Читать книгу Sweet Thing: A steamy book where a one night stand could lead to much more. Perfect for fans of Fifty Shades Freed - Nicola Marsh - Страница 16

CHAPTER EIGHT

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DOING THE ROUNDS of my clubs after putting in two long days at the patisserie wasn’t my idea of fun, but I’d been away for almost a year and I wanted to do a stealth visit to see how the managers and staff were coping.

I needn’t have worried. I only hired the best and the four clubs I’d visited so far were operating with precision. Embue was the last on my list and, like the rest, the managers were on top of things and the place was packed.

I’d planned on spending thirty minutes mingling, chatting with staff, getting a general feel where I could liven things up.

That plan shot to shit when I spied Abby. Writhing on the dance floor, arms flung wide, hips swaying, out of time with the music but dancing to some imaginary rhythm in her head.

Damned if it wasn’t the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.

So I watched. My cock throbbing in time with some crap techno beat. Wanting her.

I saw some guy sleaze up to Makayla and they started chatting like long-lost lovers, all over each other. Leaving Abby a third wheel and about to leave.

She strode off the dance floor and twenty guys in the vicinity swivelled their heads to watch.

Not that she wore anything revealing. In fact, her modest black dress was practically outlandish in a sea of scantily clad women. But it was the way she carried herself. The set of her shoulders. The tilt of her head. The way her hips moved.

She exuded class. And every horndog in the place wanted to see if they could get behind that cool exterior and see how far she could be pushed to get off.

When one guy put down his drink and walked towards her, I made a move, cutting him off. ‘Sorry, buddy, she’s mine.’

A possessive statement I had no right making but no way in hell would I stand by and watch Abby have to fend off a bunch of horny pricks.

I reached out to tap her on the shoulder when she spun around and smacked into me.

‘Whoa.’ My arms shot out to grab her, her look of abject horror at finding me here making me want to tease the hell out of her. ‘You’ve got to stop throwing yourself at me like this.’

She recovered her wits and her balance but I didn’t release her. I liked having her this close, her nipples grazing my chest, her palpable heat warming my body, the sweat-slicked sheen to her skin.

She looked radiant.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I own the place.’ I shrugged, like it meant little, when in fact every club I owned was testament to how far I’d come—and how far I’d proved Dad wrong. ‘Haven’t been here in a year so after I locked up at the patisserie, I’ve done the rounds of my clubs, checking up on things.’

To my surprise, she hadn’t moved. In fact, now that she’d recovered from the shock, she seemed perfectly relaxed having me hold her arms like I wouldn’t let go.

‘The diligent boss, huh?’

‘Something like that.’

We ran out of conversation, our gazes locked in some kind of invisible heated battle, as I wondered what it was about this woman that rattled my cage.

I wanted her with a fierceness I hadn’t felt for a long time. If ever. I dated. I screwed. I didn’t do commitment. It worked well for me. Sex as exercise. Sex for fun. Sex with women who knew the score and didn’t have any expectations.

Women nothing like Abby.

Abby would be a hearts and flowers kind of girl. She’d told me about her bastard ex and the emotional abuse, but who knew what kind of expectations she’d put on the guy? Maybe he hadn’t lived up to her high standards? Maybe he’d lashed out verbally when he couldn’t handle it?

The moment I thought it, I felt guilty. Just because I wanted Abby and knew that having her would be a screw-up of monstrous proportions, I was trying to find excuses and maligning her in the process. Not cool.

‘I should go.’ She tried to back away, and the smart thing to do would be to release her.

I tightened my hold. ‘Would you like a tour? You can have a drink and relax in the VIP room, then I’ll get you a taxi.’

A refusal hovered on her lips. I saw them tremble with it before she clamped them tight and nodded.

Mentally calling myself everything from putz to dickhead, with a long list of obscenities in between, I led her to a shimmering gold curtain in the back corner and pulled it aside.

‘After you.’

She hesitated, as if unsure of my intentions. Smart girl.

‘What’s wrong?’

She glanced sideways at me and, rather than see trepidation in her eyes, I glimpsed excitement. ‘I’ve danced for about two hours nonstop and I’m about to faint if I don’t get a drink. Could we skip the long tour and head straight to the bar?’

I smiled, her honesty refreshing. ‘Sure, this way.’

