash and he’d cried like a baby. But even the memory of that less than edifying spectacle couldn’t stop her thinking about adventures and possibilities.

And tonight, very specifically, the possibility of an adventure with Scott Knight.

The image of him was so clear in her head. That killer body—tall, broad, strong. The slightly spiky mid-brown hair. The alertness of his cool, pale green eyes. That I’ve got a secret smile that was kind of calculating…and somehow intriguing exactly because of that. She’d wanted to twist him into a sexual pretzel the moment she’d heard his lazy, drawling voice—a voice so at odds with the alert intelligence in his eyes it was almost a challenge.

But…twenty-seven years old?

She covered her face with her hands and let fly with one more tortured groan.

Pent-up need—that was the problem. It had been a long time between…cocktails. Dirty Martini, Bosom Caresser, Between the Sheets, Sex on the Beach or any other kind. A damned long time.

Well, she clearly couldn’t be trusted to see Scott Knight again until that pent-up need had been met. She would have to make sure any Weeping Reef gathering was Scott-free before attending. In fact, she’d go one step further and stick to girls-only catch-ups when it came to Willa. So just Willa, Amy, Jessica and the other girl she had yet to meet—Chantal—if she ever showed. No Rob. No Scott. Luke was in Singapore, and the other guy whose name started with a B—Brady? No, Brodie—hadn’t turned up at anything yet. So the whole girls-only thing was definitely doable.

And in the meantime she would find some other man to twist into a sexual pretzel. Someone like Phillip, a barrister who was happily divorced, suave, cultured and—at forty years old—mature. In the right age ballpark.

Then she would let the girls know she was taken, word would find its way to Scott, and that would be that.

Yes, Phillip would do very nicely. She would give him a call on Monday and arrange to catch up with him at the bar near her office for a Slow Comfortable Screw. A Strawberry Stripper. A Sex Machine. Or…or something.

Monday morning for Kate began with an eight o’clock client meeting.

Kate always felt like cuddling this particular client. Fragile, timid Rosie, who crept into her office as though she’d like a corner to hide in. Rosie was so intimidated by her husband she couldn’t even bring herself to tell him he was making her unhappy—so how she was going to raise the subject of divorce was anyone’s guess.

It was not a position a Cleary woman would ever find herself in!

Her frustrating meeting with Rosie reminded Kate how happy she was not to be married. And that, in turn, prompted her to get to the task of calling the equally gamophobic Phillip to arrange that bar meeting. A highly satisfactory phone call that took four businesslike minutes.

Two meetings later she made herself a cup of coffee and opened her diary to recheck her schedule…and blinked.

Blinked, blinked, blinked.

She called her no-nonsense, indeterminately aged, absolutely superb assistant. ‘What’s this appointment at twelve-thirty today, Deb?’

‘Hang on…’ Keyboard clicks. ‘Oh, Scott Knight. He called while you were with your eight o’clock. Said he’d mentioned a lunch appointment when he saw you on Saturday night.’

Kate slumped back in her chair, awed—and depressingly delighted—at the presumption of it.

‘Oh, did he?’ she asked, trying to sound ominous.

‘So he didn’t?’ Chuckle. ‘Well, I did wonder why you hadn’t mentioned it to me, but he sounded… Well, let’s keep it clean and say nice, so I made an executive decision and slotted him in.’

‘Yes, he does sound “nice”,’ Kate said dryly, and smiled at Deb’s sudden crack of laughter.

‘Want me to cancel him, hon? Leave you to your takeaway chicken and mung-bloody-bean salad?’

Kate opened her mouth to say an automatic yes—but into her head popped an image of Rosie that morning. Diffident. Nervous. Panicky. Dodging her husband rather than telling him their marriage was over.

And hot on the heels of that came the memory of her own behaviour on Saturday night, dodging Scott at Willa’s party. So unnerved by the force of her attraction to him she’d mapped out an actual plan for seeing only Willa, Amy and Jessica. Crazy. She should be able to see her friends whenever and wherever she wanted, without giving a second thought to whoever else might just happen to be in the vicinity.

As if she couldn’t handle a twenty-seven-year-old!

And on her own turf…in her own office? Easy.

This would not be like the divorce party, where the kick of lust had taken her by surprise. She would be prepared for it today. And she could tell him directly, herself, that she was no longer in the market—so thanks, but no thanks.

‘Kate?’ Deb prompted. ‘Shall I cancel him?’

Kate straightened her shoulders. ‘No, that’s fine,’ she said. ‘It will take approximately five minutes to conclude my business with Mr Knight. Plenty of time to eat chicken and mung-bloody-bean salad afterwards.’ She nodded, satisfied. ‘Now, can you grab me the McMahon file? There’s something I need to check before the parties arrive to have another crack at a settlement conference.’

‘Mmm-hmm. Settlement conference… That’s what they’re calling World War III these days, is it?’

Scott, no stranger to wooing women, brought flowers to Kate’s office. Nothing over the top. Just simple, colourful gerberas that said I’m charming so I don’t have to bring roses.

Not that he saw any softening in Deb’s face as he handed over the bunch.

‘Seems a shame to spend money on flowers when you’re only going to be in there for five minutes,’ she said.

‘Oh, they’re not for Kate,’ Scott said. ‘They’re for you.’

‘Even so…’ Deb said, but he didn’t miss the tiny sparkle that sprang to life in her eyes. ‘Her meeting is running over time. Take a seat, if you’d like to wait.’

Scott angled himself so he could see through the glass wall of the boardroom. Could see her. Kate.

