Читать книгу Unfinished Business: Bought: One Night, One Marriage / Always the Bridesmaid / Confessions of a Millionaire's Mistress - Robyn Grady - Страница 6

‘I CAN’T believe I agreed to come here.’ Cally looked around her, slowly taking in the decadent atmosphere in the hip Sydney bar. It was like Bacchanalia—riotous revelry. There were well over one hundred women filling the place with laughter, leer and enough bling to blind the nation. Canapés were being consumed with glee and being washed down with terrifyingly neon concoctions. High-pitched chatter drowned the relentless deep thud, thud, thud of the music. Anticipation hung in the air. You could taste the excitement, the expectation of one hell of a good show.

Cally screwed up her nose.

‘Oh, come on.’ Mel looked at her with a ‘get a grip’ expression. ‘It’s for charity.’

‘There are better ways of raising money for charity.’

‘What’s better than watching a line-up of the most eligible bachelors in town?’

‘If they were that eligible they wouldn’t be here.’

‘What?’

‘They must be the most conceited meat-heads to agree to participate.’ The snark was enough to earn her another ‘get over it’ look.

‘Don’t be so uptight.’ Mel shook her head disparagingly. ‘You’ve been working way too hard. They’re doing it to support a good cause. It’s a laugh. A laugh.’ Another pointed look. ‘Remember how to do that? Open your mouth, go “ha ha”?’

‘You know I’m damn good at laughing.’ Cally sighed. ‘I’m just not in the mood for this kind of funny tonight.’

‘Well, down your Sex in the Surf or whatever that drink is called, and get yourself in the mood. Sit back, enjoy the show. Nobody says you have to bid. Buy a few raffle tickets and be done with it.’

Mel was right. But the scene didn’t sit well with Cally. It was so far removed from the cause it was supposed to be supporting. Here they were, draped with all this money—conspicuous consumption to the max. Half these people probably wouldn’t give a second thought to those who this event was supposed to be helping. They were paying lip service—just wanting to get together with a gang of girlfriends and ogle some talent. Bitch over someone else’s dress. Out to outdo and be seen doing it.

It was the kind of thing her mother would love. She’d be here, out-glamorising even the most glamorous and providing sound bites in the style of a Miss Universe save-the-world speech. Fortunately she was away sunning herself on a beach in the Mediterranean somewhere.

Cally grimaced as she glanced round again. Nope. So not her scene. She preferred to stay out of the limelight her mother had always sought. Yes, she had money. Yes, she felt a responsibility to do charitable work. But her father had taught her how much more fun it was to do something behind the scenes, or to donate anonymously. When he died she’d made a vow to continue his work and so had maintained strong connections with his favourite charity—the homeless shelter only a few blocks from the opulent home in which she’d spent her happiest childhood years. She loved the time she put into it—feeling as if it was a way of retaining links with him, wanting to do something that she knew would have made him proud.

Mel cleared her throat and glared again. ‘Must you be so earnest, Cally? For heaven’s sake, have another drink. Or one of those chocolate truffles.’

Cally grinned at that. Actually the chocolate truffles were pretty divine. She pulled the plate nearer. Half the women here wouldn’t touch them anyway, so Cally could have their share. Then she gave herself a rebuke over her pathetic holier-than-thou moment. Many of these women gave time as well as money to charity. One of the wealthiest women in the room spent a night a week answering calls on a youth helpline. And, while she might come across as if nothing mattered more than the colour of the dressing rooms in her new guest wing, the way she could listen to and calm distressed teens was incredible.

The music got even louder, and the MC appeared on stage. Applause filled the air. The show was about to start. Biting into another truffle, Cally sat back and acknowledged that maybe Mel was right. Man candy. So what if people were buying some hunky company? She wasn’t shopping. She’d just watch, be amused by the craziness, try not to feel cheapened, buy a few raffle tickets and donate a chunk on the quiet later. She sipped from her wide-rimmed glass and as she relaxed the first man for sale appeared.

‘I can’t believe I agreed to come here.’ Blake looked around him thunderstruck. ‘I know I didn’t agree to this.’

