Читать книгу Bought: One Night, One Marriage - Natalie Anderson - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

CALLY felt more pleased than if she’d won the gold medal at the annual gourmet food awards. To cover it, she schooled her features back to bland and murmured, ‘I know.’

She took another mouthful before offering a polite query, all the while refusing to acknowledge the knowing smile of amusement on his face. ‘What do you do, Blake?’

‘Do?’

‘Yes, as in job.’

He looked surprised. ‘I’m a venture capitalist.’

‘Really? Who with?’

The surprised look broadened. ‘I have my own company… Weren’t you listening to the intro the MC gave me last night?’

She shook her head. ‘I was too busy eating the chocolate truffles at the time.’

‘Priorities.’ Full of satire, his smile twitched.

‘Absolutely.’ In contrast she spoke earnestly. ‘I never intended to bid. That wasn’t why I was there.’

He didn’t reply and she wondered if he didn’t believe her or if it was just that he was too busy demolishing the soup. It didn’t take either of them long. Good. She stood to clear the bowls, hoping soon she’d be rid of him—she needed to work on her resistance.

‘Thanks very much—that was delicious.’ He stood, stretched, his body towering over her.

‘It was a pleasure,’ she answered mechanically. He was too close again and the tremors inside could hardly be controlled. ‘I don’t have any more jobs for you. So thank you very much and…um…I’ll see you out.’

‘I don’t think so, Cally.’

She’d feel intimidated if she didn’t feel so turned on. She stared as he walked closer towards her.

‘I don’t think I should leave yet.’

‘As I said, I don’t have any other jobs…’

‘I wasn’t thinking about doing any more jobs.’ He cocked his head to the side, looked a little too sexy. ‘I was thinking we should talk some more.’

‘What about?’

‘Us. This…’ he made a juggling gesture with his hands ‘…zing between us.’

‘Zing?’ Her voice leapt up an octave or three.

He moved closer. ‘You want me. I can see it.’ He stepped again so they were almost touching and she tensed even more. ‘You jump every time I come near you.’

‘Um.’ How did she answer that one? Her cheeks alone were telling him everything he needed to know—that he was right.

‘I want you. You want me. It’s simple.’

She knew it was pointless to even try to deny it. The tension in her muscles increased and yet at the same time her insides were melting—he wanted her? She shook her head free of the fantasy. This was just some game—he was just acting the bachelor auction part.

‘It’s not simple. And my wanting you is stupid.’

For a second satisfaction flashed across his face. She had a weird blip of pleasure in seeing that her admission pleased him.

‘Why?’

‘You’re not my type.’

‘I’m not?’ He looked disbelieving.

It made her all the more determined. Coldly she reinforced her reply. ‘Not at all.’

She turned on her heel, went to the sink and started rinsing dishes.

At a far more leisurely pace he followed, coming to stand too close, again. And his questions were too close too. ‘When did you last get any? You’re looking way too uptight.’

Astounded, she turned. ‘You are sailing dangerously close to the wind.’

‘Hmm. I like a little dangerous.’

She let her look say it all. Only he seemed to find it amusing rather than quelling. He leaned across, his hand trapping hers on the tap as he spoke low and tauntingly in her ear.

‘You know what you need? You need a good hard—’

She yanked her hand out from under his. ‘Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.’

‘What was I going to say?’ He looked all innocence again—the devilish rake disappearing in a disarming smile.

‘It’s time you were leaving. My lover is due here any minute and he’s the jealous type.’

‘Liar.’ He laughed. ‘No jealous lover would let you loose at a man auction. No lover would leave you alone on a Saturday morning.’

‘Fine. No lover—jealous or otherwise. It’s still time you were leaving.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘You are so confident, aren’t you?’ she snarled. ‘It’s a wonder your bed still stands with all the notches you’ve carved into all four legs.’

‘Why are you so determined to think me some sort of Don Juan?’

‘Well, aren’t you? Have you listened to yourself recently?’

He chuckled, acknowledging the hit. ‘I don’t usually talk quite like this, Cally. It’s just that you make it impossible not to.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Look, I like to keep in shape, but I’m not the sleazy playboy you seem to think I am.’

‘Keep in shape? It’s a form of exercise for you?’

He gave an outrageous grin. ‘Sometimes. It can be a wonderful stress relief, you know.’

‘Hasn’t anyone made it difficult for you?’

‘Not recently.’ He sighed. ‘OK, so I’ve had some fun in my past, but I don’t want some image-obsessed bimbo—a vacuous body too concerned with the pose she’s in to be able to give as good as she gets. That actually gets pretty boring after a while.’

‘To be able to give as good as she gets?’ Cally was stunned at his arrogance. ‘You really think you’re that good?’

