Читать книгу The Proposition / Her Every Fantasy - J.C. Harroway - Страница 15

Orla

I RISE FROM the desk chair in my hotel suite, a triumphant smile making my cheeks ache while a surge of adrenaline leaves me searching the bed for Cam. I want to share my news with someone. With him. Jensen’s made up their mind and signed on the dotted line this morning.

Then I remember that he’s gone. After the sex marathon, I spent half the night working while he slept. He woke around six, crept up behind me where I worked and kissed me goodbye. Such a gallant, old-fashioned gesture, I practically swooned…

As I look at the debauched but empty bed, my sense of achievement dwindles a fraction. It shouldn’t matter—I don’t need to share my success in order to feel its validation, but a celebratory orgasm might have been nice…

I stretch out my back muscles, frowning when I realise how long I’ve been sitting in one place. I’ve hustled this deal for the past three months, a deal snatched from under the nose of my main competitors—the firm now run, rather sloppily, in my opinion, by my younger brother under the critical tutelage of my father. A firm that should have been mine to run by rights after my years of hard work and the long hours that cost me my marriage. Another casualty of my father’s expectations…

Thinking of my ex, and how he bailed after seven short months because he couldn’t handle a wife who worked harder than him, sours my mood further.

I ignore the well-worn path of anger and rejection that courses through my body every time I think about how I was overlooked, passed over on the basis of my sex, as if my years of commitment and my qualifications counted for nothing in the eyes of my old-school father. What century does he even inhabit? I’m the eldest. I put in the most work. I’m the best qualified—the company was mine by rights.

When the sting in my lip tells me I’m taking out my frustration with my own teeth, I relax my jaw and sigh. Even this success with Jensen’s feels somehow tainted by the past. No matter how hard I work, I can never quite reach the finishing line.

Casting a look of longing at the empty bed, I head for the shower, recalling the pleasure I shared with a stranger to sweeten this morning’s professional victory.

Cam—my reward.

Yearning builds in the pit of my stomach. He claimed my body, used it and his to drive us both mindless with desire. His obscene stamina. His wicked, inventive challenges and almost impossible positions… I’ve never experienced anything like it. He effortlessly brought out the sexy side I wanted to embrace the minute we stepped into the lift.

Who even was I with him?

I ache, aware of every step I take, every muscular twinge—all Cam’s fault…

But he was gentle too. Thorough and attentive and considerate. My breath catches as a feeling of invincibility courses through me. After a night like that, I can accomplish anything. Alone and without validation.

The hot water spray buffets my skin, reminding me of Cam’s rough, calloused hands gripping and possessing. The water on my breasts and between my legs mimics the glide of his demanding tongue, the caress of his dirty mouth, and when I press my fingers to my clit, trying to banish the renewed flutter of hunger, I relive every single orgasm of our decadent night together.

This is what well-fucked truly feels like.

I sigh a happy, sated sigh, the emotional impulse as unexpected as the man himself. Perhaps he’s a good-luck charm, if I believed in luck. Perhaps letting loose, embracing my wild side, is good for me, allowing me to achieve some much-needed work-life perspective. Either way, I can’t deny I feel more alive, more enthused for the months ahead than I have in years.

I shampoo my hair, hair that Cam wrapped around his fist as he pounded us both to oblivion that last time, sometime in the dark early hours. He fell asleep soon after, splayed on his stomach, his muscular back and tight buttocks a visual feast I struggled to tear my eyes from. I was so energised, my mind so focused, I worked through the rest of the night. Even now I’m in no way tired, although pulling all-nighters isn’t that unusual for me. When you run an international firm, sleep is an expensive luxury.

But could I afford another luxury, one in the form of a sexy Australian with grey eyes who reminds me I have needs? I slide my soapy hands over my skin, an idea forming. He said he was free and easy. No work commitments, money clearly no issue. The way he threw it around last night, almost as if trying to offload as much as possible, perhaps he’d be up for a whirlwind tour of the globe with stopovers at all the international M Club establishments? We could continue this arrangement for a few weeks… A way to explore the sexy side he’s unleashed in me. A way for me to keep this feeling, this newfound perspective, alive.

My proposition takes form in my mind as I towel dry and comb through my hair. A month, six weeks ought to be enough time to work my man toy, as he put it, from my system. I’d have to make the sex-only proviso crystal-clear. My one trip down the aisle confirmed that relationships and I definitely don’t mix. I have no desire to repeat that mistake. I don’t need a relationship, which in my experience is just another way to fall short of someone’s expectations.

