Hers For One Night Only?

‘I know.’ Jasmine smiled. ‘It really is great that you came out.’

It had been. Bridgette was relieved that she’d made it this far for her friend and also rather relieved to escape from the very suave Dominic—he was so out of her league and she also knew they were flirting. Dominic had the completely wrong impression of her—he thought she worked agency for the money and flexibility, so that she could choose her shifts at whim and party hard on a Saturday night.

If only he knew the truth.

Still, he was terribly nice.

Not nice, she corrected. Not nice nice, more toe-curlingly sexy and a dangerous nice. Still, no one was leaving. Instead he had made his way over, the music seemed to thud low in her stomach and for a bizarre moment as he joined them she thought he was about to lean over and kiss her.

Just like that, in front of everyone.

And just like that, in front of everyone, she had the ridiculous feeling that she’d comply.

It was safer to leave, to thank him for the drink, to say she wasn’t hungry, to hitch up her bag and get the hell out of there, to ignore the dangerous dance in her mind.

‘I’ll see you on Monday,’ she said to Jasmine.

‘You can help me pack!’

The group sort of moved out of the bar as she did and walked towards the Mexican restaurant. There had been a burst of summer rain but it hadn’t cleared the air. Instead it was muggy, the damp night air clinging to her cheeks, to her legs and arms as her eyes scanned the street for a taxi.

‘Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?’ Dominic asked.

And she should say no—she really should walk away now, Bridgette told herself. She didn’t even like Mexican food, but he was gorgeous and it had been ages since there had been even a hint of a flirt. And she was twenty-six and maybe just a bit flattered that someone as sophisticated as he was was paying her attention. Her wounded ego could certainly use the massage and she’d just checked her phone and things seemed fine, so Bridgette took a deep breath and forced back that smile.

‘Sounds great.’

‘Good,’ he replied, except she was confused, because he then said goodbye to Vince and Jasmine as Bridgette stood on the pavement, blinking as the group all bundled into a restaurant and just the two of them remained. Then he turned and smiled. ‘Let’s get something to eat, then.’

‘I thought…’ She didn’t finish her sentence, because he aimed his keys at a car, a very nice car, which lit up in response, and she glanced at her phone again and there wasn’t a single message.

Her chariot awaited.

She climbed in the car and sank into the leather and held her breath as Dominic walked around to the driver’s side.

She didn’t do things like this.

Ever.

But there was a part of her that didn’t want to say goodnight.

A part of her that didn’t want to go back to an empty flat and worry about Harry.

They drove though the city; he blasted on the air-conditioner and it was bliss to feel the cool air on her cheeks. They drove in silence until his phone rang and she glanced to the dashboard where it sat in its little charger and the name ‘Arabella’ flashed up on his screen. Instead of making an excuse, he turned for a brief second and rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The maudlin Saturday night phone call,’ Dominic said, grinding the gears. ‘How much she misses me, how she didn’t mean it like that…’

The phone went black.

‘Your ex?’

‘Yep.’ He glanced over to her. ‘You can answer it if she rings again.’ He flashed her a smile, a devilish smile that had her stomach flip. ‘Tell her we’re in bed—that might just silence her.’

‘Er, no!’ She grinned. ‘I don’t do things like that.’

On both counts.

‘Were you serious?’ she asked, because she couldn’t really imagine him serious about anyone. Mind you, Jasmine had said they’d been engaged.

‘Engaged,’ he said. ‘For a whole four weeks.’

And he pulled his foot back from the accelerator because he realised he was driving too fast, but he hated the phone calls, hated that sometimes he was tempted to answer, to slip back into life as he once had known it.

And end up like his parents, Dominic reminded himself.

He’d lived through their hellish divorce as a teenager, had seen their perfect life crumble, and had no intention of emulating it. With Arabella he had taken his time. They had been together for two years and he thought he had chosen well—gorgeous, career-minded and she didn’t want children. In fact, it had turned out, she didn’t want anything that was less than perfect.

‘You’re driving too fast.’ Her voice broke into his thoughts. ‘I don’t make a very good passenger.’ She smiled. ‘I think I’m a bit of a control freak.’

