Читать книгу Cross My Hart - Clare Connelly - Страница 12

I WAKE WITH a start.

Where am I? My phone is buzzing. And there’s a body beside me. A warm, powerful, tanned body with tattoos on his hips and chest.

I lift a hand to my forehead as the events of last night—no!—I check the time—it’s just before midnight—the last few hours—come rushing back to me.

Jagger.

I sigh his name in my mind, my eyes devouring him in this unobserved moment. For he sleeps deeply, exhausted by all the sex.

And I mean all the sex. We ate together, a mountain of food, and then one thing led to another and we were in bed again, and somewhere after that we must have drifted off to sleep. The lights are still on.

I grab my phone off the table, my eyes bleary, and squint at the screen.

Penny’s face smiles back at me.

Frowning, I push my feet out of bed, stumbling towards the bathroom and shutting the door behind me. I push the toilet lid down gently then sit on top of it, swiping my phone to answer at the same time.

‘Penny?’ My voice is a hoarse whisper.

‘Gracie?’ She imitates it.

‘Why are you calling so late?’

‘I promised I’d get you home by midnight, didn’t I?’

I smile slowly, her dependability never in doubt. ‘That you did, lady.’

‘So? Where are you?’

My smile is self-conscious. ‘Not home yet.’

‘Oh my god,’ she squeaks. ‘You went back to his place?’

I nod, then, because it’s a phone conversation and nodding is pointless, clear my throat and say, ‘Yes.’

‘Gracie! I’m so proud of you! And? Was he everything those abs promised he would be?’

‘And more.’ A smile tickles my lips. ‘But I can’t talk now. I’m going to turn into a pumpkin unless I get out of here...’

Regret spirals inside of me. I don’t want to go. Not yet. But tomorrow is a hugely important day for me; I can’t mess it up. The whole future of my company is riding on it. This deal has the power to wrest me free of Gareth, to buy him out once and for all. Everything’s organised. I just need to show the buyer around the golf course, spend a few days showcasing the best the region has to offer, and then present the contracts...

I have to be fresh-faced and quick-witted; I’ve heard the buyer is a hard nut to crack and I am absolutely going to crack him.

Penny sighs. ‘As much as I hate to agree with you, I don’t want you working with that fuckwit Gareth for a moment longer. Away with you, Cinderella. Get thee to a taxi and texteth me when you’re home at your palace.’

‘Cinderella lives in a dungeon, I think.’

‘Fine, your dungeon.’ I can hear her epic eye-roll. ‘Just text me. Love you.’

‘You too.’

We hang up and I stare at my phone for a few moments, cradled against my naked legs.

I know I have to go, and yet I sit there for a few moments longer, bracing myself for the inevitable. This is just a sex thing, by the way. I’ve always known I’m a pretty sexual person—way more so than Gareth—but I never knew sex could be quite so...exhilarating. This went beyond sheer satisfaction. I felt like Jagger pushed me in every way possible and I abandoned myself to him, and this, in a way I wouldn’t have said was at all likely.

There’s nothing for it, though. I’ve worked too hard to potentially ruin a deal of this magnitude just because I’d really rather fall asleep next to his warm body and wake up in his arms...

With a sigh, I slip into the hotel room and dress as quietly as I can. And even though I’m barely louder than a mouse, I kind of wish he’d wake up and catch me in the act. Then I could explain in person. I could kiss him and one thing might lead to another, again.

He sleeps soundly and I stare at him for a few more self-indulgent seconds before grabbing the standard-issue hotel notepad off the desk and a pen from my bag.

Thanks...you were great. Grace.

It is short and to the point, but what else could I say? I’m never going to see this man again and soon this will be a very nice, very distant burn-me-alive memory.

* * *

Sydney is baking hot and here, on the private runway to the west of the airport, it feels like Satan’s waiting room. I stand at the base of the jet’s steps and cast an impatient glance at my watch.

She’s late.

Whoever Gareth is sending in his stead is five minutes behind schedule and it takes my mood from bad to worse.

I suck in a breath of the sultry, tarry air, reminding myself it isn’t this person’s fault that I woke up harder than rock with my erstwhile lover nowhere to be seen.

I should be grateful—I hate the ‘morning after,’ the awkwardness of extricating myself without leaving a phone number, the conversation about, ‘Thanks, I’m just not in a place where I can commit to anyone right now...’