‘You did.’

‘I thought you meant some kind of working bee. You said a spot of gardening, cleaning up.’

‘And that’s exactly what you’ll be doing.’

Blake gave Judith, his PA, a look of withering disbelief. Not if the sound of those braying women was anything to go by. ‘I really don’t think so.’

She’d insisted they come straight from the office, he’d been working late. So here he was after a long day, in his suit, needing a shave. He ran his fingers through his hair to stop him exiting the scene. For a second he wished he smoked so he could do something to relieve the stress. Honestly, meeting with a roomful of sceptical investors had nothing on this. This sounded worse than a bear pit. Now he knew how those gladiators had felt back in the Roman days. The first poor guy had gone on and the howls from the divas in the audience were deafening. Then he heard the bidding begin and the feeling of panic, mixed with distaste, rose.

‘Give the organisers my apologies. I’ll make a donation. Large as you like. But I’m not sticking around for this.’

Judith blocked his exit from the room. Not hard given that she was wider than a small van at the moment. She rubbed at the swell of her belly and looked at him with the beseeching eyes of a homeless puppy. Only hers were blue not brown and there was an irrepressible twinkle in them. ‘You’re not really going to leave, are you?’

He hesitated.

‘You can’t. I said you’d be here.’ She switched to rubbing the small of her back. The action pushed her belly out even further. ‘Blake, please. You promised.’

She wasn’t laying it on with a trowel but by the wheelbarrow. Dump truck even.

His eyes narrowed. ‘The sooner you go on maternity leave, the better.’

She smiled sweetly. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

Like most men, Blake found it pretty difficult to say no to the pleas of a pregnant woman. But while Judith knew she could play on it, she didn’t know the real reason why. There wasn’t much Blake wouldn’t do to keep a pregnant woman happy. He didn’t want to bear any more of a burden than he already did—one lost child was too much as it was.

He watched as she made her way to the door with her slower than usual—but still pretty quick—gait. He hadn’t been joking. She might have been leaning on her pregnancy vulnerability just then, but he’d noticed how tired she’d been these last couple of weeks. Her husband was a fool. No wife of Blake’s would be working through her pregnancy—not any of it. She’d be at home being cared for and not racing around.

He’d tried to lighten Judith’s workload for her, but she’d laughed at him. Saying she was pregnant, not sick, and that she was as capable as ever of the multitude of tasks he required of her. And, employment law being what it was, he had to let her. He still thought her husband would have more ability to slow her down. But he was so besotted he said yes to anything. Whatever made her happy, made him happy. Blake grimaced. He couldn’t ever see himself giving that kind of power to another. Self-sufficiency was the way to success.

Then again, hadn’t he failed to say no to Judith just now? His frown deepened and his sympathy for her husband grew. Her maternity leave definitely couldn’t come soon enough. And right now Blake had other things to worry about—like being paraded in front of a room full of women wanting to bid for the ‘catch of the day’.

His turn edged closer. He went and stood in the wings, peeked through a tiny gap in the curtain out to the audience. He knew full well Judith had misled him about this ‘charity fundraiser’. OK, not misled, but not filled in all the info on the page. He scanned the crowd. Women who’d probably never got their hands dirty. Never ever come into contact with the people this event was supposedly going to help. The homeless, the hopeless, the destitute, the desperate. They’d have no idea, here they were just doing their ‘bit’ for charity.

He listened to the high-pitched shrieks of laughter as the latest victim suffered the humiliation of being priced. This was shaping up to be one of the most embarrassing evenings of his life. But, as Judith had said, he’d made a promise and Blake McKay always kept his promises. He turned away from the audience, thrust back his shoulders and gave himself the pep talk. Whatever he did, he did to the best of his ability. This was how he’d climbed rung by rung from the bottom of the heap to the top. With sheer grit and determination to be the best. And so, if they wanted a man to perform, he’d be their man—their ‘He-Slave’. He loosened his tie a little. Ran his fingers through his hair to give him even more of the tousled long-day-at-the-office look. He looked across the backstage area at a couple of the other poor souls who’d been railroaded into ‘performing’ for charity. Saw one of them down a neat whisky. He flashed him a tight grin. Then Judith was back, telling him he was next up.

