Unfinished Business: Bought: One Night, One Marriage / Always the Bridesmaid / Confessions of a Millionaire's Mistress

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?

A mocking smile touched his features. ‘You’d better close your eyes.’

He was right. Because this close his looks were searing into her and her blood was thudding through her body. She felt hotter than if she’d been grilled on high in her top-of-the-range European oven.

He took his time watching her as she struggled to decide what to do. Why couldn’t her brain work? This was ridiculous—what had she just agreed to?

‘Close them.’ A soft command.

Her lids fluttered. It was easier to obey. But her mouth opened—to argue, right? To get in some air? Not because she wanted to let him in.

Yeah, right.

It was a moment before he made contact, a moment in which she fought to restrain her body from meeting his. Because frankly her lips were on fire and if he didn’t touch his to them soon she couldn’t be responsible for her actions. Her reason, her rationality, seemed to have gone on an extended lunchbreak.

But Blake didn’t take what she was offering, not in the way she wanted. He didn’t plunder and ravage, didn’t press his mouth hard on hers even though she half longed for a kiss that demanded everything, that simply took right from the start. Instead he touched her gently. The contact was slow and almost annoyingly sweet. His lips over hers were firm and warm and he tasted, damn him, of a hint of cucumber—all cool and in control.

Then the sweetness became less annoying, more intoxicating and more inviting. She squeezed her fingers harder on the cold steel of the bench—not going to reach for him. Not going to.

She couldn’t help her tongue, though, from seeking out his depth and the essence, teasing him all by itself. And suddenly the kiss changed and his plunder element surfaced. Satisfaction coursed through her as the pressure increased, as did the demands—for both of them. His Saturday morning stubble rasped on her soft skin and she wanted to feel more of his hair roughened body against her—like all of it, now. With a barely audible moan she opened more to him and he leaned closer to take full advantage, going deeper, lusher. Still not close enough, not for Cally. Finally his lips left hers and she felt his breath hot and fast on her face and she doubted the degree to which he was cool and in control.

She felt the space between them grow as he quickly pulled away.

‘A very willing little slave.’

His confident drawl hit her. He was the boss, huh? She didn’t think so, not from the way he was gulping in the air. Slowly she raised her lashes and looked at him as coolly as she could. ‘Just who do you think was the slave then?’

His brows lifted. ‘Did I say five? I think we’ll make it six. Let’s really prove that exact point.’

He’d almost exited the room and she’d almost slid to the floor to assume the recovery position when he stopped. Turning back to her, he spoke, no hint of a grin, just the edgy, angry model-man look.

‘I should warn you. I never make promises I can’t keep.’

CHAPTER FOUR

FIRST thing Monday morning there was an email.

9 a.m. Monday, one hundred dollars. 5 p.m. Friday, let me know your total. You know the prize.

Cally did and she also knew she didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of beating him at this game. Sixth sense told her no matter how she played it he’d go one better—as he had every step of the way so far. She’d run a Google search on him two seconds after reading the email, and looked at only the first few hits of the many that came up—the bio on his company website, plus a few articles in which he was portrayed as a major mover and shaker in the business world. Hell, she’d had no idea; all she knew was soup. How insulting had she been? He knew how to make money—serious money—and, while Cally had serious money, she wasn’t so good at making more. Sure, her company did OK, but it was niche and she knew if she really wanted to expand she needed leverage and expert advice. But she wasn’t sure expansion was the way to go. It would be nice to keep it the size it was—even though she could hardly keep up with it. She worked round the clock, seven days, and still couldn’t seem to keep on top of it all. Her beloved time experimenting in the kitchen was suffering major erosion.

And now, instead of getting on with the job, she turned her back on the overflowing in-trays and panicked about their stupid competition some more. It was hardly sausage-sizzle and cake-stall stuff. She had no time to organise anything. Fundraising did not mean asking her wealthiest buddies for a handout—anyway, how could she possibly explain the real reason behind it? And what could she ‘do’ to raise sponsorship? Again there was no time and, as far as she was aware, there weren’t any marathons being run between now and Friday. Not that she’d manage even half a mile.