She was sitting at a long table, her back to him. Beside her was an overly blonded, expensive-looking woman wearing lime-green. The client, obviously. On the opposite side of the table was a man who epitomised lawyerdom. Pinstriped suit, white shirt, conservative tie. Beside Pinstripe was a man who looked as if he’d spent too long on the tanning bed, wearing an open-necked shirt with a humungous gold chain visible against his chest. Gold Chain was holding a dog. A furry little dog. Which he kept petting.

Amongst the four of them—five, if you included the dog—there were frequent vehement headshakes, very occasional nods, hand gestures aplenty. At one point Kate ran a hand tiredly over her hair, which was tied in a low ponytail. It made Scott want to touch her.

And that reminded him that their only physical contact on Saturday night had been a handshake. So it was kind of nuts to be so obsessed with her. But obsessed was what he was.

Suddenly Kate stood. She put her hands on the table and leaned forward—making a particular point, he guessed. She was wearing a cream skirt suit. Beautifully, tightly fitted.

Scott was appreciating the view of her really superb backside when she stretched just a little bit further forward and her skirt hitched up for one split second. Just long enough to give him a tiny glimpse of the lacy band at the top of one of her…ooohhh…stockings.

She was wearing stockings.

All the blood in Scott’s body redirected itself in one gush, straight to his groin. The sudden ache of it made him clamp his jaws together.

Stockings!

Stay-ups? Suspenders? Hell, who cared which?

Then she was back in her seat. Scott realised he’d been holding his breath and exhaled—very, very slowly.

He forced his eyes away from her—scared he’d start drooling otherwise—and saw Gold Chain give the dog a kiss on the nose while keeping his eyes on his wife across the table.

That seemed to incense Blondie—which Scott could understand, because it was kind of gross—who leapt to her feet and screeched so loudly her voice bounced straight through the glass wall. Next moment all four of them were standing. There were waved arms, pointed fingers, even a stamped foot. The stamped foot was from Blondie, who was then subtly restrained by Kate, who seemed serene in the midst of chaos. Pinstripe was using a similar restraining movement on Gold Chain, but was somewhat hampered by the dog snapping at him.

Scott heard a few words shouted—hurled. Custody. Holidays. Missed drop-offs. Interspersed with an occasional ear-sizzling foul-mouthed curse.

Shocked, Scott looked at Deb. Shouldn’t she be calling the cops before someone threw an actual punch? But Deb just kept typing, unperturbed. Which would have to mean that Kate put up with such crap routinely, wouldn’t it? Did that explain Kate’s air of cynicism at Willa’s divorce party? Because if this was divorce, it sure wasn’t pretty.

He tuned back in to the screeches. A custody battle? Had to be. The antagonists were…what?…in their early thirties, maybe? So the kids had to be young. How many kids?

Scott wondered how his own parents would have handled a custody battle. Not that his parents would have done anything so undignified as get divorced. The joining of two old families, the merging of two fortunes, had been destiny working the way it was supposed to—even if he’d never seen his parents kiss, let alone hold hands. Their merger was too perfect ever to be classified as a mistake, so that sucker wasn’t getting dissolved.

But if they had divorced he couldn’t imagine them getting into a raging custody battle. Over him, at any rate. They would have come up with a simple, bloodless schedule of visits, complete with taxi pick-ups and drop-offs.

Custody of his older brother would have been a different story. There would have been nothing amicable about sharing the ‘perfect’ son. Maybe that was the real reason they’d stayed together—the inability to satisfactorily halve his brother.

And what an opportune moment for the boardroom door to be opening, so he could stop thinking.

Gold Chain was coming out, carrying the dog, speaking furiously to his solicitor. Pinstripe had a grip on his client’s dog-free arm and was dealing admirably with dodging the growling dog’s snapping jaws as he walked Gold Chain past Deb’s desk and out of the suite. Kate and her client stayed in the room talking for a few minutes, but then they too appeared. Kate was nodding, her red-lipsticked mouth pursed in sympathy.

Kate caught sight of him—and slashes of pink zapped along her cheekbones as if by Magic Marker. And then she returned her concentration to Blondie.

‘It’s not good enough,’ Blondie was saying. ‘He keeps returning her late. If it doesn’t stop I’ll be rethinking the money. Make sure he knows that, Kate.’

A few soothing words, an unrelenting shepherding towards the suite exit. Out through the door.

And then…silence.

Deb looked at Scott. Raised her eyebrows. That little sparkle was in her eyes again.

Scott raised his eyebrows back, a little shell-shocked and a lot awed at what Kate had just put up with. And still somewhat gobsmacked that such a small dog could be so nasty. He’d back that dog against a pitbull.

And then Kate was coming back. Smiling coolly—very lawyer-like and professional.

‘Scott,’ she said, and held out her hand.

Scott shook it. ‘Kate,’ he said, and could hear the laughter in his voice. Less than forty-eight hours ago they’d been heading for sex. Today he got a handshake.

No. Just…no.

Kate gestured to the office next to the boardroom. Scott walked ahead of her, opened the heavy wooden door and stood just inside, taking in the dignified space. Carpeted floor. Big desk. Behind the desk a large tinted window on the outside world. Large window on the inside world too—untinted—through which he could see Kate speaking to Deb, because the Venetian blinds that were there for privacy were open. Neat, modern filing cabinets. Two black leather chairs in front of her desk. Vivid knock-out painting on one wall—the only splash of colour.

And then Kate was entering, closing the door behind her. He turned to face her. She was close. So close. Cream suit. Red hair. Those other-worldly grey eyes. Tuberose scent.

Just for a second the memory of the top of her stocking burst in his head.

And drove him wild.

Which had to be why he grabbed her by the upper arms, backed her up a step, pushed her against that nice solid door and covered her mouth with his.