‘No. But I always put my all into it and sometimes the chemistry…you can’t contain an explosion. But that kind of chemistry is rare.’ He paused. ‘This kind of chemistry.’ He inched closer, voice dropping. ‘I’m only interested in this kind of chemistry now and I haven’t encountered it in a long time.’

‘So, what, you’re telling me you’re celibate?’

‘Not entirely.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But I’m guessing you are.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘And you shouldn’t be.’

She turned back to the sink. ‘It all comes too easy for you.’

‘Why not have some fun, Cally?’

She wanted to bury her head in her hands. But it was strangely fascinating, liberating, to tackle it head-on.

‘When did you last have an orgasm?’ He sounded as if it were the most natural thing in the world to ask.

She winced. Head on was right. She couldn’t believe she was leaning against her kitchen sink in the early afternoon with an almost stranger analysing her sex life.

The last time she had an orgasm? How did she answer that?

Cally was used to being in the minority for lots of things: in the small fraction of female entrepreneurs; the twelve per cent of the world’s population that was left-handed; well shorter than average; one of the few unfortunate enough to have a faded supermodel for a mother…and part of the small percentage of women who’d never had an orgasm during penetrative sex.

Truth be told, Cally had never had an orgasm in any kind of sex. She’d faked it. Took her inspiration from the movies. It wasn’t that she was left cold. It was just that she’d never quite got there. She’d got close with Luc. She had. But he’d never taken the time. It had always been over just as she’d been getting warmed up.

Of course, once she’d found out, she’d known he’d just been getting it over with. They’d only slept together a dozen or so times. A few weeks when she’d thought she was madly in love, and he’d been doing her mother a favour. Not even a favour—doing a job. Paid for and everything.

She hadn’t tried much since. She’d kissed, and got to whatever base it was that was almost all the way there. But old insecurities were hard to let go of—that she wasn’t really attractive, that men were only interested in her because of her connections or her wealth. And once she found out the extent to which her endometriosis had hindered her chances of a family she knew she didn’t have much to offer a man.

So Cally had decided she didn’t need a guy, didn’t need sex. She could be single and celibate and have a fabulous life—especially with her career. Most of the time she didn’t even think about it. The ability to trust men had been beaten out of her. Since Luc she’d embraced the ‘why bother’ approach wholeheartedly. And most of the time she was happy. She focused on her business, and smoothed over the scar on her heart that said husband and kids weren’t for her. That was fate. She didn’t need the grief of worrying about it any more. You didn’t miss what you’d never had—right?

But then, occasionally, there were wants. And Blake McKay was all want for her.

‘I’m serious. When did you last have an all-body, all-screaming release?’

‘I’m not discussing that with you.’ In the split second after she’d answered the question every single doubt reared in her head and every single reason why she was single stood in her brain, itemised in a flashing neon bullet-pointed list. And, despite years of happily getting over it, getting on with it, it hurt.

‘You can’t even say it, can you?’

‘Orgasm!’ she shouted. ‘Orgasm, orgasm, orgasm, orgasm!’ She glared. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Not nearly.’ His grin was wide and wicked. ‘Five.’ He nodded. ‘Five times. Five times in one night.’

She looked at him blankly.

‘Is what I promise you.’

‘You’re kidding. Five in one night?’ Transfixed, she gazed at him. ‘You really think you could?’

‘Like I say. Chemistry. Inevitable explosion.’

So she was tempted—and he knew it. For one mad moment she considered it—a wild fling. Five big Os in one night—could he really? Was it even possible? Hell, if anyone could, he could. He might deny it but a playboy he was—experienced. And if nothing else mattered, if nothing was at stake—most definitely not her heart—could she be free long enough for it to happen? Hell, she didn’t need five, one would be enough.

‘No one ever has to know.’

She bit hard on her lip to hold back the groan that had its origins in her belly.

He leaned into her, and she stared into the stormy sea eyes. ‘Why wouldn’t you act on an attraction this strong?’

She sucked in air, and refused to let herself think he was as attracted to her as she was to him. This was some sort of game. He was so used to winning and he only wanted to have her because he thought he could—she didn’t want to be just another milestone on his way.

He reached out, ran his knuckles down her cheek. ‘This can’t be faked.’

Her face flamed under his touch, her lips desperately dry.

‘You can’t fake it with me, Cally.’

Her knees were at risk of failing and she was about to crumple to the floor. If she turned her head just a fraction those fingers would brush her lips. Blood buzzed to them; she wanted to feel him…

Injection of steel required immediately! Memories of Luc burst into her brain. She’d believed a pretty face and some pretty lines before and been so burned she’d never trust another. She walked away from Blake, put the island between them again, chewing away the tingling sensation in her lips as her back was turned to him.

But she had to admit she liked his blunt approach, his unashamed candour. At least he seemed to be up front—again it was liberating. And she’d return the favour.