If Cam agrees, if he too wanted more than just one fantastic night, he could accompany me while I toured my international offices to ensure everything is as I like it—ticking along like clockwork and expanding on our year-by-year profits.

A sex-only arrangement.

‘Amazing sex,’ I say aloud, catching my laughing reflection in the fogged-up mirror—eyes bright with excitement, hair tousled and damp the way it was last night after our first shower, when Cam fucked me from behind in this very spot, ordering me to tweak my nipples hard until I saw stars right before I came.

The man was some sort of sex god, a G-spot genius, and I his willing, eager-to-excel pupil. But I didn’t simply want to excel. I wanted to be top of the class.

I smile at my reflection—a feline smile.

I’d show him I could let go.

I’d ruin him.

Dressed in my favourite floaty Capri pants and a silk spaghetti-strap top in deference to another stunning Monaco day, I make discreet enquiries at Reception for Cam’s whereabouts. There was no answer when I knocked on the door to his suite, just down the hall from mine. Even if he hadn’t made a splash in the gaming room last night, he’s pretty unforgettable—his height, his commanding presence, not to mention his fuck you air of flouting convention and living the good life.

I find him in the club’s gym, the sole occupant. He’s ignoring the Shirts must be worn at all times sign, performing chin-ups on a bar facing a wall of mirrors. And I don’t blame him. If I had his body, every inch cut slabs of muscle draped in golden skin, a gorgeous, intricate tattoo covering one shoulder, I’d watch myself move too. I’m instantly damp between my legs just from one glance at his sweaty torso.

In fact, there’s no reason I can’t enjoy the show for a few hedonistic seconds. My pulse throbs through my sex while I watch, hypnotised. His back muscles flex in unison to drag his long, built frame up the foot or so required to place his chin above the bar. Sweat runs in rivulets down the bumps of those muscles. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, keen for another taste of the skin I sampled last night.

That happy sigh is back, thankfully silent and in my head, but again it strikes me I haven’t felt this rejuvenated in years. Cam’s the kind of man who makes a woman feel feminine. It’s effortless for him—his sheer size, those calloused hands, the formidable sexual prowess I’ve now experienced, plus his nurturing, caring side and impeccable manners.

Enough looking.

I’m on a plane out of here shortly. Time is money. I want his answer.

I approach with confident steps, although my belly twists with uncharacteristic nerves. What if he turns me down, or has a life to get back to in Sydney, or thinks I’m too old for him beyond one anonymous night? The pinch of disappointment speaks of the calibre of Cam’s brand of fucking. But I’m a big girl. A grown woman. I tell myself his refusal would be no big deal, that there are plenty of other Cams in the sea, although the shaky quality of my breathing confirms it’s a lie.

But I’m not giving up yet. I’m used to getting what I want, and this will be no exception.

I meet his eyes in the mirror, and just like last night the eye contact feels like a physical waveform buffeting me with his aura. With all the eye contact we’ve shared since, the physical intimacy, I should be over the starry-eyed phase by now. Bloody hell, I’m not sixteen.

Cam drops to the ground, not a hint of surprise on his face, as if he’d been aware of me staring from the doorway. He’s probably used to women hounding him for more sex the morning after.

My brain scrambles to recall exactly why I’m here, other than to watch his ripped body work out while I drool.

‘Has working all night refreshed your appetite?’ he says, grabbing a towel. He wipes sweat from his face and chest and then slings the lucky piece of towelling around his neck. ‘Women don’t usually hunt me down before breakfast.’

I drag my eyes away from the bulge of his cock, visible through the thin fabric of his workout shorts, all but panting at the memories of that spectacular part of his anatomy. ‘I only worked half the night. The other half—’

‘I remember what you did the other half,’ he interrupts, flashing that grin that reminds me he’s in his twenties.

‘And I didn’t need to hunt you down,’ I say, stepping closer. ‘After your antics at the roulette table last night, purchasing a bright yellow supercar, you’re something of a celebrity—all I did was ask for your whereabouts at Reception.’

He tilts his head in acknowledgement of my statement, his own stare taking a similar swoop of appraisal down the length of my body. ‘Did you receive the replacement dress and lingerie?’ I can tell that, like me, he’s remembering what he did while my ruined dress and torn panties shackled my waist.

I free a groan in my head, the remembered sound of fabric ripping sending delicious spikes of pleasure to my core. I fight the urge to kiss him in that way that seems to drive him crazy—my tongue surging against his, a scrape of my teeth along his decadent lower lip.

‘I did. Thank you.’ At the crack of dawn this morning, shortly after he left, there was a knock at my door. I rushed to open it, secretly hoping to find Cam on the other side, but it was a hotel porter delivering a garment bag. ‘The replacement wasn’t necessary—how did you even do that? It’s Sunday morning.’