Besides, if she was honest, did she really want to win? Didn’t she want to win in the best way possible—to be there for the weekend and not give in to him?

That one was a fantasy—seriously delusional and she knew it. Just the memory of that kiss—the one that had been on autoreplay ever since, despite her best ‘delete’ efforts—had her burning up to such a degree it was a wonder she was still whole and not some speck of cinder being blown on the breeze. It would take less than a second of contact and she’d be his.

So, she’d better win the competition because she refused to be another easy conquest for him. The only hope she had was her business. She went down to Mel in the shop at the front of the small factory where she had five workers making the soup.

‘Every pottle we sell this week we donate fifty cents to charity.’ She worked up a sign. Put it in the window. Put a jar beside the cash register alongside the tip jar for the staff.

‘Are you sure?’ Mel looked sideways at her. Already Cally’s Cuisine donated a percentage of profit to charity. Cally could understand the question.

‘Yes. I need to really raise some funds for this charity. It’s important. Just this week—a one-off fundraiser.’

‘What charity?’

The ‘save Cally from utter humiliation’ charity—not that she told Mel that. ‘The usual.’

Mel had lost interest in the topic anyway, had a cunning smile on. ‘How was your weekend?’

Cally had been putting off this moment for as long as possible by hiding out upstairs and pretending to be super busy and not up for chat. ‘He cleaned my car and then left.’ As crisp and matter-of-fact in delivery as she could manage.

It was enough. Mel shook her head. ‘You’re a lost cause.’

‘Ain’t that the truth,’ muttered Cally.

Wednesday afternoon she worked in the shop to cover Mel’s break. Panic was definitely setting in. She rattled the jar on the counter; a few coins clinked together. The weather was warm and sales were down. Why couldn’t there be a wintry blast and soup be the dream diet of everyone?

She was just packing an order when another customer walked in. She looked up, her sales smile in place, and froze. He stood, wearing an immaculate suit and a devilish glint in his eyes. She fumbled her way through seeing off the other customer, all thumbs and heated cheeks, fully resenting the grossly unfair way he’d been given such perfect features—all of them.

He nodded towards her sign. ‘How’s the fundraising going?’

‘OK. You?’

‘Not bad.’ He flashed a smile she didn’t like. ‘I’ll take some of that cabbage one.’

She put a pack in the bag, gave it to him and assumed cool composure. ‘On the house.’

He inclined his head in thanks and then put his hand in his pocket, withdrawing his wallet anyway. With relaxed style he took out a note and stuffed it into the charity box. A hundreddollar bill, no less.

Cally looked at him. ‘Not bad, huh?’

He winked and left the shop. Cocky was not the word. It cemented the knowledge that, come what may, he was going to win—through sheer determination. The same way, she suddenly realised, that he’d been determined that she win him in the auction. He had that same look—challenging her, daring her.

She went straight upstairs and phoned her regular beautician. Late Thursday afternoon she left the salon after three hours locked inside. She was smooth, soft and totally depressed. Her bob sat sharp and gleaming, her toenails were trimmed and polished and every bit in the middle had been tended to and buffed. She was still depressed. She amended the sign in the shop and called to Mel.

‘Every soup we sell we donate three dollars to charity.’

‘Cally, that means we’re running a loss.’

‘I don’t care.’ She looked at her concerned employee. ‘Oh. OK. I do care. Two dollars.’

‘You’re the boss.’ Mel shrugged. ‘I know there’s something more going on here.’ A coy look. ‘Your hair looks nice.’

Cally hated her hair. There was nothing to be done with it. Thick, dead straight and as brunette as you could get. She’d tried over the years—but when you spent seven hours getting highlights that you had to then hunt for under interrogation-style lighting, well, you knew it was a lost cause. So every few weeks she had it cut into a razor-sharp bob and ignored it the rest of the time. She’d never be blonde. She’d never be particularly beautiful. She was brunette, short and most definitely veering to round. Spending an afternoon surrounded by blonde glamazons—and that was the beauticians, she wasn’t even thinking about the other show-stopping clients—was not good for Cally’s self-confidence.