She turned to face him, put her hands on the bench, sighed deeply. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re actually too good-looking.’

‘I’m sorry?’ He leaned against the opposite side of the bench, bending so their faces were level.

‘Yes, you know. Thick dark hair. Big green eyes. Long lashes. Square jaw. Stubble. That’s just your face. I’m not even starting on your body. I’m not going any lower than your chin.’

The smile broke his intense expression, lit him up from the inside. ‘I’m too good-looking for you to have fun with?’

‘Yes.’

He laughed. ‘So you only go out with ugly guys?’

She was silent.

‘I begin to see why it is you’ve been without for a while.’ He leaned closer, spoke to her slowly as if English were a foreign language to her. ‘You know there’s a big flaw in your argument. You have to be attracted to the person. If you think he’s ugly he isn’t going to turn you on, sweetheart. What are you going to do—lie back and think of England?’

‘History has proven that I have terrible judgment, terrible taste in men.’

‘Based on looks?’

She nodded. ‘I get bamboozled by them. Blinded, can’t determine the false from the genuine.’

He frowned. ‘You can’t see past the exterior to work out whether inside the person is OK or not?’

‘No.’

‘So now if he’s good-looking, he’s immediately a no-go?’

Reluctantly she smiled at his bemusement.

‘But physical attraction is a pretty major ingredient, isn’t it?’ He wasn’t dropping it.

‘Sure it is. But it’s not just me who thinks you’re good-looking. Look at the battle at the auction last night. Women were beside themselves over you—practically launching at you from the aisles.’

‘You weren’t. You didn’t even want my services and you’d paid for them.’

She grimaced. ‘My friend bought you. She just used my money because she knew I, along with the rest of them, thought you were attractive.’

‘So what if others find me attractive?’

‘I could never trust you. And I could never trust other women around you.’

Blake stood, head tilted as he considered her reply. He watched the rush of honesty reflected in her face and saw that the brown in her eyes was starting to melt. ‘Do you take everything so seriously? Who needs trust? We’re talking a bit of fun, not marriage and babies. I never talk marriage and babies.’

Not any more. Not ever. It was important she understand that. Paola had taken him for a ride once long ago and it was a ride he’d never take again. It still hurt so much he could hardly breathe when he thought of it. The way he’d been so vulnerable, how badly he’d wanted exactly those things—marriage, their baby. But she hadn’t, and she had got rid of both him and their baby. He sucked in a quick breath, pushed the pain away. Instead he concentrated on the temporary temptation before him, with her gaze that told of provocation but also barely hidden interest.

‘Why am I not surprised?’

She was determined to peg him as a philanderer—trying to use it as a flimsy barrier against the red-hot attraction that was pulling them together. He, conversely, didn’t see the point in fighting it. If they gave in to it, it would wane and disappear. One night full of passion would do the job nicely.

So she’d been messed about by some pretty boy some time and was shoehorning him into the same mould. Did what she thought of him really matter? Oddly it did. He’d been above angry at the auction, seeing the contempt so clear on her face. He wanted to prove her wrong.

And he couldn’t stop the attraction that was making him step beyond boundaries, the pleasure in seeing her cheeks flush as their conversation veered into the deeply personal. He wanted to know her, inside and out—but he had to establish the ground rules first. He’d make sure she understood exactly what it was between them—transient lust and nothing more. Then they’d be free to indulge it—and he would make sure she was more than satisfied. Equal participants aiming for extreme pleasure.

‘So how long has it been?’

He watched her expression as irritation warred with uncertainty. She didn’t reply. Clearly it had been quite some time. Wholly chauvinistic satisfaction washed through him. Good. He didn’t like the idea of other men holding her.

‘OK. So you’re unimpressed by my looks. I’ll have to win you with my other charms, won’t I?’ She’d surprised him, admitting to her attraction like that. But she’d also made it clear she wasn’t going to act on it—which irritated him no end. Not only because he wanted her to, but because fundamentally he was a man of action. When you saw something that needed doing, you did it.

And Cally Sinclair needed doing.

If they could have a weekend of good, hard, physical fun they could walk away and no one be any the wiser—a consideration he sensed was important for her and one he was happy to allow. He just wanted to see her face pink from pleasure, her eyes drowsy, wanted to feel her shudder around him, wanted to see her relaxed in the way that only sex could make you relaxed. He wanted to watch her the moment that sensation overruled mind—at her most basic, where manners and social niceties were long abandoned and need was driving her. Need for him. And, yes, he wanted her in a state where she’d do anything for him. Panting, pleading, begging. The way she’d dismissed him still rankled—so he was a gigolo that she didn’t need? Well, he’d see about that. He planned to drive her crazy, to have her admit her desire for him—not just with her mouth but with her body, to have her unable to deny it. He wanted to shake this prim little bird from its tree and watch it fly. He was certain she would soar.