He arches one brow in that noncommittal way of his. ‘I have my methods. As you know, money opens doors.’ His mouth flattens, a hint of cynicism in his expression.

‘So, did we leave something unfinished? Did I leave my boxers in your room…?’ He laughs and I join him, more certain than ever that spending time with him will be good for me and therefore good for business. It’s been an age since a man made me laugh, since I laughed full stop. I deserve to celebrate such a landmark victory over my father’s firm, and I want to celebrate with Cam.

‘I have a proposition for you,’ I say, letting him have it straight between the eyes. Now I’ve seen him again in the flesh, I’m even more set on my course of action. I need the next few weeks to run as smoothly as clockwork, professionally speaking, and, with Cam around as an after-hours distraction, my mind would be clear, my focus sharp and my energy restored.

Bloody hell, Orla, he’s not a multivitamin!

‘Oh? Sounds intriguing,’ he says. ‘Why don’t we discuss it over breakfast? I’ll just jump in the shower and meet you in the restaurant.’

My body clamours to join him in the shower, my mouth parched for another taste of his talented, thick cock. I swallow, suddenly ravenous. ‘I don’t eat breakfast, and I’m flying out to Zurich in—’ I check my watch ‘—ninety minutes.’

He’s not remotely disappointed with this news. My stomach plummets. No woman wants to be so easily forgotten.

‘Okay—well, shoot, then.’ He leans one hip against a nearby weights machine, the fabric of his shorts stretching across his crotch leaving nothing to the imagination, and grips the ends of the towel around his neck. A perfect pin-up pose for a raunchy, get-you-wet calendar. And I don’t need my imagination—I have fresh and vivid memories to keep me warm.

Of course, I’d rather have the real thing…

‘You said last night you were on a pleasure spree of luxury travel. Does that mean you’re free of other commitments at the moment?’ We haven’t talked about what we do for a living. We haven’t talked about anything.

‘I’m free as a bird. What do you have in mind?’

‘I wondered if you’d like to join me on a tour of some of the other M Clubs. I’ll be travelling for work for the next five-to-six weeks… Perhaps we could have some fun along the way…?’ I trail off from my perfect sales pitch, concealing most of the desperation from my voice, and I silently thank every single business proposition I’ve ever made for getting me through this sexy proposition without so much as a voice wobble.

‘Well, that’s intriguing.’ His eyes glow. ‘So you enjoyed your walk on the wild side, huh?’

I arch my brows. ‘And you didn’t?’ He couldn’t keep his hands off me. I have the soreness between my legs as a trophy of his insatiable stamina.

‘Fair point.’ He grins. ‘But aside from the obvious pleasures,’ he looks me up and down, ‘what’s in it for me?’

I splutter. Gape. I didn’t expect him to play hardball. I’m used to telling people how high to jump.

‘You said it yourself—you spent half the night working. Have you even slept? You don’t have time for breakfast…’ He shrugs, his point illustrated.

I roll my shoulders back, defensive—his censure reminds me a little too closely of my ex-husband’s complaints. ‘I don’t need more than a couple of hours’ sleep.’ But he’s right; my work habits do make me rather a dull travelling companion.

‘As good as last night was,’ his eyebrows flick up in that roguish way, ‘I’m not interested in spending the next six weeks watching you working in between snatched naps only punctuated by the odd fuck. I prefer my dates—’

‘We wouldn’t be dating.’ My temperature soars. How dare he see me so…clearly?

He ignores my interruption. ‘I prefer my hook-ups to have a pulse, to have the energy to offer me a few scraps of attention and to be awake long enough for us to have a good time.’ His lip curls in that playful way he’s so good at. ‘I’m old-fashioned like that.’

I bristle, lifting my chin. ‘I know how to have a good time. You just said so yourself about last night.’ It wouldn’t sting quite so much if his assumption wasn’t true, but I’d never admit such a thing.

He steps closer, his beautiful eyes holding me captive. ‘You’re right,’ he looks me up and down in a way that makes me feel naked again, ‘you look too put together to be as hot as you are, but once you let your hair down the sex part was great.’

‘But…’ I say, because I know it’s coming, despite his compliments.

‘But, when I woke up and reached for you because I wanted more, you weren’t there.’

I fist my hand on my hip. ‘I work odd hours because of international time zones.’

He nods, but continues. ‘And when I found you working before dawn this morning, I assumed we were done, that the sexy woman I’d spent the night with was safely tucked away, normal service resumed.’

