Читать книгу The Deal / Turn Me On - Clare Connelly, Dylan Rose - Страница 18

WELL… THAT WAS UNEXPECTED.

I settle into the luxurious leather of my limo, staring out at Manhattan as I cut across town. I can still smell her on my skin, on my hands, taste her in my mouth. Desire slides across me like warm water, and I throw my head back, squeeze my eyes shut and exhale.

Miss Anonymous is Miss Imogen Carmichael.

I’ve met her before, but only briefly, and while I thought she was attractive, I haven’t really given her a second thought. I focus on that memory now, remembering the way she was with me, the same way she is with everyone in the exclusive club. Friendly, but in a way I instinctively understood to be guarded. She is exceptional at seeming warm without giving much of herself away.

She’s calm and measured, and the club is a testament to that. It’s a behemoth of an organisation and she oversees all aspects of it, an impressive tribute to her hard work.

What is unexpected is the heat that runs just beneath her surface. The passion that makes her lose herself in the moment just as completely as I do—if not more so. She’s driven by instincts, and her instincts are fire and flame.

It isn’t that I haven’t had good sex. I have. But she’s on a whole other level. There’s nothing practised about her, there’s nothing overthought or contrived. She does as she feels, and she feels as she needs, and her body answers mine in every way.

It’s utterly surreal.

It must have been, for me to suggest we date.

Date! What the actual fuck?

I don’t date. I screw. I screw beautiful, available, temporary lovers then move on. A week here and there, sometimes longer, but always on my terms, and always only if my lovers understand my ballgame. I don’t do promises, I don’t do hearts and candles, love, promises of a future. If I date a woman, it’s because she knows how temporary and superficial it will be.

One day, I’ll marry, someone like Saffy, except I’ll never make the mistake of falling in love with them again. The pain of Saffy’s desertion has been muted by the passage of time but it’s still there, a pressure in my solar plexus whenever I remember it. When I think of how it felt to stand in front of the church and realise that she simply wasn’t going to show. It’s a pain that only grew when, a month later, I learned she’d fallen in love with someone else. While I was preparing for our wedding, she was working out how to leave me for some new guy.

I feel my tattoo restlessly. I am my own.

I’d forgotten that for a while. I’d let the union my parents had pushed me into, had championed and supported, become something else in my mind, so I’d actually let myself fall in love with Saffron. So much so that I was devastated when we broke up. Devastated, humiliated, burned to a crisp.

Never again.

When I get married, it will be to someone who wants the title I can give her and the money at my disposal, who understands that, beyond polite companionship, I’m not offering anything more and that, beyond a need for a couple of heirs, I’m not looking for anything further.

It makes me see my parents’ marriage through a new light. I used to think their lovelessness was kind of sad—the way they wasp their way through life. Now, I get it. It’s a practical marriage. They married because it made sense, they had their son and heir to carry on the family name and probably never touched each other again.

Yeah, it’s a well-worn blueprint for marriage in their circles, in my circle, and I have no doubt my own will be just like it.

But until then, for one month, I’m going to enjoy Imogen Carmichael, and I’m going to make it one of the best months of her life. I’m going to take dating to the next level, set the bar so fucking high for the poor next guy that he has to spend the rest of his life working to make her as happy and fulfilled as I have in these four weeks.

Why? Because I’m Nicholas Rothsmore and I’m always, without fail, the best at everything I do, and now that includes dating Imogen.

A box arrives the following afternoon. It’s gunmetal-grey with white cursive script embossed across the top, proclaiming the name of an exclusive Manhattan lingerie boutique. My breath immediately speeds up. I ignore Emily’s curious glance as I take it from her, moving to my desk and placing it carefully on the corner.

‘RSVPs are coming thick and fast,’ I say. ‘Ticket payments are way ahead of where we were at this time last year.’

But, curious or not, Emily is all professionalism. She consults her clipboard for a moment. ‘And donations are great too. Sir Bennet Alwin has donated a guided tour of Australia’s Great Barrier Reef on his own personal submersible.’

