Читать книгу The Proposition - J.C. Harroway - Страница 12

Orla

I TAKE THE first delicious and well-earned sip of my drink with a sigh, my lip curling with satisfaction as the decadent flavour of the Macallan Scotch glides over my tongue. Not because I drink a lot of the spirit, or alcohol in general, but because it’s a Scottish single malt, and therefore considered inferior by my Irish-born father. Even at the age of thirty-six, I feel the need to break free from his expectations.

The oppressive feeling that’s followed me since I arrived in Monaco to pursue my latest client, Jensen’s, weighs down on me once more, as if the air itself is too heavy. My intel that Jensen’s are shopping around, sniffing at my father’s door, adds to the pressure. Perhaps I’m burning out, pushing myself too hard to be the best, to outmanoeuvre the man who considered me unworthy to take the helm of our family business. But this deal has too much riding on it for me to blow it now; better to back off, to let the prospective client feel as if they’ve been wooed, but not cornered.

My fingers toy with my glass, slowly spinning it on the sleek and shiny bar. I look around the dimly lit intimacy of the casino, trying to shake off any thought of work, more determined than ever to embrace a change of pace for the evening. That’s why I’m here, dressed to the nines, pretending to enjoy myself at Monaco’s most glamorous club; why I left my sumptuous suite in the hotel upstairs despite its stunning views of Port Hercule in the dusk, a million lights dancing on the gently bobbing Mediterranean Sea. To let off a little long-overdue steam after a day of meetings, of waiting for the email that will tell me I’ve won Jensen’s’ business from under my father’s nose.

I clink the ice in my glass, smirking at my pathetic efforts to cut loose from working, which is pretty much my entire life—a single-drink party for one.

Wow, Orla. You really know how to let your hair down…

Ignoring my snarkier side, and to distract me from ruminating on the high stakes of the Jensen’s deal, I slide my stare around the casino, scanning the tables beyond the bar while I contemplate a tame gamble to liven up my rare night off. A small bet won’t hurt, even if it goes against every cell of my venture capitalist’s brain to risk money on a whim of chance. But it’s exactly what I need—a release valve, a way to break free from my own head, my own high expectations, my endless desire to succeed.

A distraction.

I sigh, disgusted with myself. It’s been ten years since I was passed over for my younger and less qualified brother. Ten years of hard work, one successful global investment firm and one marriage casualty later and I’m still trying to prove him wrong. My father, that is.

My roaming attention is drawn to the group of excited onlookers around one of the roulette tables. Someone must be about to either lose or double a significant chunk of his net worth on a single spin of the wheel for the game to attract such interest. We’re all members of the M Club here, all wealthy enough for an invitation-only membership and therefore used to top-shelf hedonistic pursuits, so this big roller must be something else.

I click my tongue against my teeth at such reckless behaviour. To me money is sacrosanct—a means to live on my own terms and a marker of success beyond being from one of Sydney’s most affluent families. My entire livelihood is based on how much wealth I can generate for my clients, who trust me with their investments.

I crane my neck despite myself, curiosity winning over the distaste of witnessing someone about to gamble with daredevil abandon, if the crowd of onlookers is any indication, catching only a glimpse of the back of a blond head. His hair is a little long for the usual immaculate clientele of the M Club, but whoever it is who’s providing this evening’s entertainment, at least he’s enjoying himself and thrilling the crowd. At least he’s not moping at the bar with a barely touched drink, thinking about work. At least he knows how to have fun outside of endlessly striving to prove something to a father who happily overlooked his daughter in favour of having a son at the helm.

I finger the two-carat diamond stud in my ear, my mind dragged from the audacious stranger. The earrings were a twenty-fifth birthday gift from my father—a gift I consider a consolation prize. A gift I wear every day as a talisman, a reminder that what I’ve achieved in the ten years since, I’ve done alone and in spite of my archaic, misogynist father. A fresh layer of impotence settles over my skin, a familiar layer of prickly heat, one that drives me to be better, to aim higher, to prove him wrong…

The second sip of my Scotch fails to deliver the escape I crave. Now all I need to complete my misery is to ruminate on my failed marriage to Mark…

I release a sigh. For fuck’s sake, can’t I spend one evening having fun?