‘Normal service? What does that mean?’ Didn’t I prove I could have a good time with the right incentive?

‘It means this.’ Cam waves a finger at me. ‘You’re back to being immaculate and untouchable. Perhaps last night was a one-off. Don’t forget I saw your idea of fun yesterday—until we left the casino it was hardly thrilling. But perhaps I’m judging you harshly.’ He folds his arms behind his head and stretches out his back. ‘Why don’t you help my decision-making process by coming to a party?’

My stomach drops with disappointment. This should be in the bag by now. ‘I told you, I fly out soon, and what kind of party happens at ten in the morn—’ I break off mid-flow, realising my mistake with a full-out blush.

No. I grind my teeth in frustration. He’s wrong. I can have as much fun as the next person…

His twisted mouth tells me he finds me amusing, but then his face turns sincere, eyes alight with that flicker of challenge I recognise from when he was buried inside me, instructing me to fondle my nipples or touch my clit.

‘The kind on a superyacht—the Monaco Yacht Show is in town. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. And it’s party time twenty-four-seven on board those things. How else can prospective buyers fall in love with the benefits of owning a floating luxury hotel?’

The depth of my irritation catches my breath even as I long to project a go-with-the-flow attitude. I can’t go to some debauched gathering at ten in the morning—I have to work, vet a press release cementing my deal, catch a plane…

I grip my temples. Listen to me. He’s seriously considering my proposal and I never concede this easily. I remind myself of what happened when I cut loose last night, of my elation this morning when I opened my emails to find Jensen’s was on board. Relaxing the reins a little had paid off then; why not now? Plus, I can’t have sexy, carefree Cam thinking I’m a decrepit old dullard.

‘Tell you what,’ he says, gripping the ends of the towel once more and buffing his astounding pecs, ‘you come to the party so we can discuss this proposition of yours further, and I’ll ensure you get to Zurich today—I have a plane.’

I almost roll my eyes—of course he has a plane—but stop myself in time. ‘I have a perfectly adequate first-class ticket…’ But isn’t this what I hoped? That he’d consider my outlandish plan?

He shrugs. ‘That’s the offer on the table—take it or leave it. What’s it going to be, princess? Party or goodbye?’

The desire to have things go exactly my way shunts my pulse higher as I stare, while he simply grins. But I can have things my way. All I have to do is go to his stupid superyacht party, drink some champagne and take his private plane to Zurich, with or without him—I can get some work done on board, have a decent sleep in a proper bed.

‘Come on, you know you want to.’ He winks.

My annoyance builds at his self-assured smile—he knows he has me over a barrel. Not a position I’ve previously enjoyed. But with Cam… My head spins with all the sexy ways I can make him pay. Ruinous ways…

‘Okay,’ I sigh, ‘I’ll come to the party.’

His eyes light up. ‘I’ll meet you out front in ten minutes, after I’ve showered,’ he says, pushing away from the weights machine, all male swagger.

‘Great.’ My tone is sarcastic. I can’t believe he’s playing hardball.

But he didn’t say no…

He keeps walking in my direction, slow and studied like a panther. I’m hit with a wave of his body heat, the scent of his fresh, manly sweat and undertones of pure, sexy Cam. Damn, he’s worth waiting for and he knows it.

He grips my chin, his thumb swiping my bottom lip, and then he tilts my face up to his kiss, which is slow and thorough, as if he’s relearning how our mouths slot together. I suck in a breath—unbelievably I’d forgotten how good he is at kissing, how it’s almost a full-contact sport—all strong, demanding lips and probing tongue. How he dwarfs me, one hand practically swallowing my entire jaw and half my face, and how, when he pulls away, his eyes glassy with that now familiar desire, I want more. Want it never to end.

How can I crave him again? How do I have any more orgasms left in me? How can I convince him to say yes?

He pulls away, not unaffected by our chemistry—I see it in his eyes—and now I’m looking forward to this party, to proving him wrong, to showing him I’m worth his time.

‘Give me ten.’ His voice is husky, his breath warm on my wet lips.

I nod, too scared to trust my own voice because of the lust raging through my bloodstream.

I’m not surprised to see him driving the low-slung, sleek sports car he bought last night, even if it does look as if it belongs in some futuristic movie. The sight of him behind the wheel makes me wish I was someone who employed dirty tactics. I want to ride him right there in the front seat.

‘So this is your new car?’ I say as he lifts my suitcase into the back. My stomach sinks a little when I see his solitary brown leather messenger-style bag next to it. No suitcase.

‘Yes. It’s a supercar, remember, a Python—custom-made.’

‘Is everything super-sized with you?’