She drew a deep breath and told herself, not for the first time, to get over it. She checked her watch. She was due at the shelter in less than twenty minutes. Her step lightened. This was just what she needed. Some time doing something for someone else, far worse off than her, would put her own silly worries well into perspective … till tomorrow anyway.

The next evening he called to her as she approached. It was the bar where the auction had been held. Had he deliberately chosen the table where she’d sat last week? She knew he had. She was fast learning that nothing about Blake wasn’t deliberate.

‘Had a good week, Cally?’

‘Not bad.’ Cautious. ‘You?’

‘Not bad.’ He watched as she sat, then flicked his fingers for a waitress.

Cally’s sense of trepidation increased. ‘Vodka martini, please,’ she ordered, hoping the bartender would pour with a heavy hand and spare the mixer.

Finally she summoned the nerve to ask him. ‘How much did you raise?’

He held up the paper in front of him. Cally looked at the figures—all five of them, and that was before the decimal point. She didn’t know whether she was about to laugh hysterically or burst into tears.

‘How?’

‘I invested my one hundred dollars.’

‘And you made that much in a week?’ Hell, she should be talking to her financial planner; he wasn’t doing nearly well enough if Blake could get that sort of return in only a week.

He grinned. ‘High-risk investments. All or nothing. I got lucky.’ He put the paper down and pushed it towards her. ‘It was worth the risk. I wanted to win.’ He gestured to more paper poking out of his laptop bag. ‘I can show you a record of the transactions if you’d like.’

‘No. I believe you.’ She took a quick sip of the dry drink. ‘How badly did you want to win?’

‘As badly as you wanted me to.’

Her eyes closed for a second.

He spoke again, still in that low voice that made her want to move nearer to him, to hear what else he might have to say, to feel his breath on her face, to sense his heat. She could feel it even now.

‘Are you going to tell me you didn’t want me to win?’

She couldn’t lie. Avoidance was the best option. She opened her eyes and stared straight into his, a whole lot closer than she’d expected and luminous green. ‘Where and when do you want me?’

CHAPTER FIVE

BLAKE had surprised Cally with the where. She’d anticipated some luxury pad in the centre of the city—a penthouse apartment with all the mod cons and restaurants on the ground floor or some such. But he’d given her a beach address a short drive out of the city. As soon as she’d got the time and place from him in the bar she’d knocked back her drink and skedaddled out of there. She’d imagined, morosely, he’d probably gone on to score. She’d seen a trio of women less than subtly eyeing him up even when she’d been sitting beside him and all his attention had been on her.

She frowned, trying to analyse him as she drove to his address. What was his interest? Why was he so keen to ‘win’ her?

He had wealth of his own so he wasn’t a fortune hunter. He definitely wasn’t desperate for dates. Yet he had fixed his sights on her. Probably, she decided, because she was that challenge—she’d said no right from the start and no wasn’t an answer he liked.

She should have the strength to keep saying no—it would do him good to fail for once. But what he offered was getting way too hard to resist. She couldn’t offer anyone marriage and children, and he admitted he didn’t want either. Why not simply take advantage of a skilled lover? Have the experience she’d never had. And, as he’d pointed out, no one would ever know.

But there was that part of her that resented giving him his way. He’d had his way too much, for too long. It was evident in the arrogance stamped on him. She sighed. The least she could do was to try to keep this on her terms.

The gates were open and she drove straight up the drive and to the house at the top.

It was large. And incredibly beautiful. She breathed deeply, certain the air was fresher here than even only fifty kilometres down the road.

He opened the door even before she’d had the chance to lift her finger from the buzzer.

His eyes raked down her. Her shirt—that she’d buttoned up to the top—might as well be invisible the way he seemed to look right through it.

‘You came.’

The faint surprise in his tone surprised her. ‘Well, not yet. Isn’t that why I’m here?’

His grin glowed with delight. ‘Was that humour from you? Did you just crack a joke?’

Coolly she walked past him and into his house. She was not going to show the extent to which she had the shakes. Why did he have to look so damn irresistible in jeans and a tee? It was very difficult not to walk right up to him and pounce. So much for saying ‘no’—one glance and it was all over.

To pull back her raging lust she focused on finding out her tasks—assuming he’d thought of something.