He slowed down, the car swishing through the damp city streets, and then they turned into the Arts Centre car park. Walking through it, she could hear her heels ringing on the cement, and even though it was her town, it was Dominic who knew where he was going—it had been ages since she had been in the heart of the city. She didn’t feel out of place in her silver dress. The theatres were spilling out and there were people everywhere dressed to the nines and heading for a late dinner.

She found herself by a river—looking out on it from behind glass. She was at a table, with candles and silver and huge purple menus and a man she was quite sure she couldn’t handle. He’d been joking in the car about telling his ex they were in bed, she knew it, but not really—she knew that too.

‘What do you want to eat?’

Bridgette wasn’t that hungry—she felt a little bit sick, in fact—but she looked through the menu and tried to make up her mind.

‘I…’ She didn’t have the energy to sit through a meal. Really, she ought to tell him now, that the night would not be ending as he was undoubtedly expecting. ‘I’m not very hungry…’

‘We can get dessert and coffee if you want.’

‘I wouldn’t mind the cheese platter.’

‘Start at the end.’ He gave her a smile and placed the order—water for him and cognac for her, he suggested, and, heaven help her, the waiter asked if she wanted it warmed.

‘Dominic…’ She took a deep breath as their platter arrived, a gorgeous platter of rich cheeses and fruits. ‘I think—’

‘I think we just ought to enjoy,’ he interrupted.

‘No.’ Bridgette gulped. ‘I mean…’ She watched as he smeared cheese on a cracker and offered it to her.

‘I don’t like blue cheese.’

‘Then you haven’t had a good one.’

He wasn’t wrong there!

He took a bite instead and her hand shook as she reached for the knife, tasted something she was quite sure she didn’t like and found out it was, in fact, amazing.

‘Told you.’

‘You did.’ She looked at the platter, at the grapes and dates, like some lush oil painting, and she knew the dance that was being played and the flirting and the seduction that was to come, and it terrified her. ‘I don’t think I should be here…’ She scrabbled in her bag, would pay the bill, knew that she must end this.

‘Bridgette.’ He wasn’t a bastard—he really wasn’t. Yes, he’d been playing the field since his engagement had ended, and, yes, he had every intention of continuing to do so, but he only played with those who were happy with the rules, and he knew now for sure that she wasn’t. ‘It’s cheese.’

She lifted troubled eyes to his.

‘No, it isn’t—it’s the ride home after.’

He liked her. He hadn’t wanted emotion tonight, and yet she made him smile as a tear washed away the last of her foundation and he could see freckles on her nose. ‘Bridgette, it’s cheese and conversation.’ He took her hand, and she started to tell him he didn’t want just cheese and conversation, oh, no, she knew it very well. She told him she wasn’t the girl in the silver dress who partied and he held her hand as she babbled about zebra-print rugs, no white ones, and cocktails. ‘Bridgette.’ He was incredibly close to adoring her, to leaning over and kissing her right now. ‘It’s cheese and conversation and then I’ll take you home.’ He looked at her mouth and he was honest. ‘Maybe just one kiss goodnight.’

Oh, but she wanted her kiss.

Just one.

‘That leads nowhere,’ she said.

‘That leads nowhere,’ he assured her.

‘We’re not suited,’ she said, and was incredibly grateful that he nodded.

‘We’re completely incompatible,’ Dominic agreed.

‘And I’m sorry if I’ve misled you…’

‘You didn’t.’ He was very magnanimous, smearing more cheese and this time handing it to her, no, wait, feeding her, and it wasn’t so much seductive as nice. ‘I let myself be misled,’ he said, and he handed her her cognac. ‘I knew from the start you were nice.’ He gave her a smile. ‘And you are, Bridgette.’

‘So are you.’

‘Oh, no,’ he assured her. ‘I’m not.’

CHAPTER TWO

IT FELT so good to feel so good and it was as if they both knew that they didn’t have long. It was terribly hard to explain it, but now that there wasn’t sex on the menu, now they’d cleared that out of the way, they could relax and just be.

For a little while.

She took a sip of cognac and it burnt all the way down, a delicious burn.

‘Nice?’ Dominic asked.