He waggles his eyebrows and I laugh.

‘I’m glad you appreciate the finer things in life,’ he says. He’s talking about himself, so I shake my head in mock disgust, although I’m smiling.

‘So what are you going to do with it?’ I ask about the car.

‘We’re going to take it for a little test drive.’ He opens my door, and I slide in.

‘Shouldn’t you have done that before you made such a rash purchase? What if the wheels fall off?’

‘I’ll get it fixed,’ he shrugs. ‘You wouldn’t worry if you’d seen the race yesterday. It hugs the road like a dream, and wait till you hear the soft purr of the engine.’ He winks as if nothing fazes him and a pang of longing shoots through me at his easygoing outlook.

I watch him stride around the front of the car, wondering anew at how he amassed such wealth at such a young age. I had my trust fund to help me out when I first started my own company. But I take full credit for what I’ve built since. I may not be any good at relationships, I may not have the belief of my father, but money I can make.

He joins me in the car, and, as if he’s read my mind, starts the conversation. ‘So, what do you do that sees you travelling for work?’ he asks as he guns the engine, pulls away from the M Club and heads towards the harbour, Port Hercule.

I love the way he drives, the way he handles the wheel with the same masculine self-assuredness with which he handled my pleasure last night, everything about him exciting new areas of my body and mind until I’m aching for him to agree to my proposition. ‘I’m in finance. I’m CEO of an investment multinational.’

He shoots me an assessing look, something akin to disbelief in his eyes.

I lift my chin and try not to take it personally.

‘So you make money for people?’ he says.

‘Yes, lots of money, otherwise I’d have no clients. I’m very good at what I do and it’s true what they say—money makes the world go round.’

He shakes his head and I wonder what’s upset him about my profession. Most people I meet ask me for investment tips, but Cam looks as though I’ve said I drown puppies for a living.

‘What is it? Do you think women can’t be at the top of their field?’

He shoots me an incredulous look. ‘Of course not—that you would suggest such a ridiculous thing shows how little we know each other. I was merely wondering just how good you are at your job.’

‘Come to Zurich with me and we can work on getting to know each other,’ I push, ever the opportunist. ‘I’ll even give you some free pointers—the markets are in flux at the moment, but there are always opportunities if you know where to look.’

‘Mmm…’ he says, sounding bored. ‘If you were good at losing money for clients, I might be tempted.’

I can’t tell if he’s joking—he looks a little annoyed, his jaw thrust forward, lips pressed together. But he can’t be serious. His gambling last night, the large tips, shouting the entire casino a drink…that was one thing. But losing money?

‘Why would anyone want to lose money they’d worked hard for?’ I could understand my brother’s casual attitude to the company’s turnover, having stepped into our father’s ready-to-wear shoes, but not even he would willingly risk his affluent lifestyle. I wince at my spiteful thoughts. It’s not my brother’s fault our father has old-fashioned values that make no sense and are completely disloyal.

‘They wouldn’t,’ says Cam. ‘Not real hard work—blood, sweat and tears.’ He’s still borderline hostile at this turn of the conversation.

I should steer clear of anything personal. Clearly my mention of money is some sort of issue for him, perhaps explaining why he didn’t seem to care about his losses at the casino last night.

‘What’s the difference between real hard work, as you put it, and what I do?’ His comments skate too close to my own touchy subject. No one works harder than me. ‘Everyone wants to be successful, and putting in the hours is how it happens. Isn’t that how you made your money?’

His beautiful mouth twists in earnest now, a sneer of disgust. ‘Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that—I apologise if I offended your work ethic earlier. I’ve always worked hard, too, until recently. I…’ He swallows, seeming to battle with something momentous, but then he recovers just as quickly.

I hold my own breath, waiting.

‘Six months ago I came into an obscene inheritance—more money than anyone needs, to be honest.’ He pulls into a parking spot, flashes me his live-for-the-moment smile and kills the engine as if closing down the line of conversation.

Intrigue sharpens my vision. Easygoing Cam has hidden depths. Demons. He hides them well behind that carefree persona. For some reason, he seems to be doing his best to offload the money he inherited, even lose it. It seems preposterous to someone in my field.

But this new information certainly explains the chip he seems to have on his shoulder, explains his casual attitude to gambling and extreme acts of generosity—the drinks, the car, replacing my outfit with the best money can buy.

‘I’m sensing you don’t want to talk about this any more than I want to drink shots off someone’s stomach aboard this yacht, but is it a problem for you…the inheritance?’ Prying lies outside the terms of my proposition, but I can’t help myself. Perhaps I can help him with some investment advice. Of course, he hasn’t said yes, so the point may be moot. I might never see him again.