‘Where did you want me to start? I’m good in the kitchen, as you know. Must admit I’m not so great with a mop, but I can handle a vacuum cleaner—’

‘Cally, you are not going to be doing my housework.’

‘No? No odd jobs for me to do? I can make some soup.’ She looked about as if a sign labelled ‘kitchen’ would miraculously appear. The room was light and airy. Neutrals—white, fawn. Light and clean, and the view out to the ocean was spectacular.

‘Lunch is already taken care of. I have other plans for you. You’re my entertainment for the weekend.’

‘Entertainment?’ She kept looking about, too jumpy to tackle him visually. She might tackle him literally. Somehow she wanted to work a little, just a little, dignity into this situation.

‘Yeah. Are you any good at belly dancing? I’ve a feeling you’d look wonderful in one of those costumes.’

At that she looked at him, and saw the lazy amusement. It sparked a minor rebellion. ‘Damn, I left my dress-up box behind.’

‘Shame.’ He glanced at the gauzy curtains. ‘We could always improvise.’

She bit her lip, half wanting to laugh, half wanting to put him in his place—down, down, down. She decided to change tack. Do the subservient maid thing and see how he felt about that. So she clasped her hands together demurely and let the retort fall back inside. ‘Seriously, Blake, what would you like me to do first?’

He looked at her narrowly. ‘I wasn’t joking about the entertainment.’

‘Well …’ she gave it some thought ‘… I’m not so good at dancing, actually, and I’ve been told my singing is passable but not strong. I can play the piano a little. Do you have a piano?’

He shook his head.

‘Well …’ she offered a demure smile ‘… I’m not sure what else to suggest. What do you think?’

‘Actually I’m still keen on the belly dancing.’ He wasn’t smiling. Then he offered his hand. ‘Come, let’s go out to the deck.’

She looked at the outstretched hand. Slowly put hers in it. As soon as their palms touched his fingers curled, trapping her own. And she knew there was no going back.

He led the way through the large open-plan living area and out the bi-folding doors and she pretended her gasp was over the view, not the currents of electricity surging up her arm. Outside in the blazing sun there was a magnificent deck that flowed down to a large infinity pool, which gave the illusion of the water reaching right out and merging with that of the ocean.

‘Wow.’ The plants in the pots lining one end of the pool were perfectly maintained, the water crystal-clear, the deck free of debris and clutter. The effect was soothing, relaxing and magical.

‘Did you do all this?’

He half snorted. ‘I pay.’ He looked at it and she could see in his face the pleasure he took from it. ‘I oversaw the design.’

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Thanks.’

She could imagine him swimming length after length; no wonder his body was so tanned, lean and strong. Right now she felt hotter than a cactus in Death Valley in the midday sun and that expanse of water looked incredibly inviting. She turned her back on it to look up at the house.

‘You live here alone?’

He nodded.

‘It’s not too big?’

‘I like the peace.’ He nodded to the table, with the comfortable-looking chairs around it. A tall pitcher of fresh juice was the centrepiece. They sat, with him angling his chair so he faced her rather than the spectacular pool, and then he poured them each a drink.

She sat bolt upright in her chair, feeling as if she were about to be interviewed for a job she didn’t know that she was going to be able to do, but that she really wanted.

Amusement coloured his features. ‘Relax, Cally. I’m not going to eat you.’ He took a sip from his glass. ‘At least, not yet.’

She crossed her legs a little tighter and reached for her own glass. ‘I think you’ll find there’s something else on the menu.’

With a sly smile he set his drink down. ‘Tell me about your business.’

‘Why?’

His shoulders lifted carelessly. ‘It’s a big part of your life. I want to understand it better, understand why it’s so important to you.’

‘OK.’ That she could do. She started at the beginning again—her experiments in the kitchen that were motivated by the impudent desire to subvert her mother’s diet regimes, then her study in food science and the decision to go into business herself. She didn’t go into the decision to have the company donate half its profits to charity—he didn’t need to know all that.

But as she talked she relaxed, telling him some of the jokes between her and Mel. The crazy times when they’d worked through the night to prepare enough when the big orders had started rolling in, the crazier times now she had more staff to manage and more customers to satisfy.