Determination marked her features as she shook her head. ‘Not going to happen. I’ve told you, you’re not my type.’

‘I think you’re clinging a little too tight to that line.’

‘You’ve way too much ego for me.’

He stared at her for an explanation. Grumpily she gave him the angle he’d hoped for.

‘Come on, the way you were parading up on that stage…’

‘It was for charity,’ he answered easily before starting to dig. ‘Anyway, you were the one handing over the money. You bought me. Paying for a bloke?’

‘It was for charity.’ She was ultra-defensive; her mouth tightened ‘It wasn’t about the result, the prize—about you—it was about fundraising for people less fortunate than ourselves.’

‘Really? My, what a philanthropist. Well, what are you willing to do for charity, Cally? How far would you go?’

‘I give a lot to the causes I believe in.’

‘Bully for you. Hell, it must be hard getting together with a bunch of girlfriends for a boozy night ogling men in the name of charity. Sitting there thinking of all those poor people as you eat your chocolates and drink your champagne and decide which hunk you want to clean your car. That’s really doing your bit, Cally.’

He’d crossed the line now, and damn if he wasn’t enjoying every minute of it. Time to make a play for it. ‘I have a suggestion for you.’

She barely registered interest, she was too busy looking annoyed.

‘Let’s have a competition. Our own little thing for charity. We each start Monday morning with, say, a hundred dollars in the kitty. We fundraise. For a week. At the end of the week whoever has raised the most wins.’

‘Wins what?’ Curious now, fixed on him.

‘If you win, I’ll double the combined amounts and give it to the charity of your choice.’

‘And if you win?’ Her eyes were wide.

‘If I win then I get you for a weekend and can do whatever I want with you.’

‘Whatever you want?’ She sounded as breathless as if she’d climbed a thousand stairs.

‘You’ll be my slave.’

Cally gulped in a deep breath. And another. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘No.’ He smiled but searched with his eyes. ‘Not keen? You wouldn’t go far for your charity, would you? All talk. See, I was quite happy to give my time. You’re only willing to give your money.’

‘That’s not true.’ Indignation burned as she thought of the hours she’d spent at the shelter. But she wasn’t about to tell him what she did every Thursday night—and had done since she was a child. Her father had taken her, week in, week out, to stand in the kitchen and help prepare the meal. It was his way of showing her that not everyone lived in mansions with more servants than residents. And if you were fortunate enough to be born into a position in which you had both time and resource to help others, then you gave both time and resource. It was a lesson she’d embraced—never wanting to have the shallow lifestyle of her mother. Wanting to give back, wanting to be more her father’s daughter than her mother’s. She’d been going there so long she had a close bond with many of the long-term drop-ins, and had shared much with the other volunteers and the manager. It was just her small way of making a difference. Quite often it was the highlight of her week and she’d never abandon them.

So she didn’t need to prove anything to Blake McKay, did she? He could think what he liked. And as for what he was suggesting? No way.

She refused to acknowledge the imp in her head that was screaming ‘go for it’. ‘There’s a bit of a difference between cleaning a car and what you’re…implying.’

He looked amused. ‘I wouldn’t be doing anything that you didn’t agree to.’

‘I wouldn’t agree to anything like that.’

‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’ His grin widened.

OK, so now she felt the need to prove something to him. That he wasn’t going to have it all his own way, all so easily. Not with her. She’d definitely be the one to get away. ‘Anyway, it’s more than likely I’ll raise more money than you.’

‘Indeed. All those wealthy friends you have. Make a few calls and you’ll have a few thousand just like that.’

Oh, he thought she’d do that, did he? Her eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t beg from my friends. They have enough obligations. When I fundraise I do it properly.’

‘I’m sure you do everything properly, Cally.’

The implied criticism was too much. ‘Fine. You’re on. One hundred, starting Monday. Shake hands to seal the bet.’ She held hers out across the bench, primly, a little high.

He ignored it. ‘No. A kiss to seal the bet.’

‘Fine.’ She’d show him immune—starting right now.

She watched warily as he walked around the island, turning with him so the bench was at her back and he was in front of her. He stepped so close she didn’t think she had room to breathe. One arm came either side of her and he rested his hands on the bench, totally hemming her in—strong barriers, and an even stronger set to his jaw.

Oh, dear. Her immunity was fast disappearing. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, didn’t want to reach out to him, so she tucked them behind her back and clutched at the curved edge of the stainless steel bench. Bad move, because it meant her entire torso—and below—was exposed and pushed slightly in his direction. If he leaned just a fraction closer they’d have full-body, length-to-length contact. Her breathing shortened. Could he hear her heart?