I glance back at the roulette table, more in need of a distraction than ever now that my thoughts have turned maudlin and focused on my greatest failure in life. The crowd around the man who seems to be causing the casino security team to sweat inside their pristine white collars parts, gifting me a full, uninterrupted view of the high-stakes gambler.

In the same heartbeat he looks up from the table, the chip he’s twirling between his fingers stalling as our eyes collide for a split second.

My breath catches. I slide my parched tongue over my lips, seeking the remnants of the sip of Scotch to steady my pulse at the violent jolt of attraction. This place is crammed to the gills with wealthy, beautiful and successful people, but this guy…

Harshly masculine, from the cut of his square, stubble-covered jaw to his body’s uninterested lounge in the chair, he’s hotter than Hades, explaining at least half—the female half—of the attention he’s assembled. But he’s younger than I assumed—mid-to-late twenties—young, in fact, to be a member of the M Club, which is exclusively for billionaires.

Too young for me. But I did ask for a distraction, and they don’t come more eye-catching than a gorgeous man in his prime.

My finger traces the rim of my glass as I watch. He’s focused once more on the spin of the wheel, and yet I can’t drag my greedy eyes away, even though I’ve seen this kind of display before, met his type before. Playing hard and fast, they never last long as M Club members, no doubt blowing money they have no idea how to master, allowing it to own them until they lose every cent and their membership is delicately, but adamantly, rescinded.

But despite his flagrant display, my body warms, the delicious stirring of interest kicking up my pulse as I watch the latest easy-on-the-eye hotshot from my vantage point at the bar. From his appearance, the way he’s flouting the strict dress code of tuxedos for men and evening wear for women with his absence of a bow tie and his unbuttoned shirt collar, I’m surprised he was even admitted to the casino. Somehow, and for reasons I can’t fathom, his devil-may-care attitude adds to his appeal. My existence must be particularly dull at the moment for me to be impressed by someone who, on the surface, seems to be intent on making himself considerably poorer. After all, I, and most of the people in this casino, are in the money-making, not money-losing, business.

The rebel lifts a glass of amber liquid to his mouth and I’m caught off guard anew by his hands: the manly size of them—serious, capable hands that look more accustomed to manual labour than they do to running an empire from a smartphone as do most of the M Club’s members.

Teasing fingers of intrigue dance down my spine. What would those hands feel like holding my face as we kissed? Rough or smooth? Hesitant or demanding?

In unison the crowd around him sighs, snapping me from lusty fantasies about a younger stranger and informing me that his winning streak has dried up. But not a flicker of emotion crosses his handsome face. With less interest than if he’d tossed away a soiled napkin, he slides a stack of chips forward, placing another bet seemingly at random.

Then our eyes collide again.

I freeze, too startled to look away, although I should in case my intrigue is written all over my face, but I’m too fascinated by his expression of both boredom and challenge to do anything other than gape.

His eyes—I can’t tell from this distance whether they’re blue or grey—travel my face, dip lower and then bounce back up. In that second I know he’s appraising me as I am him, and by appraising I mean assessing availability clues, scanning for a wedding ring and generally lusting.

And why shouldn’t I lust? My sexy side is long overdue an outing; in fact, she’s probably desperate to break free, she’s been so neglected recently. This guy certainly looks as if he could bring a nun out of her shell…

I smooth a hand over my sleek chignon, adjusting a hairpin that’s slipped a fraction in a largely unconscious gesture.

The stranger’s expression shifts again, his lip curling with mild derision, telling me that he, with his overly long hair and his disregard for the club dress code, very much sees that I’m exactly the type of member the M Club was created for—wealthy, demanding, with an appreciation for the finer things in life. But rather than my membership earning his respect, I can tell he’s somehow judging, as if he thinks he has me all figured out.

