One Wicked Week

‘Is it making you uncomfortable, the fact we’ll be working together?’ Brock rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, his intense scrutiny making her want to bolt. ‘Because you approached me and I’m fine with it if you are?’

Jayda didn’t want to discuss anything to do with that night they’d lost their minds together so she skirted around the issue, giving him a snippet to distract.

‘I’m mentally planning all the work we have to do to get this project off the ground and it’s intimidating.’ She flashed him a fake smile. ‘But I’m glad you’re on board because I need all the help I can get.’

He didn’t believe her. She saw the doubt in those all-seeing eyes. ‘Why is this so important to you?’

‘I already told you. I want to help kids—’

‘Cut the altruistic bullshit, Jayda.’ He blew out a breath. ‘I’m the last guy on earth you would’ve approached for help unless you weren’t desperate so I want to know why setting up this charity means so much to you.’

‘Fuck you,’ hovered on her lips. She didn’t owe him any explanations. This would be a business transaction, nothing more. She’d pay him for his expertise; he’d make sure her IT services were top notch. But she knew him. He wouldn’t let this go. He’d been the same on graduation night, pushing her for answers as to why she’d been so upset, not giving up until she’d blurted the sad truth and ended up seeking comfort in his arms.

No way in hell would she allow that to happen this time, so she settled for the truth.

‘My sister died eighteen months before I started university.’

Sympathy darkened his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

‘Nobody knew. I didn’t want what happened to Sasha to define me so I never mentioned it.’

Mainly because her parents never stopped: they’d talk about Sasha every single day, singing her praises, lamenting her loss, boosting her higher on the pedestal where they permanently revered her. Jayda adored Sasha too but not once had they comforted her or consoled her. Instead, they’d turned to each other, as insular in their grief as they were in everything else. When they’d finally acknowledged they had another child it had been to lay a guilt trip on her, ensuring she shelved her own dreams after uni and followed theirs.

She’d been their yes-girl, agreeing to everything in an attempt to make up for being second best. Not that they ever labelled her as such; they didn’t have to. She saw the disappointment in their eyes every time they looked at her, no matter how much she did to please them.

She’d never live up to their golden child Sasha and it had been one hell of a wake-up call to discover she didn’t have to. Her parents weren’t the good people she’d thought they were and she’d be damned if she tried to impress them any longer. They’d be lucky if she ever spoke to them again considering what she’d recently discovered within their so-called ‘charity’ work.

‘What’s Sasha got to do with your business now?’

Jayda knew once she started down this track she’d have to tell him everything. It didn’t make it any easier.

‘Sasha was amazing. Top student, excellent musician, incredible polo player.’ Her heart twanged as it always did at the memory of her sister. ‘She was one of those people who loved everyone and the feeling was mutual.’

He hesitated, before blurting, ‘You weren’t jealous?’

‘Maybe a little.’ She shrugged, deliberately blocking that useless, insidious emotion she’d conquered a long time ago. No point being jealous of a ghost, no matter how much her folks rubbed her nose in Sasha’s perfection. ‘But I loved her too. She had a good heart and that’s what ultimately killed her.’

Sorrow clogged her throat and she swallowed it, needing to finish this now that she’d started. ‘She took a gap year after finishing high school and volunteered to teach kids English in a small Guatemalan village. It was her way of showing our folks that she wouldn’t bow down to their expectations no matter how much they wanted her to take over the business one day.’

Tears prickled her eyes and she blinked them away. ‘A landslide swept through the village during her third month there. They never recovered her body.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Brock reached out and clasped her icy hand between his.

She didn’t need his sympathy, she’d moved on from her grief a long time ago, but it felt nice to have his solid hands rubbing hers, infusing her with his warmth. However, when his hands stilled, she became all too aware of the warmth spreading higher; up her arm, through her chest, into her belly, a languid heat that morphed from comforting into something else entirely.

Quickly sliding her hand out of his, she scooted back in her chair. ‘Anyway, this charity I’m setting up is my way of honouring Sasha’s memory and continuing the work she would’ve done if she’d had the chance. I want to raise money to fund education for poorer areas in South America so that children everywhere have a chance to make something of themselves.’