He ignores my question, jumps out of the car and swings open my door. Reaching for my hand, he guides me from the low seat.

I ignore the sinking feeling in my chest and press on. ‘Most people would embrace such a life-changing gift.’ But I’m quickly coming to understand Cam isn’t like most people, in many respects—his two-fingered gestures at convention, the way he sprang from his seat last night to assist a stranger in need, the fact he’s even entertaining my proposition; most—no, all the men I know are way too rigid and full of their own importance to contemplate what I’m proposing. But with Cam it’s as if normal rules don’t apply, or perhaps it’s just the age difference, or perhaps he’s just exactly what he seems, killing time and enjoying his bender.

‘Let’s just say it’s more the origin of the gift that’s a problem, that and the terms…’ He locks the car and heads towards the marina, reaching back to take my hand.

I try to conceal my flinch, because despite our kiss back at the hotel, despite what we shared last night, my hand in his feels alien in its intimacy.

Alien, but thrilling every nerve in my body.

I swallow the surge of lust and longing. ‘Well, I’d be happy to advise you on how to manage your wealth beyond gambling it all away and buying impractical fast cars, if that’s of any interest to you—I have been known to make a savvy investment or two over the years.’ I’m over-talking to cover my reaction to the hand-holding.

His head snaps in my direction, his smile almost maliciously bright. ‘You think I’m frivolous.’

‘No… I didn’t mean—’

He comes to a halt. ‘Why would you want anything to do with a man who wastes money—is the sex that great?’ He delivers this with a smile, but there’s pain in the tension around his mouth.

I look down at my feet, stung but also ashamed that he’s spot-on—I have judged him, thinking only of what he can do for me, how he makes me feel, rather than what he might be hiding from, because years of swimming in the corporate shark tank have honed my instincts, so I know it’s something.

He didn’t get those calloused hands tapping computer keys. He’s hinted that we work in very different worlds. He has an inheritance he doesn’t seem to want. But he’s more than the clichéd playboy I pegged him for on first impressions, just as, despite my age and my hard-won success, there’s a little girl inside me still seeking her daddy’s approval.

Who is the real Cam? And who left him an obscene amount of money he doesn’t seem to care about?

I look up, regret that I can’t see into his beautiful eyes, which are hidden behind sunglasses, stealing my breath. ‘I’m sorry—making money is what I do. Pretty much all I’ve done my entire adult life—first for my father’s firm, and then for my own. It’s a hard habit to break. I didn’t mean to judge, but you’re right. I don’t know anything about you beyond the fact that, yes, the sex is pretty sensational. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to know more, so why don’t we rectify that? What’s your surname, Cam?’

He lifts his sunglasses. ‘North. Cameron North.’ He smiles then, a belter of a smile. I release a shudder, appalled at how absurdly we’ve behaved—sharing a night of incredible sex without even knowing each other’s surnames.

I smile too.

‘And you are?’ he asks, his hand outstretched in my direction for the formality of a handshake.

‘Orla Hendricks. Nice to meet you.’ We grip each other’s hand, the fresh start unspoken but welcome.

‘So, Orla Hendricks,’ he says, guiding me towards a waiting speedboat, which will take us out to the yacht. ‘Let’s go have ourselves some fun, and then we’ll talk about this proposition of yours.’ He jumps ahead of me into the speedboat and then swings me after him, his hands gripping my waist. I want to kiss him again, but now I’m unsure of where we stand, the easy pleasure-seeking vibe we shared last night long gone.

We’re taken to the biggest yacht in the harbour, the Abella—sleek, at least seventy metres, her pristine hull gleaming in the sun. I hear the music before I see the throng of people on deck—most of the women bikini-clad and many of the men wearing shorts. I grind my teeth in frustration—I have a swimsuit in my case back on the dock. Why didn’t I think to put it on?

We disembark the tender and climb aboard the Abella. Cam takes a glass of bubbles from a member of the smartly dressed welcoming crew and hands it to me with a smile. Every inch of the stunning vessel is packed with beautiful people in a full-on party atmosphere. I grip Cam’s hand as we head to the upper deck, which features an infinity pool, a hot tub and the best views of Monaco.

We wind through the partygoers and head towards the rail. My phone vibrates in my bag, and I pull it out, scanning the message from my assistant but checking the time. Despite Cam’s promise to deliver me to Zurich, I’m aware of every second he delays. Perhaps this was a mistake. I certainly didn’t get to where I am by making many of those.