It wouldn’t be the first time Blake had used his body like this. He’d sold out before. Women found him attractive, thought he was handsome. He’d been paid good money to trade his looks. He knew he was above the shallowness, the insincerity. Just keep it light. Think of the money—think of the charity. His time as a model all those years ago had taught him that women loved the brooding look. Not a problem. He really was brooding—on the revenge he’d have on his PA the minute she got back to work on Monday.

He listened to the words of introduction in disbelief. Judith, grinning at him from the opposite wings, had done a fine job in talking up his assets. He’d come up with some hideous filing task to keep her bored for hours on Monday. Then his name rang out and, with a deep breath and a muttered curse, he stormed onto the stage, automatically moving his feet in time to the beat of the loud music. Once he got to the centre he stopped, stood. Clenching his jaw, he stared out. The audience was semi-lit. He could see sparkle and lipstick and hair—everywhere. The blonde highlights dazzled. He carefully looked over the audience, happy to take his time. He walked closer to the edge of the stage, so he could window-shop as obviously as they were window-shopping him. Never show you were intimidated. He would at least pretend to be in control of this situation. Bluff through until he had them.

He caught sight of one particularly blinding blonde and sent her a small smile. The shrieks increased. He turned, walked in the other direction. Blow hot, blow cold. Women were fickle creatures. He knew how to keep them keen; he also knew not to trust them, certainly never to take them seriously. But while his heart was permanently locked away from their clutches, his body didn’t mind messing around now and then. The adrenalin kicked in, and he almost, almost, began to enjoy it. He winked at another screamer. Raise money, get the bids up, up, up.

He almost missed her, his eyes nearly passing over without seeing, except her stillness marked her out in the clapping, cheering crowd. She was the shadow to the blonde and bejeweled beside her. Her dark hair hung in a neat bob. Glossy and sleek, it enhanced her pale skin, ruby lips, the gentle curve of her cheek. She was staring at him. Not moving. Not talking. Not laughing or even nodding in time to the beat. Eerily still in the room full of chaos. He paused, for a second forgetting what he was supposed to be doing.

Stick-figure women dressed in black usually didn’t do it for him. But this woman wasn’t stick-thin and on her the black emphasized her creaminess—her full creaminess. His muscles tightened that little bit, a small flame sparking inside.

She wasn’t shrieking, like the blonde next to her. She wasn’t even smiling. But she was staring. A cool look that had him wanting to shake the reserve from her. He was seized with the desire to make her move. To make her sway, make her want, and above all he wanted to wipe that icy look of condescension from her face. She was judging. He was not a man to be judged. Not by her. Not in the negative way she so obviously was.

Blake liked his coffee strong and dark, a little bitter. He was looking right at a very tempting espresso. For, despite the lack of smile, despite the patent disapproval, there was fire in her eyes.

Double espresso.

The blonde beside her was grinning widely—at her rather than at him. She didn’t seem to notice, she was too busy giving him that scornful look. For a long moment he stood as still as she sat. His jaw clenched, fists curled, and a wash of begrudging desire ran through him—desire to prove her wrong, to prove a point.

It became imperative not just to raise some money here, but some serious money. If he was going to sell himself, it would be for the highest price. At that he realized he’d better get back to the parading bit. For charity, he told himself, gritting his teeth and flashing a genuine tortured look.

He forced himself to relax, to smile at the harpy at the table on the other side, who had enough volume to drown out a crowd at a football match all by herself.

The experience from photographic shoots and catwalk struts came flooding back, his muscles remembering the way to move. With ease he prowled the length of the stage and back, pausing to deliver the ‘look’ now and then. He felt strangely energised, as if he were the one hunting out the prey, not the other way round. And he knew who his target would be this evening.