‘It really is everything to you.’

‘It’s my baby.’ She laughed, hiding the secret stab that came with the knowledge her business ventures were the only babies she’d ever have. ‘It keeps me up all night—teething trouble, the works.’ She glanced out to where the vivid blue of the pool seemed to meld into the wide blue of the sea. ‘Actually, to be honest, it’s not so much a baby now as an unruly teenager who I’m thinking of turfing out of the family home.’

‘Really?’ He laughed.

She nodded, joined in his warm, melodious mirth with a chuckle of her own. ‘It’s eating up all my resources.’

‘Raiding the fridge?’

‘And how!’ She sighed and her laughter died. ‘I think I need a manager. I went into it because I wanted to do the fun bits, you know—the creative stuff, the recipe prep. Let me tell you, management and paperwork is not fun. But the way the business is growing that’s what I’m having to do more and more of.’

‘But if you gave it up what would you do?’

She grinned. ‘I have lots of ideas.’

‘I bet you do.’

He nodded and they talked more—business, contracts, supply and demand. Somehow almost an hour passed.

‘Are you hungry?’

She was, but not for what he was offering. Why wasn’t he offering what she wanted? Had she read this weekend all wrong? Here she’d been thinking they were in for some seriously naughty fun and, while she’d wanted to keep him in his place, she was disappointed that all he was interested in was showing her his house, chatting about work and now feeding her.

‘A little.’

As she followed him to his kitchen she realised she was actually a lot hungry. There were some seriously yummy smells wafting in the warm air.

He took oven mitts and lifted a tray out of the oven. She watched, mouth watering as he put the bread on a cooling rack.

‘Did you bake this?’

He nodded.

‘It’s not one of those take-and-bake jobs from the supermarket?’

‘Never,’ he declared. ‘Ever had one of them smell as good as this?’

She poked at it. ‘How did you get the crust so.’

‘Crusty?’ He laughed.

She nodded. ‘Not even the French bother baking a French stick in their homes. They go to the baker. You can’t get the same crust in a home oven.’

‘I don’t have a home oven. I have an industrial oven.’ She turned and had a good look at the machine fixed into the wall. Industrial was right. You could feed an army cooking with that thing. ‘Why? You’re some sort of glorified banker, aren’t you? Why on earth do you need an oven like this?’

He’d torn some strips of bread and offered her one. ‘I like bread. I like baking. I like baking bread.’

‘Can you cook anything else?’ She munched on the warm loaf.

‘Maybe. If I wanted to. I don’t want to.’

‘Why not have a bread maker?’

He stopped just before taking another bite. ‘Why not go to the shop and buy a loaf?’

‘But it takes hours. You have to leave it to prove. All that kneading.’

He grinned. ‘Exactly. The reward isn’t all in the result. The reward is also in the process. Taking the time. Each step along the way. There is nothing like kneading the dough. Rolling it, pushing it, over and over. Then you know it’ll rise well, the taste will be superior. It has to be done slowly. It has to be done by hand.’

Her cheeks flushed, trying not to think about the images his words were bringing into her brain. And he knew. She knew he knew. They weren’t just talking about bread.

‘Like all good things. It takes time.’

‘So who taught you to bake bread?’ She tried to get a grip. ‘Your mother?’

‘I taught myself. Mum was at work. I had to eat. The good thing about bread is that you don’t need a lot in the way of ingredients. And the ingredients themselves are cheap. I’d bake bread—big, heavy loaves. And then I’d make toast or sandwiches. I can make anything into a sandwich.’

Cally processed the info. Understood. He’d been hungry as a kid. ‘It was just you and your mother?’

He nodded. ‘And you?’

She didn’t want to talk personal much any more. Didn’t want this to progress beyond anything much more than it was—a dare, a one-weekend-only special. She didn’t want to develop feelings for him other than lust, which, hopefully, would soon be sated. It would be all too easy to like him—a lot. Aside from the obvious physical factor, he was interesting, funny. He stood so easy in his own skin. He knew his body and he’d be as comfortable working his way around her body too. He made it all seem so simple.