Admiration lit his eyes and she hated how good it made her feel. She hadn’t told him to gain respect. She’d told him to distract, to ensure he wouldn’t keep badgering her as to the real reason behind her discomfort around him.

‘So now you know.’

‘It’s a good thing you’re doing,’ he said, his tone low and soothing. ‘I’m proud of you.’

‘I don’t need your praise,’ she snapped, the urge to lean in for a hug too strong, too tempting.

‘Then what do you need?’

He wasn’t talking about his IT skills and she knew it.

Since when did the glowering geek morph into this intuitive charmer? It made her like him all the more. Not good.

‘I need you to focus on us working together.’

She eyeballed him, daring him to disagree. He’d always backed down in the past, not willing to spar, unlike other guys. He’d been closed-off and dour in uni, which had made her want to tease him all the more. But he’d avoided her unless it had involved assignments and she’d accepted that he didn’t like her. Something he’d proved otherwise on that fateful night she’d revealed herself to him in more ways than one.

‘What else do you need?’ He reached across the table and touched her knee, a glance of his fingertips that sent a pleasant shock through her.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Damn, could she sound any feebler?

‘The Jayda I used to know had a permanent smile on her face and a cheeky twinkle in her eyes.’ He gestured at her. ‘You look sad and I think it’s more than your sister’s death and your parents’ shoddy treatment.’

Damn, how did he do that? Home in on her hidden insecurities? Not that she’d tell him the real reason behind her moroseness. She’d shared way too much of herself already today. Besides, part of her reinvention in turning her back on her parents and striking out on her own meant she had to be bold, brash and not beholden to anyone, ever.

She didn’t need to be psychoanalysed by him or anyone else. She needed to take control of this situation, starting now.

Her gaze landed on the pianist, who made a smooth transition from elevator music to an upbeat jazz number. And in that moment she knew how to assert her confidence and show him how much she’d changed from that clingy, needy woman he’d known for one night six years ago.

‘Do you still like jazz?’

He blinked in surprise before nodding. ‘Yeah, I’m a tragic. How did you know?’

Great, now she’d have to reveal the most inconsequential thing she remembered about him and he’d know exactly how tragic she was.

‘You had a few playlists on your phone during uni days.’ She kept her answer deliberately vague, hoping he wouldn’t call her on it. ‘Anyway, there’s a new jazz club recently opened in this hotel. Want to check it out?’

Her invitation floored him, if his wide eyes and slightly parted lips were any indication, but he recovered quickly to stare at her with blatant speculation.

‘You’re full of surprises, Jayda York.’

Good, because as long as she held the upper hand she could keep her doubts at bay and prove how much she’d changed from their last encounter together.

‘Is that a yes, Brock Olsen?’

He nodded, his delectable mouth easing into a smile. ‘That’s a hell yes. Let’s go.’

He stood and held out his hand to her, and, swallowing every reservation she had that she’d done the dumbest thing ever, she placed her hand in his.

CHAPTER THREE

‘THE HIPSTER CAT? Seriously?’ Brock placed a hand in the small of Jayda’s back and guided her into the dimly lit club, knowing this was a dumbass idea but powerless to do anything about it now.

He should’ve said no the moment she’d invited him to accompany her here but he couldn’t leave, not when she looked so morose. He couldn’t believe she’d never told him about her sister. Then again, he’d meant nothing to her and the only reason she’d reached out to him on grad night was because that dickhead Deon had done a number on her. She’d been vulnerable and he’d been convenient. That was why she’d bolted in the middle of the night, embarrassment at revealing too much of herself to a stranger.

He’d been glad. Her flit had relieved him of giving her the polite brush-off the morning after. It had suited them both. But what had happened tonight...he wasn’t wrong about the sadness. It emanated off her like a goddamn aura and he didn’t like it. Her asshole parents had hurt her, she still grieved for her sister, and he hated seeing the vibrant, bubbly woman appear so fragile.

So he’d manned up and done the right thing, agreeing to her invitation to this jazz club. Not that it was a hardship. She had him at jazz. He played the greats on repeat while he worked: he couldn’t get enough. What surprised him was her remembering his passion.