There was good-looking and there was ridiculous. The ripple of excitement through the audience had been obvious. Every eyebrow in the room had risen as that piece of perfection had so coolly moved out of the wings and onto centre stage with long, fluid strides and an insolent, daring look in his eyes. Edgy, angry man personified. And every woman in the room wanted to absorb his energy and take that dare head-on. Irresistible.

Cally wasn’t unaffected. She sat, desperately keeping a grip on every one of her muscles, barely hearing the gushing sales talk of the MC so bowled over was she by him.

‘Remember, ladies, he’ll be your slave. Act on your every whim. Say the word and he’ll deliver.’

Cally already knew he’d deliver. In that one moment when her gaze had locked with his he’d awakened a ferocious longing deep inside her. But then, she’d always had poor taste in men.

One woman at the table next to theirs shrieked so loudly Cally wondered for a second if the candle had somehow set the tablecloth on fire. But it was just him setting the entire bar alight. Hell, if he kept this up most of the women would be sliding off their seats. Cally knew she would if she hadn’t crossed her legs over and clamped her inner thighs together, trying to deny the instant physical reaction in her body that had occurred simply from seeing him, for what, less than a minute? He was way too handsome. And he knew it. Totally knew it. Of course he’d deliver. He’d have the track record to prove it—the experience of two lifetimes probably.

Cally knew all too well that beautiful men had it too easy with beautiful women. Any woman. All women. And when men had it too easy, they played fast and loose and without care. Given how gorgeous this guy was, she had no doubt he’d be one hell of a jerk. But that didn’t stop her body wanting to slither to the floor in a moist heap and scream ‘take me’.

He’d turned towards the banshee at the table next to hers. His jaw clamped, eyes narrowed in cool appraisal. Then he deliberately let a slow smile spread across his features. Not a natural smile, not a genuine one. But one that emphasised his sensual lips and chiselled jaw and signalled the promise—carnal desire, sensual knowledge. He was playing it up for all he was worth, totally aware of his value and determined to leverage it.

Sexual awareness brewed with irritation in Cally. It was so typical that she should find a guy like this attractive. Brimming with sexuality and confidence, he’d be as promiscuous as she was celibate. Annoyance with herself—and him—made her temperature spike.

And then, of all the cheesy moves, he winked at the blonde banshee.

Cally let out a loud ‘ugh’ in disgust.

At that moment his gaze landed on her. His subtle smile disappeared, his jaw clamped, showing off to perfection his high cheekbones and strength. And the look of anger was genuine. He’d heard her. He’d seen her. And he was definitely unimpressed.

His gaze became a glare. Defiant, she glared right back. But then, in that infinitesimal pause, something flashed between them, something that pierced through their respective veneers. Cally saw through to a man who was simply doing someone a favour. And for one second she was sorry. She was not rude. His glare softened. What he had read in her, she didn’t know. But she knew she felt damn uncomfortable.

Then he looked away, the MC kept advertising, and the strutting started again. Cally immediately told herself she had nothing to feel bad about. He was a first class performer, playing up to the ladies, standing in a way that emphasised his length and breadth. In order to even qualify as a bachelor for auction he had to have money, status. This guy had it all. And she hated him for it.

The auctioneer started the bidding. Cally was vaguely aware of the first bid, the auctioneer’s fast-talking confidence. But mostly she was aware of the man on stage as he paced the length of it. And time and time again his glance collided with hers. He’d smile into the distance at some woman. Flash his brows at another. But when he intercepted her gaze, the smile was gone and there was nothing but challenge.

She could feel her body’s response beneath her boring black dress. It must be some kind of basic instinct—that the female, when confronted with a tall, dark, ferocious-looking stranger, was overcome with the urge to know him in the most intimate way. It was as if her nether regions screamed ‘fill me, give me your child’—the primal need for women to be attracted to the strongest, the fittest, the foreign. Genes like his were essential for the survival of the species and every female in the room knew it. Bitterness filled Cally as she registered his blatant virility. She couldn’t have children. Not without a lot of help. And yet, she was still drawn to him, as if her body refused to believe its barren fate.