I stare a little harder, sit a little straighter, spurred on by defiance and used to fighting my own corner against the men in my life. His mouth stretches into a sinfully sexy and lazy grin that seems to burn through my designer silk dress as if it’s made of cobwebs.

Perhaps professional exhaustion and sexual frustration is messing with me, because he’s definitely interested, despite his judgement, our age gap and our apparent differences.

For a split second, danger and excitement zaps through my bloodstream as if he’s delivered a potent shot of the Macallan directly to my system from across the room with that seductive smile. But before I can suck in a calming breath, he looks away.

My pulse plummets. What was I thinking?

I spin back to the bar on my stool, trying to shake off the uncharacteristic bout of sexual curiosity for a younger man. Curiosity for any man since my divorce is a rarity. If I’m not working or travelling I’m thinking about work. Yes, I wanted to blow off some steam, but not with his kind of distraction. I need something more forgettable, less consuming and more…fleeting.

The idea of a horizontal distraction takes root as I tap one fingernail against my glass. Why not? It would be more fun than drinking alone at the bar. I dressed and came downstairs in search of a change from the norm, a break from the long hours I habitually put in, a way to stop myself pushing my latest deal into the hands of my main competitor—my father’s company.

With the reminder that, in my father’s eyes, and despite my having built my own international firm, I’ll never be quite good enough. I’m back to square one. Instead of celebrating the successes which have brought me this far, I’m mired in the two great failures of my life. I take another sip of Scotch, fighting the bitterness I usually harness for motivation. Hell, my entire marriage was squeezed into an unforgiving schedule of meetings, world travel and time zones, my workaholic nature almost certainly the reason it failed. Another thing to credit my father with. If he’d been a little more emotionally present, a little less professionally demanding, maybe I wouldn’t be so distant, so goal orientated, so driven. Perhaps then I might have given my marriage the attention it deserved.

Come on, pull it together.

I’m not looking for another doomed relationship. I’m not looking for a relationship, full stop. Just an anonymous night of pleasure…

I look up from my drink again, scanning the patrons around me for someone more forgettable than the roulette rebel. Someone my age. Someone safe.

Then everything happens in a frenzied blur.

A commotion breaks out at a nearby blackjack table. A woman cries for help and before I’ve even swivelled in my seat, my sexy stranger dives from his laid-back slouch and strides towards the woman’s husband, who is pale and sweaty and an alarming shade of grey.

While roulette guy commands what is clearly some sort of medical emergency—tossing off his jacket, crouching down and loosening the older man’s collar—an air of panic settles over the entire room. The man clutching his chest accepts some sort of tablet from his wife, popping it under his tongue, his colour improving almost immediately. Security rallies and within seconds the blackjack table has been cleared of players to afford some space and privacy, the club’s in-house nurse is in attendance and an ambulance has been summoned.

I turn away, but from the corner of my eye I see roulette guy and the nurse help the man into a wheelchair and he’s wheeled from the casino, even managing a weak smile and handshake for his rescuer, who waves off the smattering of relieved applause around him as he scoops up his jacket. He returns to his table to collect his chips, passes an impressive stack to the croupier and saunters towards the bar.

A kind of forced normality returns to the room. The croupiers smile thin smiles as they resume games, the waitstaff clear already immaculate tables and members, myself included, breathe a sigh of relief that the drama was quickly and efficiently dealt with.

But then, this is the M Club.

I settle my own adrenaline surge with a shaky sip of Scotch. Then a male figure enters my peripheral vision, the space between us flooding with a spicy masculine scent and an almost palpable wall of testosterone.

I look up. Way up—sexy roulette guy is tall.

Grey—the eyes are grey. And, up close, searing and intense.

‘You look pale,’ he says, his confident voice distractingly deep and resonant and exactly how I imagined it would sound. ‘Let me buy you a brandy—it’s better for the nerves than whatever it is you’re drinking there.’