‘I wouldn’t mind winning that,’ I say with a smile. He’s one of the leading naturalists of our time, and the Great Barrier Reef is regrettably a dying wonder of the world.

‘You can bid,’ she points out.

It’s true, there’s nothing to preclude me from entering the auction bidding, but, much like dating members, I have my own little set of rules that stands me apart from the other club members. In the past, I’ve matched donations for items that can be replicated, so the charity wins twice.

‘I might. What else?’

‘There’s the private performance by the London Philharmonic, the flight over the Baltic in Yuri Ostromonov’s helicopter, the private cruise of the Antarctic and the custom diamond choker from Alec Minton.’

‘Wow. That’s quite a haul.’

‘That’s just in the last week.’

I shake my head, floored by people’s generosity, even when I know half of it is about advertising and the kudos that comes from being visibly associated with The Billionaires’ Club.

‘Seriously, you should see my inbox. It’s overflowing with offers.’

‘Great. Well, let me know if you need me to wade in.’

‘Nope, I’ve got this. The caterer asked you to go by some time this week to review the menu. You’re free Friday afternoon.’

My heart notches up a bit. Before Nicholas left, he turned and said, ‘Friday night. I’ll be in touch with details.’

But the afternoon is a separate matter. I nod, turning away in case the heat in my blood has converted to pink cheeks. ‘Sounds good. Send me a meeting invite once it’s confirmed.’

‘Done.’

As soon as I’m alone, I cross the room and lift the box, running my finger over the embossed text with a small smile. My fingers shake as I pull on the satin ribbon. It loosens then drops to the floor, just a spool of white against the carpet.

I lift the lid slowly, placing it on the desk. There’s a gold sticker joining two sides of tissue paper together. I slide my finger under it, easing it up, deliberately moving slowly to counteract my body’s impatience, needing to control my instincts—which shout at me to rip the damned paper and see what’s inside.

The paper lifts and a delicate cream silk fabric sits inside, perfectly nestled, so I have to lift it out to see what it is. My breath hitches not at the beauty of the lingerie, though it is stunning, so much as at the idea that he, Nicholas Rothsmore, bought it for me.

I hold it up a little higher, skimming my eyes over the delicate spaghetti straps, which lead to a low V of lace. I can tell that when I wear it, my breasts will be visible through the frothy, twisting swirls. Silk kisses lace and it falls in soft folds down to what I guess will be my hips when I finally put on the exquisite piece. I spin, looking back to the box, and smile, because there are matching briefs, silk and lace, with ribbons at the side, so they can be undone with no more than a slight tug.

Anticipation supercharges my blood. I’m about to lay the lingerie back in the box and stuff the lid on when I catch sight of an envelope in the bottom. Intrigued, I reach for it, opening the back and lifting out a single piece of thick card.

It bears his name at the top, and a coat of arms, which, I imagine, belong to his ancient family. I stare at it for a moment, making out a lion, a spiky-looking flower and a bird with a full and impressive plume of feathers.

Aristocratic guys I generally avoid like the plague. And with good reason. All my experience has made me wary of people with too much money, but at least people who’ve had to work to earn it or fight to keep it have some appreciation for the value of it and an understanding for what life is like for those who don’t; the liberties and choices many are deprived of because of a lack of financial viability.

But it’s the lords and the sirs, the counts and the barons who are, by far, the most…wankery. In fact, the only member I’ve expelled from the club was a lord with an impeccable reputation, but we discovered he’d drugged a waitress at a club event—one of our members had found them in the Intimate Rooms just in time—but, God, it could have been so much worse.

Not that all the guys with titles are bad. They’re just definitely not my type.

I have no idea what my type is, but it’s not Nicholas.

That gives me a sense of relief because I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now, and so the only way I can really date him is because I know it will go nowhere.

Miss Anonymous—

I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.

Wear this.

N

It’s so simple, so completely to the point, but my heart stammers as though he’s breathed the words into my ear, and I need to sit down for a second to regroup. His handwriting is bold and confident, just like him, and he uses—what else?—a fountain pen. I lift it to my lips without thinking and breathe deeply, as though I might somehow catch a lingering hint of him on the card.