With just a look, a stance, he made woman want to lie and let him do as he pleased. And he’d please. That, more than anything, was the promise in his eyes.

Cally tried not to believe it. She wanted to look away. She really did. But it was impossible.

She was aware of movement beside her. At that she managed to turn and see Mel put up her hand, flutter her fingers.

‘What are you doing?’ Cally asked.

The blonde at the table alongside waved her arm wildly. So did two others across the room.

‘Summoning the waiter.’

‘Are you crazy? The auctioneer thinks you’re bidding!’

‘Oh.’ Mel giggled. ‘You got me.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Cally tried to whisper while jealousy knotted in her tummy. So Mel thought he was hot too. And Mel was about to get married.

They were well into the thousands now—going up in blocks of five hundred. The auctioneer knew she was onto a winner.

Mel smiled serenely and waved again.

‘I hate to break it to you, Mel, but you don’t have that kind of money.’ She pointed at the rock on her friend’s fourth finger. ‘When you get the band to match that, you’ll have the money. But I really don’t think this is what Simon would be wanting you to spend it on.’

‘I’m not betting with my money. This isn’t my bid.’

‘Whose is it, then?’

Melissa turned to look at her, keeping her hand raised, flicking her fingers to show she was still in the game. ‘Yours, silly.’

‘What?’

‘Come on, you wanted to donate to charity. And this is a good cause. A really good cause.’

‘I don’t need a bachelor for the weekend.’

‘Your car needs a good clean.’ She nodded to the front again.

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘Yes, it does.’ Mel raised her hand higher. ‘It needs a long, wet clean with lots of bubbles and a hunky, near-naked man bending over the bonnet.’

The mental image was enough to make Cally wish for an electric fan and a long cool drink. ‘Stop this instant.’

‘What are you going to do? Sack me?’ Mel’s grin was wide. She was clearly getting a kick out of the whole thing, and enjoying the evil looks she was getting from the blonde at the other table.

The bids went higher.

Cally didn’t even know what his name was. She hadn’t been listening when the MC had announced him. She’d been too busy helping herself to more of the truffles from that plate. Now she felt sick and the chocolates were all gone and she desperately needed more to cope with this.

‘Mel …’ wasn’t listening.

The bidding went on, faster, higher, until suddenly it was all out war. Melissa versus the blonde at the table next door.

‘Ladies, the competition is fierce here.’ The auctioneer paused for breath.

Then he did it. Mr Eligible Bachelor sprang down from the stage and coolly walked to the two tables.

Panic rose in Cally as she saw even closer his height, his strength and the unmistakable fire in his eyes.

‘Mel, stop.’ She looked away from him and kept her eyes focused on the empty chocolate plate as if more would appear the harder she stared at it. ‘If you don’t stop, I’ll get up and walk out and leave you with that huge bill.’

She had to stop her. On the one hand she felt totally intimidated, on the other hand she felt a rush of excitement unlike anything else.

‘You’d never do that to me,’ Mel breezed. ‘You love me too much. Besides, the media is here.’

‘What?’ Cally turned her head, looking for the cameras. Great, the last thing she needed was the world watching as she made a fool of herself.

The blonde at the opposite table was throwing them evil looks.

Melissa, with natural-born confidence, and the fact this wasn’t her money, raised her hand again.

‘Please stop, Mel.’

She couldn’t explain why she felt so uncomfortable about buying someone’s company. She’d never told Mel about Luc and she didn’t have the time now. Anxiety twisted her tummy. She’d happily scoff another entire plate of truffles if she were alone. But she wasn’t alone, she was in a roomful of shrieking women, out to buy men, and her best friend was buying one for her.

‘Please, listen to me. I don’t want him. Stop, OK?’

Mel, keeping her hand in the air, sent a sweet smile. ‘Cally, honey, I’m doing this for you. I saw the look on your face when he walked onto the stage.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘He’s hot. And, let’s face it, Cally, you could do with some hot.’

Instead Cally iced over, and spoke slowly and clearly, her private school timbre carrying across the room. ‘I do not need a gigolo.’ She would never, ever pay someone to be in her company.