I detect an Aussie twang to the accent. Although my private education rubbed the corners from my own lilt, I still have an ear for a fellow Australian.

I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to rush to the ladies’ room and check if, in fact, I am pale. ‘I’m good with my Scotch, thanks.’

As if deaf to my assertion, roulette guy signals the barman. ‘Brandy for everyone, please—the good stuff.’ He adds, although he should know the good stuff is all they sell at the M Club. Of course he would shout the entire casino a drink. The stack of chips I saw him tip the croupier with moments ago is more than most people will bet in an entire evening of entertainment.

But now I’m curious, although I try to affect boredom, which is out of sync with the raging of my pulse. ‘Are you a doctor?’ I want to blank him, to ignore the tantalising aura he seems to have around him, and return to my preconceived ideas of a privileged playboy intent on flashing his cash.

But if roulette guy wants to impress women with his affluence, he’s in the wrong joint. No one crosses the threshold of an M Club establishment without a string of zeroes at the end of their bank balance.

He drapes his suit jacket over the back of the stool next to mine and unbuttons his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves to expose strong, tanned forearms in a move that hints he’s dying to get out of his suit.

‘No, I’m not a doctor.’ The look he delivers seems to bathe me in the beam of a thousand floodlights. ‘But I’m no good at sitting back and watching things unfold either. I’m used to…getting my hands dirty, shall we say?’

He looks at my mouth while he says the word dirty. I press my lips together, already imagining the taste of his kiss. Bold, firm, all-consuming.

What is wrong with me?

He thanks the barman for his glass of brandy with a jerk of his angular chin and tosses back the liquor in a single swallow. ‘And I have some first-aid training—he’ll be fine, I’m sure. He just panicked because the angina attack was worse than usual. I’m sure most people here would have helped—I just got there first.’

‘I guess, although, as M Club members, we’re used to everything, medical emergencies included, being dealt with efficiently and discreetly.’

His eyes swoop over the length of my body from head to toe, and I feel his scrutiny again, as if he too has made a snap judgement on our differences.

We’re interrupted at that moment by a petite brunette in her twenties with a winning smile.

‘Excuse me, sir, I’m Ellie Little.’ At his nod, she holds up an M Club key fob. ‘The key to your new supercar, sir.’

I smile at Ellie and then look back to my smug companion, my eyebrows raised in question. I passed the display of sleek sports cars in the ballroom on my way to the casino, but I paid them little attention, short of wondering who would succumb despite their hefty price tags. I guess now I know.

‘Thanks.’ He takes the key and pockets it, his smile for Ellie wide and engaging.

Ellie leaves us, and I spy her joining Ash Evans, the club owner, at the casino entrance. When I turn back to face my companion my expression must speak for me.

‘What?’ he asks, all innocence.

I shrug. ‘You’re having a great night, if you exclude your losses at the roulette table. Which car did you buy?’ I may not know anything about cars, but I do know you can’t walk into a regular showroom and drive away with a supercar. They’re made-to-order, top of the range, one of a kind.

He looks away, appearing bored. ‘I’m not sure…the yellow one, I think.’

‘You’re not sure,’ I deadpan. Is he for real? Despite my growing attraction to him, I can’t decide if I feel appalled or delighted.

‘I bought the winning car—were you in town for the race earlier?’ he asks, and I shake my head.

‘No—I’m here on business.’ I don’t elaborate. The last thing I want to talk about is the deal that brought me to Monaco. The deal I’m trying to forget for one night.

He scoffs. ‘That figures.’

I narrow my eyes. ‘What does that mean?’

‘You have that look about you—impatiently tapping your glass, frequently checking your phone. You look like a woman waiting for either a date or a business deal. Since no one in their right mind would stand you up, I’m guessing it’s work that has you distracted.’

‘Oh, nice recovery,’ I say.

He flashes another disarming smile. ‘So—’ he glances down at my still half-full drink ‘—is this a party for one, or would you like some company?’