Friday is still three nights away and suddenly the wait feels excruciating.

Fortunately, I’m flat out too busy to pine or anticipate…much. Wednesday will be spent doing membership interviews and vetting, Thursday will be planning out next year’s events and schedules, making sure we have something seriously incredible planned for each month. Right now, The Billionaires’ Club is the hottest ticket in the world—my waiting list is a mile long.

It’s a great position to be in but it’s also dangerous territory—someone else could set up and start taking my business if I don’t make sure our offering is consistently better. Extra is my middle name.

We’ve got Egypt on the calendar next year, including the kind of money-can’t-buy access to the Pyramids of Giza followed by a starlit dinner right beneath the Sphinx, with delicacies from all over the world being flown in for members. Imagine a carpet of stars, a thousand candles lighting the way and one of the world’s best jazz musicians crooning some beautiful music all evening long. Followed by a night in a tent that, once you’re inside, is more like a six-star hotel.

It’s taken a huge amount of work to organise—dealing with the authorities and making sure we’re not violating any local customs or laws—but this is what people pay their million dollars a year for. Oh, the ticket price itself is extra on top, but without being a member, you don’t get a look-in.

On Friday, I meet with the gala caterers to do a small tasting of the menu, as well as the wines, and go over the running of the night, explaining when we’ll serve which courses and why.

It’s a busy day, and I’m glad for that, glad that by the time six o’clock rolls around I’ve barely had time to stop, let alone think about Nicholas.

Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve barely stopped thinking about him but in a ‘back of my mind’ kind of way. But as I lather myself in the shower then towel off before smoothing oil over my hairless legs, all I can think about is the next few hours and the certainty that soon his hands will be where my hands are.

My pulse fires at just the thought. When I slip on the lingerie he sent me, my body is already a field of live wires so my breasts tingle and my stomach twists.

I stare at myself in the mirror, still nowhere near ready, but wanting to stay just like this. Not to go out so much as to stay in. I wish I hadn’t agreed to date him, only to sleep with him. Except I’m actually a little excited to see what a guy like Nicholas has planned.

And sex is happening.

I just have to wait a few more hours.

Is this completely crazy? I don’t get involved with members. Even though The Billionaires’ Club is my creation, my baby, and I’m prominent in the community, there’s a distance between me and everyone else. I have to oversee things, to make sure it goes smoothly. I have to run the business side of things and manage membership difficulties.

I can’t be seen fooling around with someone in the club.

This has to stay private. And it has to be brief. He said he’s going back to England in a month, but that’s no real impediment to us seeing each other. I mean, the club has rooms all over the world; we host events everywhere. He attends most of them, like all of the members. So I’m bound to see him again, often enough that we could keep this going on a semi-permanent basis.

And then what?

I see him slinking off to the Intimate Rooms with someone else? I hear along the grapevine he’s getting married to Lady Asher Cumber-something-or-other?

Because that’s how this plays out.

And if I don’t retain a bit of control here, I’ll get hurt. I might seem, on the outside, as if I have everything ordered in my life, but loneliness is pervasive and powerful, and the temptation of being one half of a pair might lead me to forget the sense in all this.

I’ll have to be clear with him from the outset, and clear with myself too. With a small smile curving my lips, I think of the tattoo above his heart and reach for a pen. I am my own. I write the words hastily on the back of a store receipt and stick it to my dressing table mirror.

It’s a good incantation. I’m going to say it often. Just in case.

It’s snowing again and cold out. With no idea what we’re doing or where we’re going, I dress with versatility in mind. A pair of slim-fitting black leather trousers paired with a silk shirt with long, bell sleeves that falls off one shoulder and is a dirty gold in colour. I like it because the colour flatters my skin, the softness of the fabric hugs my curves and makes it pretty obvious I’m not wearing a bra, and when the sleeve drops over one shoulder, you can see the hint of lace from the camisole he sent me.

I take a few minutes to style my hair, curling it with my wand so it falls in big loose waves over one shoulder. Make-up is simple—as always—just a slick of mascara and the bright red lipstick I wore the night we fucked in Sydney.