Which begged the question: what else did she remember from back then? Did she remember him going down on her, twice? Did she remember the multiple orgasms? Did she remember taking him so deep into her mouth that he almost passed out?

He was an idiot for dredging up those memories when she currently clung to his hand as they entered a darkness made for sin.

‘Can’t see a thing in here,’ he muttered, sounding like a grouch.

Her soft laughter washed over him. ‘I think the candles are a nice touch.’

He bit back his first response, ‘too bloody romantic.’ Doing this was about getting her to lighten up after he’d dragged her down with his prompts to reveal what was bugging her. He’d spend thirty minutes with her max, then he was out of here.

‘There are two seats over there.’ She pointed to a secluded alcove in the darkest corner of the club. Frigging great.

He quickly scanned the place for other seats and came up lacking. ‘Okay.’

Sensing his reluctance, she squeezed his hand and he slouched along beside her, his foreboding increasing when they reached the alcove and he realised exactly how sheltered they were. If this were a date, he’d love it. But sitting in the semi-darkness in a cosy booth with the woman who he’d never been able to forget wasn’t good.

She released his hand and slid into the booth, then patted the space beside her. When he hesitated she grinned, her teeth startlingly white in the dimness. ‘I promise not to bite.’

Once again he ignored his first response, something along the lines of ‘I wish you would,’ and slid in next to her. ‘Drink?’

‘I’m good for now. Maybe later.’

Great. So much for his grand plan to make an escape for the bar they’d passed on the way in. A four-piece combo strode onto the stage at that moment: double bass, trumpet, keyboard, drums. He hoped they played loud to drown out his thoughts, focussed on how badly he still wanted her after all this time.

‘What’s wrong?’ Jayda touched his thigh and he jumped as if he’d been electrocuted. ‘Jazz not doing it for you any more?’

He scooted back a fraction, dislodging her hand deliberately, before he swivelled to face her. ‘Do you really want to know what does it for me?’

He threw it out there, a blatant innuendo she couldn’t ignore. He had no idea if she’d been toying with him with her question but he couldn’t sit here in the dark with the boner to end all boners and pretend that he hadn’t once been inside this luscious woman and wouldn’t like to do it all over again.

The band’s spotlight dimmed, thrusting her face into semi-darkness, but he saw her tongue dart out to moisten her bottom lip as her gaze focussed on his mouth.

‘Tell me,’ she said, barely above a whisper. ‘I want to know what does it for you.’

Her eyes glowed like polished sapphires in the low lighting, the candlelight highlighting her glossed lips.

That mouth. Carnal. Made for sin. Made for him.

As he studied it her lips parted and the urge to kiss her pounded through him in time with his pulse. He couldn’t bullshit, not now. He wanted her too damn badly.

‘You.’ Before he could second-guess the wisdom of his impulsiveness he grabbed her hand and pressed it against his rigid cock. ‘You do it for me.’

She gasped, her eyes widening, her excitement reflecting his in the flickering candlelight.

‘Too much?’ he asked, with a sardonic grin, but not letting go of her hand. Her touch after all this time made him imagine all the naughty things he’d like to do to her in this alcove.

‘Not nearly enough,’ she murmured, a second before she surged towards him and claimed his mouth.

Her kiss took him by surprise and she took advantage of that, sweeping her tongue into his mouth, demanding he match her. He didn’t have to be asked twice, sliding his free hand behind her head so he could change the angle, deepening the kiss to the point where he couldn’t breathe.

She made the same soft moaning sounds in the back of her throat that she had six years earlier and it made him hornier, if that were possible. He released her hand but she maintained the pressure over his cock, palming him through his chinos, teasing him to the point he could easily ravish her without thought of fellow patrons.

A blast of trumpet made them jump and he tore his mouth away from hers, dragging in breaths to calm his addled mind. What the hell was he doing? He had to work with her for the next couple of weeks and this would only complicate matters.

But did it have to? They’d had sensational sex for one unforgettable night and that hadn’t stopped her approaching him to help her business. Would taking an erotic trip down memory lane really complicate things? She’d invited him here. She’d kissed him. And by the way she practically clambered all over him, she wanted more.