I flush that he’s noticed my lacklustre attempts to let loose. Then I bristle that he’s judging me. ‘Are you suggesting I don’t know how to have a good time simply because I’m not blowing a small fortune on a single spin of roulette or buying the latest thing on four wheels?’

I mash my mouth closed, irritated with myself for admitting I hadn’t been able to stop myself watching his little show.

He lifts one eyebrow in a look that says if the shoe fits, but then his eyes darken, the heat behind them kissing my skin wherever his stare trails. ‘Do you know how to have a good time?’

Why does it feel as if we’re talking about something more intimate than gambling or drinking? ‘I… Of course I do.’

He rests one elbow on the bar. ‘I assume you’re here to let your hair down in a safe, luxurious space—isn’t that why you’re an M Club member?’ He leans in. ‘Or is it all about the networking? All work and no play?’

His spot-on assumption leaves me squaring my shoulders with indignation, a move that in no way combats my attraction to his particular brand of insolent swagger. ‘Why are you a member? And why Monaco? Why so far from home?’

He shrugs, feigning boredom with my question, but I see a flash of hesitation in his eyes, a hint of vulnerability, rapidly blinked away and replaced with that roguish smile. ‘Can’t you tell?’ He tilts his head in the direction of the roulette table. ‘I’m on a bender, a pleasure spree, free and easy and hoping to broaden my horizons with luxury travel, fast cars and—’

‘Let me guess,’ I interrupt, ‘beautiful women?’ I try to laugh but I’m too attracted to him for the sound to emerge.

But he laughs, a deep rumble in his broad chest, and I flush hot at the power he seems to hold over my out-of-practice libido. His tongue swipes his bottom lip as he watches me more intently. ‘Well, what’s not to love about that combination? You’re a stunning woman, intriguing, alone—what are you doing here if not seeking your own kind of hedonistic escape?’

‘Arrogant much?’ I try to look away, but it’s as if we’re pinballs, bouncing and sparking off each other. I search his eyes, if only to show I’m not intimidated. But now he’s brought up pleasure it’s all I can think about… How can he tell I’d been sitting here contemplating exactly the kind of distraction he’s talking about? Would he be open to sex with an older woman looking to blow off some steam for the night? Isn’t that what the look of intrigue in those smoky eyes is saying?

He shrugs, a mocking twist to his generous mouth. ‘I saw you looking at me—you want something, and it’s not to drink or gamble like everyone else in this room.’

‘No, I don’t make a habit of risking my hard-earned money.’ I shrug. ‘Perhaps the occasional tame flutter.’

He inches closer, drops his voice to a conspiratorial level. ‘I’d bet the stack of chips I have in my pocket—’ he shakes his jacket, the telltale rattle indicating his point ‘—that you don’t even know what it is you want.’ His teeth scrape his bottom lip and, despite myself, my body leans a fraction closer to his imposing masculinity.

‘But I’m guessing I do,’ he stage-whispers, his breath gusting over my exposed shoulder and sending delicious tingles down to my fingertips, which itch to reach out, to tangle in that slightly too-long hair and tug him down to my kiss…

‘Is that so?’ I hold my breath, trying to avoid his delicious scent, but my body has other ideas, my thighs clenching and my underwear growing damp at the mere thought of what he’d be like as a lover. Can he really see me so clearly? See what I want when I’ve spent the past thirty minutes sitting here trying to figure it out for myself? And do I care who’s right? Wasn’t I, only moments ago, contemplating what his deep voice might promise?

An anonymous night. A delicious distraction?

My heart leaps against my ribs. I wanted to unleash my sexy, playful side for the night. My ex gloried in telling me how uptight I was, that I didn’t know how to be a wife, how to switch off from work. Well, I came to this casino to do just that. But with a man like him? Arrogant. Reckless. Some sort of fly-by-night success intent on brashly disposing of large chunks of his wealth…

He nods, his fingers drumming out a beat on the bar only he can hear. ‘You want to let down that gorgeous but tightly leashed hair. You want to slip out of yourself for a while, loosen up a little.’