She finally chanced another look at the man Mel was so brazenly bidding for. He stood alarmingly close. Stock-still with his gaze locked onto her. His glance flickered between her and Mel and she knew he’d heard her last sentence. His eyes narrowed very slightly. Anger touched his features as his jaw tightened. Mel’s arm was still up, ramrod-straight, right by her ear like the girly swot at school who knew the answer to the question before the teacher had even finished asking it.

She looked back at him and saw his attention was now wholly on her. She wanted to shrivel up and slither off behind a rock somewhere.

Then she heard the applause, the cheering. The blonde had retired from the race. The catch of the day was hers for the weekend.

‘Fantastic!’ Mel was practically frothing at the mouth, looking around for an official. ‘Take the money. Take it. Take it.’

Stonily Cally reached into her bag, pulled out her pen and cheque-book. ‘How much was he?’

‘Does it matter? You have millions, Cally.’

Cally signed the cheque, then handed it to Mel to fill in the blank bits. ‘Consider him a pre-wedding present. A last hurrah before you’re bound into monogamy.’

‘I’m already bound and well you know it.’ Mel laughed. ‘This one is all yours.’

‘Not interested. I’m nipping away now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

‘Cally …’

Happily one of the organisers swooped on Mel, animated and excited and thanking her for such a large bid.

Cally took the opportunity to escape. Clutching her bag, she rose from the table, then realised she was going to have to get past him somehow. And he wasn’t budging. He stood, tall, silent, waiting by the table—waiting to wait on her. The butterflies in her tummy were beating their wings furiously and she fully regretted every single truffle. She turned quickly, stepping as fast as her short legs and stupid high heels would allow. As he refused to move and she refused to look at him, she had to brush past him, arm connecting with arm, hip connecting with hip. Goose-bumps spread over her skin and she quelled the shiver, striding out as fast as she was able.

She felt him turn back to Mel, but she blanked him from her mind, blanked the fire of the brief touch from his body. She headed to the exit.

Damn. The press hound from the society mag was striding towards her with purpose. Cally could only come up with the age-old escape—the bathroom. She’d had way more than enough excitement for the evening. If she waited a while in there the show would be back on with all eyes to the front and she could slip out the back unnoticed.

Inside the bathroom she hid out in a cubicle for a few moments until it sounded as if there was no one else in there. Then she went to the basin and washed her hands, running the cold water over her wrists to cool the blood racing in her veins.

Mel had only meant for her to have some fun, but she didn’t know how hideous it had made Cally feel. She’d never forget the moment she’d found out about Luc—the hideous humiliation. Beautiful men weren’t interested in Cally, not unless they were paid to be.

Cally closed her eyes against her reflection in the mirror.

Not going there.

Instead she thought of her father. He’d been loving and warm and kind and had made the fact that her mother hadn’t wanted her merely a niggle in her heart, not an aching tear. But he’d died and Cally had been left alone—and mother and daughter had been forced upon each other. Alicia the supermodel hadn’t been prepared for the plump frump that had been her pre-pubescent daughter. Cally had tried, she’d really tried. But at five feet two she was never going to live up to her mother’s five-foot-eleven grace and beauty and expectations. Under her roof, she’d been more alone than ever. And then there’d been Luc.

Cally frowned at the way her thoughts had come full circle. Then the music and noise coming from the bar increased in volume. The show was back on. Breathing a sigh of relief, she knew she could escape now. She pulled open the heavy door and walked out from the bathroom. And there, standing right in front of her, blocking her path, was her catch.

His hands rested on his lean hips, pushing his jacket back and revealing the white business shirt, emphasising the broad shoulders and the ‘I’m in charge’ air. What was it about men in suits? He looked authoritative, aggressive and ready for action. For a long moment he looked her up and down. She was doing the same to him but trying to be a whole lot more subtle about it, and as she tried not to slide into a heap she stiffened—standing straighter than a steel pipe.

Finally he spoke.

‘When and where do you want me?’