We passed through the VIP room, filled with the usual crowd of elite sportsmen, WAGs, models and a visiting rap star from the US. Abby ogled a little but I had a feeling it was more about the way the women were draped all over the men than in any recognition for the VIPs.

For a woman in her early twenties, she was strangely naïve. Like she hadn’t really lived. Rich girls like her would’ve gone to the best private school and been privy to parties from a young age. Sure, she might have married young but she’d been single for a year. She must’ve let loose over the last twelve months. So why the air of innocence that hovered over her like a cloud?

‘Through here.’ I slid a card over a digital lock and waited for the beep before pushing the door open.

Though no one used this room but me and I hadn’t been in here for a year, I knew it would be immaculate and well stocked. My staff were nothing but professionals and word would’ve travelled fast from the other clubs that I’d probably drop by tonight.

‘What would you like to drink?’

The door slid soundlessly shut behind us and I saw her glance at it, hesitate, before squaring her shoulders like she’d come to a decision.

She probably didn’t trust me. I understood. But she had nothing to fear. I wouldn’t mess with the status quo, no matter how much I wanted to ruffle that cool façade. Remy was too important to me, and I’d already screwed up enough in my lifetime to add yet another thing to feel guilty for.

‘Sparkling water if you’ve got it, please.’

‘For you, babe, anything.’ I flashed her a quick grin, surprised when she smiled back. Maybe all that dancing had loosened up her reservations? ‘Take a seat.’

But she didn’t. Instead, she strolled around the room, inspecting it. ‘What is this place?’

‘My hideout.’ I grabbed a bottle of mineral water out of the bar fridge, unscrewed the cap and poured it into a long glass, adding a sliver of lemon. ‘When hosting a bunch of selfish, spoiled brats in the VIP room, I need a place to escape, and this is it.’

‘It’s nice,’ she said, trailing her hand over the butter-soft black leather sofas, the small glass-topped desk in the corner, the display cabinet where I kept my awards. ‘These all yours?’

‘No, I mug every sportsman who comes in here and stash the loot in here,’ I deadpanned, handing her the drink.

‘Thanks.’ She took the glass and downed the mineral water in several gulps as I stared at the almost convulsive movement of her throat and desperately tried not to imagine her doing something similar to me.

When she finished, she handed me the glass with a sheepish smile. ‘I was parched.’

‘Want a top-up?’

‘Please.’ She turned back to the awards as I poured her another glass. ‘You’ve won a lot of stuff in the hospitality industry.’

‘Awards are ego-strokers.’ I handed her the glass, forcing myself to look away this time. I couldn’t be any harder if I tried, grateful that I’d installed a bathroom in here too so the minute I put her in a cab I could take a cold shower. ‘I prefer to see results in profit margins.’

She stilled, sadness creeping across her face. ‘My father used to say that a lot. Always about the profit margins.’

‘That’s what matters most to savvy businessmen. That and a healthy portfolio.’

She screwed up her nose and damned if it wasn’t the cutest thing I’d ever seen. ‘Is that what you’re all about? Because those tattoos speak more about rebelling against convention than caring about portfolios.’

‘What’s with you and my tats?’ I shrugged out of my jacket, flung it on a sofa and rolled up my sleeves. ‘Here. Look your fill. Then judge me some more.’

I had no idea where my outburst came from but I felt like a jackass the moment she blushed in mortification.

‘I didn’t mean to judge—I mean, I just haven’t seen tattoos up close and—’

‘And you still haven’t,’ I muttered, hating that she’d touched a sore spot without knowing it and I’d reacted accordingly.

My tats were more than art.

They defined me.

At a time in my life when I hadn’t been comfortable in my own skin, I took on a new one.

And having a woman like Abby judge me as just another deadhead rebel because of my tats really pissed me off.

‘This would be looking at them up close,’ I growled, trying to tamp down my anger and failing as I unbuttoned my shirt and shrugged it off. ‘Here. Take a good look. See if you can figure me out.’

I stood in front of her, hands on hips, defiant and oddly vulnerable. I shouldn’t care what she thought of me. After Remy was back on his feet, I’d be outta here and back on the road, heading to Bangkok or Ibiza or Munich, creating successful clubs that would define me more than my tats.