I do, not that I can admit it to the perceptive man who thinks he has me all pegged. My throat tightens, hot and achy. It’s as if he can see straight through me, as if he can see that, for just one night, I want to break free of it all. But why shouldn’t I have my sexy diversion with a stranger I’ll never meet again?

‘Why don’t you sit down before you fall down?’ I say, defensive. No matter how hot, how confident, how intuitive he is, I’m not rushing into something I’ll only regret in the morning, for all his persuasive skills.

He grins, but his eyes harden a fraction, telling me he’s fully in command of all his faculties and won’t be slighted. ‘I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re implying. And I prefer to stand.’

‘So women have to look up to you?’ I might be currently captive to the unexpected revival of my hormones, but I’m not in the market for a cocky young buck, all talk but lacking in substance.

He smiles as though he knows the effect he’s having on my erogenous zones, as though he can read how I’m drawn to his brand of lazy confidence simply by looking into my eyes.

‘Who am I to spoil anyone’s fun when I could be the source of it?’ he says.

I swallow. Hard.

I’m so tempted. I promised myself a little fun. Who better to let loose with than a man who looks built for sin and seems to see what I need tonight as some sort of personal challenge? I’d bet my anticipated deal with Jensen’s that his confidence is justified and he could deliver a night of hedonistic sex designed to make me forget everything but my own name.

Don’t I deserve an unforgettable, anonymous night? A way to recharge the batteries? A reminder that all work and no play does not a happy Orla make?

But first I need to suss out his intentions. Make him work a little harder. ‘So you have a cougar fantasy, is that it?’

I expected an arrogant shrug at best, but he leans closer, stares more intently, as if seeing deep inside me to my darkest desires. ‘I’m twenty-eight, but don’t get hung up on the numbers when we could already be heading upstairs.’

I scoff at his arrogance, even as my nipples turn to hard peaks beneath the silk of my dress. Do I really care that he’s eight years younger than me? ‘I’ve met your type before—’

He interrupts. ‘I very much doubt that. And if by type you mean the kind of man who can give you the anonymous night of your life, then you’re right. Admit it—you knew we’d be good together the minute you looked at me and you’re even more certain now, which perhaps tells me the reason you’re fighting it so hard—fear.’

‘Fear?’ I laugh, although the sound lacks conviction, just like my shaky resolve. He’s spot-on, but really, what do I have to lose? I wanted a distraction and he’s irresistible. The urge to step off the hamster wheel for a moment and become lost in the pleasure I’m certain would follow is tantalising. His challenge is irresistible, because it aligns so perfectly with the one I set myself tonight: to let go.

‘There’s not much I’m afraid of,’ I say. My heart, banging against my ribs, proves me wrong and him right.

He nods—slow, confident, almost luring me to kiss the smooth smile from his lips. ‘It’s fear all right. Fear of letting go of your tightly leashed control. Fear that you might actually have a good time. Fear I’ll ruin you.’

His eyes slide to one of my earrings. ‘You and your four-carat-diamond, one-glass-of-single-malt life.’

Instead of the outrage I should feel at being so neatly dissected and accurately pigeonholed, even insulted, every nerve in my body fires alive with electricity.

Fight, flight or fuck? I should definitely take option one or two…

I roll back my shoulders and stare into his cool grey eyes, seeing the hint of challenge. ‘Are you suggesting I’m uptight? I’m amazed you, with your devil-may-care attitude, even know what the concept means.’ I should walk away, go back upstairs and check on Jensen’s—but oh, the temptation to prove him wrong is overwhelming…

‘Hey, princess, if the shoe fits…’

We face off, sparks flying and heat building.

I can let go. I can have fun. He’s right, I do want him. I want to be ruined for one night.

And I always get what I want.

‘The earrings are two-carat,’ I say. ‘And, okay. I have a suite upstairs—let’s go.’