‘Brock?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah?’

A flush stained her cheeks and moved down her neck, disappearing into that ridiculously high collar of her dress, shielding what he longed to see: the fullness of her breasts spilling over the top of her bra, the deep cleavage created by her sizeable breasts.

As if she sensed the direction of his licentious thoughts, her hand hovered over her breastbone, drawing attention to her rigid nipples. Fuck, he wanted her.

‘I’m guessing you have some great jazz playlists at your place?’ Her voice turned husky, possibly from nerves or desire, as she squared her shoulders, bold and daring and delectable. ‘As good as anything these guys can produce?’

Yeah, she wanted this as badly as he did. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was using him as an emotional crutch again, a guy to help her lose herself in a few hours of sex to obliterate whatever was really bothering her.

Why do you care?

The kicker was, he did care. Even after all this time, because of how he’d felt about her all through uni, he cared. She didn’t know it, but he’d never take advantage of her.

No matter how brazen her actions, no matter how seductive her words, he had to wonder: did she want this for the right reasons? Did she really want a night of raunchy sex then to face him tomorrow without a qualm when they had to work together?

The fact he couldn’t get a proper read on her annoyed the shit out of him. Back then she’d been vulnerable and she’d needed him and he’d been there for her.

Tonight, her newfound confidence confused him. He’d made the first move, she’d responded with that kiss, and despite her daring he couldn’t help but think it had more to do with obliterating the earlier sadness he’d glimpsed than any burning desire to fuck him.

When he didn’t respond she leaned across and slanted a slow, all too brief kiss across his lips. Then she took his face between her hands, stared him dead in the eyes, and said, ‘I want you. I’ve never forgotten that incredible night and I want a repeat.’

She said all the right things, and with his cock aching to be inside her he needed to ditch the chivalry and take what she was offering.

She added, ‘Please,’ and Brock was a goner.

Because behind the boldness in her gaze as she eyeballed him with daring, behind the confident posture as she tilted her chin up in defiance, he heard something.

The slightest tremor in her voice, a hint of vulnerability that got to him, as if she expected him to turn away from her despite their sizzling attraction.

It kicked him in the fucking heart.

He couldn’t say no.

CHAPTER FOUR

GROWING UP, JAYDA had had a secret passion for interior design. She’d loved visiting Melbourne’s swankiest homes with her parents where she’d be goggle-eyed at plush carpets, exotic velvet settees, ancient artefacts and artwork that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the world’s top galleries.

She’d developed a hankering for real estate over the years and had invested wisely thanks to her trust fund, owning two properties on the outskirts of the city currently rented to tenants, and her own luxurious town house in trendy Fitzroy. She’d bought the three-bedroom place off the plan so had carte blanche to decorate it, a project she’d loved. She’d chosen every inch, from the black marble bench tops to the glossy grey cupboards, from the polished oak floorboards to the eggshell paint scheme throughout.

She’d spent an inordinate amount of time poring over online furnishing catalogues and social media accounts of the world’s top interior designers, and had gone for simplistic sophistication over look-but-don’t-touch glitz. Her place screamed understated elegance.

It had nothing on Brock’s apartment.

‘Wow,’ she said, as she stepped into the foyer of his penthouse on the fiftieth floor of a towering complex in upscale Collins Street. This place was beyond wow. Way beyond. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows curved in a sweeping one hundred and eighty degrees, offering a stunning view of Melbourne by night. A balcony ran the same curvature, with sun loungers placed at strategic intervals. Fawn marble tiles covered the floor, with space-age metallic lighting fixtures hanging from the ceiling. Sleek chocolate-brown suede sofas were angled to face a modernistic painting with slashes of primary colours, which would turn into a TV at the flick of a button. She had a much smaller version at her place.

Overall, the penthouse exuded a subtle wealth and while her own town house had gobbled up mega bucks to channel the style and glamour she’d wanted, she knew she’d done well in enlisting his services to help get her business off the ground. To afford a place like this he must be extremely good at his job, beyond the stellar reviews she’d read online.

‘This place is gorgeous,’ she said, spinning a slow three-sixty to take it all in.