Cam spies my phone and I shove the device back into my bag. ‘So, are you thinking of buying this?’ I want to caution him against making such a rash investment, but then, boats like this are more about hedonism and status than sound returns and I don’t want to sound like a killjoy. But really, most people who own one of these spend a few weeks a year actually enjoying the lifestyle. Who has the time to take a year off work?

People like Cam, I guess, deciding to ask him about his inheritance if he agrees to come to Zurich.

‘She’s beautiful,’ he says. ‘Who wouldn’t want to own her? You could permanently live on board. She’s fully equipped—a cinema, a gym, a spa. And you should see the stateroom.’

‘But?’ We might be here so I can prove I’m not a stick-in-the-mud workaholic, but I can sense that sailing around the Mediterranean in the Abella isn’t his dream, despite her charms.

He smiles as if I cracked a code no one else has. ‘But I prefer bricks and mortar, preferably something I’ve built myself.’ He holds up his calloused hands in proof.

I nod, impressed. I want to get to know this side of him more but stop myself, remembering what happened when we steered too close to personal. ‘Blood, sweat and tears?’ I say.

‘Bingo,’ he says, his easy smile wider.

Then I spoil the moment by handing my untouched glass of champagne to a passing waiter.

‘You don’t like champagne?’ he asks.

‘I have work to do later—I need a clear head. And you’re not drinking.’

‘I’m driving you to the airport after this.’ I sense his disappointment, feeling as if I’ve failed the first test.

At his reminder that I’m on probation, I seize the change of topic to push my agenda. ‘So, will you come to Zurich?’ I want his company. I want the way he makes me feel, what he brings out in me, to be that woman who remembers how to enjoy herself, remembers that it’s allowed, even beneficial.

‘You’re very direct, aren’t you, Orla Hendricks? Direct, not afraid to proposition a stranger, and very driven.’

‘That’s a fair assessment, given we don’t know each other very well.’

He tilts his head in acknowledgement. ‘No, we don’t know each other. So, here’s what you need to know about me beyond the fact I’m a sensational lay,’ he says with a wicked grin that tells me he’s teasing me again, so I can’t help smiling along. ‘I’m a decent bloke. I’m not harbouring any sexually transmitted infections, so you can shag me with complete peace of mind, and if you want my company for the next six weeks I have two conditions.’

My pulse leaps with excitement, warm, syrupy heat forging through my blood as my lips twitch at his forthright declaration. ‘Thanks for the honesty and the practicality. What are these conditions?’ I say, my blood roaring through my ears with anticipation.

His eyes darken in that sexy way that reminds me of last night’s Cam. ‘One, you name the destinations and leave the rest up to me—I’ll foot the bill, the transport…’ he waves a dismissive had around at our current luxurious location ‘…the off-the-clock itinerary.’ One eyebrow lifts above the rim of his sunglasses in that self-assured way. ‘Even the wardrobe—I have a feeling I might ruin a few more of your outfits now I know what’s hidden underneath. All you have to do is come and come and come…’

My current underwear goes up in flames at the very idea of him being impatient enough to get to me that he goes all caveman. He’s sufficiently evolved that he sought my consent first. I hold in a smile and offer a droll, ‘I get the picture.’

I’m woman enough, secure enough, to concede a little control to this man. After all, I hold the advantage in terms of age and life experience, and it’s not as if we’re entering into a relationship—this is about pleasure, and he’s proved he can deliver. And, while I’m not used to relinquishing control over my life—it’s why I’m successful—do I really care if he wants to pick up the travel tab?

‘Okay, but I want it known I’m happy with more…frugal methods of transportation than supercars and private jets.’ It’s not as if I need his money or run any risk of becoming a kept woman—I almost splutter a laugh at the absurdity of that thought. My days of trying to play wife ended in disaster.

He shakes his head. ‘Noted, but it’s my call. You can be frugal on your own time.’ He winks and I capitulate. For his own reasons, reasons he’s already hinted at, his generosity and extravagance are motivated by more than altruism, but is his request any more outlandish than my proposition?

‘And two?’

‘Two—you won’t like this one.’ He pauses.

My pulse hammers in my neck.

‘You have to loosen up a bit more. If this is about us having a good time, I’m going to want to see a whole lot more of last night’s Orla.’

My jaw drops. ‘What do you mean? It’s eleven a.m. I’m at a superyacht party. How loose do I have to be?’

His head drops back and he looks at the sky as if seeking inspiration. ‘Ah, Orla, you have so much to learn…’ He smiles, perfectly pleasant, his tone teasing. But then he turns serious. ‘You’re at a party, checking your phone and thinking about work, probably biding your time until you can get back to it.’