My heart is pounding like a bird trapped in a too-small cage.

There are still twenty minutes to go. Waiting is killing me.

I pace through to the kitchen and pour a Chardonnay, press play on my phone so soft piano music connects to the speakers that are wired through my apartment, filling the space with beautiful, calming jazz. It helps, but I’m still looking at the clock every ten seconds.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I groan, pacing across the lounge for my handbag. On a whim, I swap it for a small gold clutch that matches my shirt and opt for my faux fur coat, wrapping it around my shoulders as I pace back to the kitchen.

Shoes! I need shoes.

Damn it.

I can only laugh at myself and my state of nervousness as I survey my extensive collection of stilettos. Again, with no idea what we’re doing, I should probably choose a shoe for all occasions.

But as I remember the way he looked at my stilettos that night in Sydney, a wild impulse has me pulling out one of my favourite pairs. Supple leather, a pointed toe, and a heel so high and spindly it’s a wonder they don’t snap in two, gives me a few extra inches in height and a mega-boost in confidence.

I add a couple of bangles on a whim, and have three big gulps of wine then stand perfectly still and wait. I breathe in, I breathe out, I empty my mind, I still my trembling—all the tricks the psychologist taught me right after Abbey died, after I’d started having panic attacks.

I don’t have the attacks any more but I still get flushes of anxiety, especially when I have to speak at an event. No one would ever know—I pride myself on presenting the image of a calm and collected entrepreneur, but in no small part my success at faking a confidence I don’t feel comes from this arsenal of stress-management techniques.

My buzzer rings.

My heart leaps to my throat.

I spin and stalk across the lounge, adrenalin pumping through me as I lift the phone off the cradle. ‘Hello?’ Just a husk.

‘Miss Anonymous?’

My smile is broad and instinctive. ‘I’ll be right down.’

I hang up, take one last look at myself and exhale slowly—it does nothing to quell the butterflies rampaging my stomach. They chase me as I exit the apartment and descend in the lift.

‘Good night, Mr Silverstein.’ I smile as I approach the door. He pulls it inward, a kind smile cracking the lines that form his face.

He lets out a low whistle. ‘You look mighty pretty, Miss Carmichael.’

He has a southern drawl a lot like my pa’s. It softens my heart whenever I speak to him.

‘Thanks.’

‘Got a club function?’

I nod, because it’s easier than admitting the truth—that I have a sort of date.

‘Have fun, be safe.’

He says the same thing every time I go out at night. I like it. Even though I’m long past the point of needing protecting, it’s still nice to feel as if someone cares.

Nicholas is waiting just outside, standing on the kerb, the back door of his low-set black car open. A driver sits behind the wheel. I don’t know what I’d expected. A motorbike, maybe? Not necessarily this. But most people I know are chauffeured around. In fact, I’m probably an anomaly for the fact I use cabs or the subway.

As I step onto the kerb, his eyes trail their way over me, slowly, dragging heat and electricity wherever he looks. My heart stutters, my stomach dives.

Anxiety is back, pulsing through my veins. I refuse to show it.

He takes a step towards me, and another, and my pulse races, my heart twists.

‘You look good enough to eat,’ he murmurs, holding a hand out to me. I place mine in it; sparks dance the length of my limbs, and my eyes widen in recognition of the strength of this attraction and connection.

‘I’ll hold you to that.’

His eyes show amusement, but he doesn’t laugh.

Heat explodes between us. I stay where I am; he doesn’t move either. We’re separated by several feet, but holding hands, just staring at each other.

He’s wearing beige trousers, a white shirt and a dark blue jacket, with brown shoes. He looks handsome, sexy, stylish and wealthy.

I wish he weren’t wearing anything.

‘What are we doing tonight?’ I hear myself ask, my lips shifting into a slight smile.

‘Ah. It’s a surprise.’ He jerks on my hand a little, pulling me towards him, and he kisses me on the cheek. It’s so chaste and weirdly sweet that a different kind of heat, a warmth, flows through me. And then, a whisper in my ear, just low enough for me to catch, ‘But I promise it’s going to end in my bed.’