‘Too nice,’ she admitted.

And he hadn’t wanted conversation, or emotion, but he was laughing, talking, sharing, and that XXXX of a day melted away with her smile.

So they worked the menu backwards and ordered dessert, chocolate soufflé for Bridgette and watermelon and mint sorbet for him. As he sampled his dish, Bridgette wanted a taste—not a spoonful, more a taste of his cool, watermelon-and-mint-flavoured tongue—and she flushed a little as he offered her the spoon. ‘Want some?’ Dominic said.

She shook her head, asked instead about his work, and he told her a bit about his plans for his career, and she told him about the lack of plans for hers.

‘You love midwifery, though?’ Dominic checked.

‘I am hoping to go back to it.’ Bridgette nodded. ‘It’s just been a bit of a complicated year…’ She didn’t elaborate and she was glad that he didn’t push. Yes, she loved midwifery, she answered, loved babies.

‘You want your own?’ He asked the same question that everyone did when they heard her job.

‘One day maybe…’ Bridgette gave a vague shrug. Had he asked a couple of years ago she’d have told him that she wanted millions, couldn’t wait to have babies of her own. Only now she simply couldn’t see it. She couldn’t imagine a place or a time where it might happen, couldn’t imagine really trusting a man again. She didn’t tell him that of course—that wasn’t what tonight was about. Instead she gave a vague nod. ‘I think so. You?’ she asked, and he admitted that he shuddered at the very thought.

‘You’re a paediatrician.’ Bridgette laughed.

‘Doesn’t mean I have to want my own. Anyway,’ he added, ‘I know what can go wrong.’ He shook his head and was very definite. ‘Nope, not for me.’ He told her that he had a brother, Chris, when Bridgette said she had a sister, Courtney. Neither mentioned Arabella or Paul, and Bridgette certainly didn’t mention Harry.

Tonight it was just about them.

And then they ordered coffee and talked some more.

And then another coffee.

And the waiters yawned, and Dominic and Bridgette looked around the restaurant and realised it was just the two of them left.

And it was over too soon, Bridgette thought as he paid the bill and they left. It was as if they were trying to cram so much into one night; almost as if it was understood that this really should deserve longer. It was like a plane trip alongside a wonderful companion: you knew you would be friends, more than friends perhaps, if you had more time, but you were both heading off to different lives. He to further his career and then back to his life in Sydney,

She to, no doubt, more of the same.

Except they had these few hours together and neither wanted them to end.

They walked along the river and to the bridge, leant over it and looked into the water, and still they spoke, about silly things, about music and videos and movies they had watched or that they thought the other really should see. He was nothing like the man she had assumed he was when they had been introduced in the bar—he was insightful and funny and amazing company. In fact, nothing at all like the remote, aloof man that Jasmine had described.

And she was nothing like he’d expected either when they had been introduced. Dominic was very careful about the women he dated in Melbourne; he had no interest in settling down, not even for a few weeks. Occasionally he got it wrong, and it would end in tears a few days later. Not his of course—it was always the women who wanted more than he was prepared to give, and Dominic had decided he was never giving that part of himself again. But there was a strange regret in the air as he drove her home—a rare regret for Dominic—because here was a woman he actually wouldn’t mind getting to know a little more, one who might get him over those last stubborn, lingering remnants of Arabella.

He’d been joking about Bridgette answering the phone.

Sort of.

Actually, it wasn’t such a bad idea. He couldn’t face going back to Sydney while there was still weakness, didn’t want to slip back into the picture-perfect life that had been prescribed to him since birth.

And it was strange because had they met at the start of his stay here, he was sure, quite sure, time would have moved more slowly. Now, though, it seemed that the beach road that led to her home, a road he was quite positive usually took a good fifteen minutes, seemed to be almost over in eight minutes and still they were talking, still they were laughing, as the car gobbled up their time.

‘You should watch it.’ She was talking about something on the internet, something she had found incredibly funny. ‘Tonight when you get in.’ She glanced at the clock on the dashboard and saw that it was almost two. ‘I mean, this morning.’

‘You watch it too.’ He grinned. ‘We can watch simultaneously…’ His fingers tightened on the wheel and he ordered his mind not to voice the sudden direction it had taken—thankfully those thoughts went unsaid and unheard.