My shoulders tense in defence. I heard similar criticism a hundred times from my ex.

‘Actually, I was checking the time. I have other places I need to be, so let’s wrap this up. Are you joining me in Zurich or not?’ My patience is stretched to the limit.

Instead of answering, he sidles up close to my side and stretches his arm along the rail at my back. He leans in close, his mouth inches from mine, and my irritation evaporates in anticipation of being kissed.

‘No need to get defensive,’ he says, his voice low, seductive. ‘Last night was fun. Fun that could have continued into this morning.’

I watch his lips move, reminded that I had the best sex of my life.

His hand slides between my shoulder blades and he urges me closer. ‘Instead I woke up in an empty bed to find you working in the dark.’

My head spins, confused by the contradiction in the way he’s looking at me, the way he’s touching me, and the censure of his words. ‘I’m not going to apologise for working—’

‘Of course not, but when you’re not working hard, where’s the harm in playing hard?’ He looks over his shoulder to where the most enthusiastic partygoers are climbing from the pool or hot tub and diving into the sea from a diving platform. ‘Now, they look like they’re really letting loose, wouldn’t you say?’

I hear his subtext loud and clear, even as my body sways closer to his. He thinks I’m too straitlaced to let down my hair to that degree. He thinks because I work long hours, I don’t know how to enjoy myself. Adrenaline floods my blood, my pulse leaping with defiance.

He turns back to face me and I touch my lips to his in a barely-there caress as I say, ‘You’re right, that does look fun.’ I’m not wearing a bikini, but what better way to show Cam that not only can I be as outgoing as the next person, but also that I’m up for any challenge—in or out of the bedroom?

I hold his stare for one beat, two, my belly tight with anticipation, but I don’t kiss him as I want. Instead I step away and slip off my sandals.

His eyes grow wide and then wider still as I slide my Capri pants over my hips. I’m wearing a black cotton thong and a strapless bra—no more revealing than half the bikinis here.

‘What are you doing?’ Excitement and awe war in Cam’s eyes and I roll my shoulders back, the fact that I can impress him spurring me on to exhibit my best assets.

I scoop up my pants and drape them over his arm and then add my camisole top.

‘I’m letting loose.’ I press a kiss to his startled mouth, ignore the stares I’m attracting, stride to the swimming deck slowly and confidently and dive into the cool Mediterranean.

The water is warm after the initial shock. I break the surface and look up, expecting to see Cam’s impressed face looking down at me, but he too is on the deck, stripping off his T-shirt and shorts and then following my lead by executing a perfect dive.

I have a split second to register the jealousy that heats my blood at the way some of the women ogled his spectacular physique, but then he surfaces not far from me and swims my way with long, confident strokes.

We tread water face to face, both grinning.

‘Is that loose enough for you?’ I ask, splashing him in the face.

He grips my waist and presses a kiss to my mouth with a growl that promises retribution. ‘You’re fucking irresistible, Orla Hendricks. There are a couple of guys up there I thought I might have to resuscitate—this gorgeous body is much too hot for general consumption. I can see I’m going to have to be on hand to protect the male population from your hotness.’

The air leaves my lungs in an excited rush, the familiar taste of triumph. ‘Does that mean you’ll be joining me in Zurich?’ I mentally tsk at the flare of euphoria—a stupid, girlish reaction for which my libido is totally to blame.

He grins wider and then drags my body against his so I feel his hard cock pressed against my stomach. ‘As long as you accept my conditions and you’re happy to travel in style.’

‘My first-class ticket was style,’ I say, rubbing my lips against his, tasting salt and Cam.

‘You’ll like my style better; now let’s get going before I change my mind and buy the Abella just so I can watch you do that again.’ We break apart, laughing, and swim to the yacht’s stern, where a crew member is helpfully waiting with two fluffy white monogrammed towels and our neatly folded clothes.

I dress quickly, driven by the heat in Cam’s eyes, as if he’s already mentally undressing me, almost promising the minute we’re on board his private plane I’ll be crying out his name.

By the time we reach the marina, my pulse pounds with excitement. ‘What about your luggage, and what will you do with your car?’ I slip into the leather passenger seat, eager to get in the air before he can change his mind.

He dons his sunglasses, guns the engine and pulls out of the parking spot. ‘I have everything I need.’ He indicates the leather messenger bag on the back seat. ‘And I’m shipping the car to Sydney—I bought it for my cousin.’

I gape, my mind reasoning that we have sports cars in Australia. But by the time we get to Monaco’s private airfield and I see the cute little Cessna on the tarmac, I’m grinning—there is something to be said for Cam’s travel-in-style sense of hedonism.