‘I like it.’ He shrugged, as if the massive apartment that covered an entire floor meant little, and gave her a gentle nudge forward. ‘Come in. Make yourself comfortable.’

Jayda slipped off her heels at the door, afraid she’d make indentation marks in his pristine marble tiled floor. Stupid, that after all these years she harboured the teensiest resentment against her body and its losing battle with carbs. Her weight fluctuated but not by much. She’d suffered the indignity of various labels from her early teens: ‘curvy’ had been one of the nice ones, ‘fatty’ at the other extreme.

Brock adored her curves apparently, as he’d repeatedly told her when he’d undressed her on that one night six years ago. She hadn’t really believed him but hadn’t cared; she’d been shattered and desperately seeking comfort at the time. Then he’d proceeded to show her in exquisite, sensual detail exactly how much he liked her curves. She’d revealed her innermost doubts regarding her body image that night—and the way Deon had battered her self-esteem along with taking her virginity—and Brock had given her exactly what she’d wanted.

The mind-blowing sex had been unforgettable and the moment she’d laid eyes on him tonight, she’d wanted him. She’d changed a lot since that night, had learned to live in the moment. Be spontaneous. Lighten up. A sizzling one-night stand replicating the sensational sex from years ago would be exactly what she needed.

All nice in theory until she shot him a sideways glance and caught him studying her with an intensity that made her skin pebble. What was he thinking? Did he remember that night in as much detail as she did? Did he regret it? Did he want to back out now?

She hadn’t exactly given him much choice in the matter tonight. She’d poured all her nervous energy into putting on a brave face and when it had looked as if he’d continue asking the hard questions about her folks, she’d come on to him.

He hadn’t called her out on the distraction technique and she’d been grateful. But once he’d articulated that he wanted her, and pressed her hand to his cock, she’d forgotten about distractions and working together and every goddamn thing.

In that moment, she’d known that all she wanted from tonight was him. But now that she’d set foot in his domain, a far cry from his old shabby flat, deep-seated doubts bubbled up from within.

Would he still find her attractive?

Would he find her lacking somehow?

Would she be enough?

Stupid, irrational fears considering how far she’d come since the last time they’d had sex, but there was something different about him now, an inherent aloofness that made him untouchable, that had her questioning the wisdom of sleeping with him again.

When she arched a brow to query his unwavering stare, he gave a slight shake of the head.

‘Back in a minute,’ he said, striding towards what she assumed was the kitchen by the glimpse of gleaming stainless-steel counter. Lights hidden along the skirting boards flicked on with his movement, illuminating a path like a runway.

But the contemporary lighting wasn’t her main focus as her gaze glued to his butt and the way it filled out his black chinos. Damn, he looked good. Better than she remembered. Felt good too, from her blatant stroking of his boner in the jazz club. It had driven her wild, knowing he had the hots for her, had emboldened and empowered her to do what she’d yearned to do from the first moment she’d laid eyes on him again: kiss him. And what a kiss: deep, sensual, erotic, Brock to a T. She’d been on the point of straddling him if the band hadn’t started up.

Now, she wanted to start up in an entirely different way.

No sound came from the kitchen and she hoped he wasn’t having second thoughts. She’d subdued her doubts about having sex with him, especially when they’d be working together to organise her business, and she’d assumed that the fact he’d invited her here to get down and dirty meant he wanted the same thing.

Sneaking a peek over her shoulder in the direction of the now brightly lit kitchen, she scuttled towards a high-backed chair furthest from the floor-to-ceiling windows. She rucked up her skirt and wriggled out of her control panties, experiencing a moment of panic when her usual muffin top rolled out. Mentally cursing her inherent insecurities, she stuffed the panties into her handbag and smoothed her skirt down.

She’d lost about five kilos since her uni days, enough to give her a semblance of a waist. The weight loss served to accentuate her bust and take some of the attention away from her hips and ass. ‘The perfect hourglass,’ Brock had said with reverence when he’d skimmed his hands over her body on grad night. But she’d never disrobed fully then, keeping on a T-shirt the entire time. Brock hadn’t pushed her to take it off and she’d loved him for it. He’d never made her feel anything but cherished during the whole experience and she wanted more of the same.