‘I can’t get on the internet,’ Bridgette grumbled, trying desperately not to think similar thoughts. ‘I’ve got a virus.’ She swung her face to him. ‘My computer, I mean, not…’ What was wrong with her mouth? Bridgette thought as she turned her burning face to look out of the window. Why did everything lead to sex with him? ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘you should watch it.’

There was a roundabout coming up, the last roundabout, Bridgette knew, before her home, and it felt like her last chance at crazy, their last chance. And, yes, it was two a.m., but it could have been two p.m.; it was just a day that was running out and they wanted to chase it. She stole a look over at his delectable profile and to the olive hands that gripped the steering-wheel—it would be like leaving the cinema in the middle of the best movie ever without a hope of finding out the end. And she wanted more detail, wanted to know how it felt to be made love to by a man like him. She’d been truthful when she’d spoken to Jasmine—a relationship was the very last thing that she wanted now. Maybe this way had merit…‘We should watch it.’

‘Your computer’s not working,’ he pointed out.

‘Yours is.’ The flick of the indicator signalling right was about half the speed of her heart.

‘Bridgette…’ He wasn’t a bastard—he was incredibly, incredibly nice, because they went three times round the roundabout as he made very sure.

‘I don’t want you to regret…’ He was completely honest. ‘I leave in two weeks.’

‘I won’t regret it.’ She’d firmly decided that she wouldn’t. ‘After much consideration I have decided I would very much regret it if I didn’t.’ She gave him a smile. ‘I want my night.’

She did. And he was lovely, because he did not gun the car home. It was so much nicer than she would ever be able to properly remember, but she knew for many nights she would try.

She wanted to be able to hold on to the moment when he turned and told her that he couldn’t wait till they got all the way back to the city for the one kiss they had previously agreed to. She wanted to remember how they stopped at a lookout, gazed out at the bay, leant against his bonnet and watched the glittering view, and it felt as if time was suspended. She wanted to bottle it somehow, because she wasn’t angry with Courtney at that moment, or worried for Harry. For the first time in ages she had a tiny glimpse of calm, of peace, a moment where she felt all was well.

Well, not calm, but it was a different sort of stress from the one she was used to as he moved his face to hers. Very nicely he kissed her, even if she was terribly nervous. He let her be nervous as he kissed her—till the pleats in her mind unfurled. It was a kiss that had been building all night, a kiss she had wanted since their introduction, and his mouth told her he had wanted the same.

‘I was going to stay for one drink…’ His mouth was at her ear, his body pressed into hers.

‘I was just leaving,’ she admitted as his face came back to view.

‘And now look at us.’

So nice was that kiss that he did it again.

‘You smell fantastic.’ She was glad, to be honest, to have only him on her mind. He smelt as expensive as he looked and he tasted divine. She would never take this dress to the dry cleaner’s, she thought as his scent wrapped around them, and his mouth was at her neck and under her hair. He was dragging in the last breaths of the perfume she had squirted on before going out and soaking in the scent of the salon’s rich shampoo and the warm fragrance of woman.

‘So do you,’ he said.

‘You taste fantastic,’ Bridgette said. She was the one going back for more now.

‘You too.’

And he liked the weight of responsibility that cloaked him as he pressed her against the bonnet and his hands inched down to a silver hem. He could feel her soft thighs and wanted to lift her dress, but he wanted to know if her legs too were freckled, so he ended the kiss. He wanted more for her than that, more for himself than that.

Just tonight, Dominic assured himself as she did the same.

‘What?’ He caught her looking at him as they headed for his home, and grinned.

‘Nothing.’ She smiled back.

‘Go on, say what you’re thinking.’

‘Okay.’ So she did. ‘You don’t look like a paediatrician.’

‘What is a paediatrician supposed to look like?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bridgette admitted. ‘Okay, you don’t seem like a paediatrician.’ She couldn’t really explain it, but he laughed.

They laughed.

And when she told him that she imagined him more a cosmetic surgeon, with some exclusive private practice, his laugh turned wry. ‘You’re mistaking me for my father.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Bridgette said.

And he pulled her towards him, because it was easier than thinking, easier than admitting he wasn’t so sure of her verdict, that lately he seemed to be turning more and more into his father, the man he respected least.

It was three o’clock and she felt as if they were both trying to escape morning.

There wasn’t a frantic kiss through the front door—instead the energy that swirled was more patient.

It was a gorgeous energy that waited as he made her coffee and she went to the bathroom and he had the computer on when she returned. They did actually watch it together.

‘I showed this to Jasmine—’ there were tears rolling down her face, but from laughter ‘—and she didn’t think it was funny.’

And he was laughing too, more than he ever had. He hadn’t had a night like this in ages—in fact, he couldn’t recall one ever.

Okay, she would try to remember the details, how he didn’t cringe when she pretended his desk was a piano; instead he sang.

It was the most complicated thing to explain—that she could sing to him, that, worse, he could take the mug that was the microphone and do the same to her!

‘We should be ashamed of ourselves.’ She admired their reflection in the computer as they took a photo.

‘Very ashamed,’ he agreed.

She thought he was like this, Dominic realised, that this was how his usual one-night stands went. Didn’t she understand that this was as rare for him as it was for her? He hadn’t been like this even with Arabella.

He didn’t just want anyone tonight; he wanted her.

It was an acute want that tired now of being patient and so too did hers. As their mouths met on time and together, he kissed her to the back of the sofa. It felt so seamless, so right, because not for a second did Bridgette think, Now he’s going to kiss me. One moment they were laughing and the next they were kissing. It was a transition that was as simple as that.

It was his mouth and his taste and the slide of his tongue.

It was her mouth and a kiss that didn’t taste of plastic, that tasted of her tongue, and he kissed her and she curled into it. She loved the feel of his mouth and the roam of his hands and the way her body was craving his—it was a kiss that was potent, everything a kiss could be, distilled into one delicious dose.

He took off her dress, because he wanted to see her, not the woman in silver, and his eyes roamed. They roamed as he took off her bra and he answered his earlier question because her freckles stopped only where her bikini would be. There were two unfreckled triangles that wanted his mouth, but he talked to her as well and what she didn’t know was how rare that was.

He left control behind and was out of his mind.

He wanted her in France, he told her as he licked her nipple.

Topless and naked on the beach beside him, and new freckles on her breasts. She closed her eyes and she could smell the sun oil, could feel the heat from the sun that shone in France and the coolness of his tongue on sunburnt nipples. He pressed her into the couch and she pressed back to him.

She was lying down and could feel him hard against her and she didn’t think twice, just slid his zipper down.

She could hear her own moan as she held him and he lifted his head.

‘We’re not going to make it to the bedroom, are we?’

‘Not a hope,’ she admitted.

Was this what it was like?

To be free.

To be irresponsible.

More, please, she wanted to sob, because she wanted to live on the edge for ever, never wanted this night to end.

She wanted this man who took off his trousers and kept condoms in his wallet, and it didn’t offend her—she already knew what he was like, after all.

‘Bastard.’ She grinned.

And he knew her too.

‘Sorry,’ he said. In their own language he apologised for the cad that he was and told her that he wasn’t being one tonight.

This was different.

So different that he sat her up.

Sank to his knees on the edge of the sofa.

And pulled her bottom towards him.

‘Let’s get rid of these.’ He was shameless. He dispensed with anything awkward, just slid her panties down, and she did remember staring up at the ceiling as his tongue slid up a pale, freckled thigh that didn’t taste of fake tan and then he dived right in. As he licked and teased and tasted she would remember for ever thinking, Is this me?

And she was grateful for his experience, for his skill, for the mastery of his tongue, because it was a whole new world and tonight she got to step into it.

‘Relax,’ he said, when she forgot to for a moment.

So she did, just closed her eyes and gave in to it.

‘Where’s the rug?’ she asked as he slid her to the floor.

‘No rug,’ he said.

He maybe should get one, was her last semi-coherent thought, because the carpet burnt in her back as he moved inside her, a lovely burn, and then it was his turn to sample the carpet for he toppled her over, still deep inside her, and she was on top.