Red-Hot Summer: The Millionaire's Proposition / The Tycoon's Stowaway / The Spy Who Tamed Me

S

Two words. One question mark. One initial.

Which brought home to Kate that last night had been just…well, just last night.

He hadn’t stayed until morning, the way she’d thought he might. She wouldn’t see him tonight, the way she’d hoped. And their relationship hadn’t metamorphosed into anything other than what it was: contractual sex.

Which brought her to Saturday night. Yes or no?

She sighed as she looked at the calendar on her fridge. Today was Friday the thirteenth—hopefully that wasn’t an omen!—and Saturday, tomorrow, was…

Oh.

Ohhhhh.

Saturday. The fourteenth of February.

Not that the momentousness of that date would have entered Scott’s head. He wasn’t a Valentine’s Day kind of guy.

And in this instance it was a moot point. Because her sister Shay, and Shay’s partner Rick—who were Valentine’s Day kind of people—were leaving their two gorgeous daughters with Kate while they went out for a romantic dinner.

So she should just get straight on the phone and tell Scott she was busy on Saturday. No need to embarrass herself by mentioning Valentine’s Day. She didn’t want him to think she was angling for something other than sex. Something like… Well, something Valentine-ish.

Even if she had a lump in her throat about the whole stupid day.

A lump so big it was physically impossible to get a word out of her clogged-up throat. Which made a phone call impossible.

Okay, she would email.

Got your note, Scott.

I’m babysitting my nieces, Maeve and Molly, on Saturday night. I’m free Sunday if that suits?

Kate

There. Cool, businesslike. Contract-worthy.

Three hours later, back came a two-word response: No problem.

And Kate released a big, sighing breath.

Right.

Good.

Good…right?

Because Valentine’s Day actually sucked. If Kate had a dollar for every now-divorced couple who’d managed either their proposal or their actual wedding on February the fourteenth, she’d be retired already! Valentine’s Day was all about spending too much on wilted roses and eating overpriced restaurant dinners.

Stupid.

The worst possible day for scheduling a date with a sex-only partner.

Valentine’s Day? As if!

Kate went to her kitchen, looked again at the calendar stuck on her fridge.

Yep, there it was. February the fourteenth. With a nice big red heart on it, courtesy of whoever printed stupid refrigerator calendars. A big red heart. A love heart.

And, to her absolute horror, Kate’s eyes filled with tears.

Kate had a hectic day of meetings, followed by a catch-up with the girls for drinks after work, and by the time she clambered into bed that night, she was sure she was over the whole weepy Valentine’s Day phenomenon that had blindsided her.

So when she woke on Saturday morning to find that depression had settled over her like a damp quilt, she went the whole tortured-groan route. What had happened to her brain during that awards dinner on Thursday night to have resulted in her losing all her common sense?

Sex-only partners did not celebrate Valentine’s Day. Sex-only partners scheduled sex on days like the fifteenth of February. A perfectly legitimate, much more appropriate day for having no-strings sex with guys who left two-word notes on your kitchen counter.

A two-word note. And a two-word email. That encapsulated her relationship with Scott very nicely—two words: sex contract.

Imbued with a burst of damn your eyes energy, Kate got out of bed and on the spot decided to clean her apartment. An activity that was not some kind of displacement therapy twisted up in her need to wash that man right out of her hair, but a simple household activity. A spring clean—just in summer.

She got underway with gusto.

Gusto that lasted approximately fifteen minutes.

Which was how long it took for the first memory to sneak in.

Kate was wiping down the dining table—and there in her head was the memory of that first night… Scott reaching across to hold her breast…and then the whole dining chair thing. Ohhhhhhh.

It was like a switch, throwing open the floodgates—because the memories started pouring in, room by room, after that. Plumping up the couch cushions—that night when he’d thrown the cushions off and dragged her on top of him… Cleaning out the fridge—Scott, coming up behind her, hands all over her… Bathroom—three separate shower scenes.

Her bedroom—holy hell. So vivid it was painful. And the most painful of all that last time… Scott drawing her gently down onto the bed…kissing her as if he wanted them to merge.

Okay, enough cleaning.

She hurried to the laundry to dump the housekeeping paraphernalia, only to be hit by another memory. Oh. My. God. Had she—? Yes, she had! She’d had sex with Scott Knight in every single room of her apartment—including the damned laundry room! What normal person had sex in the laundry room? Sitting on top of the washing machine, with the vibrations adding a little extra hum to proceedings as you wrapped your legs around—

Arrrggghh.

She had to get out of the apartment. Maybe even sell the apartment.

She took a cold shower, changed into I am not in need of antidepressants clothes and hurried out of the building.

The boats were what she needed. Up close and personal. Escape. So she crossed the road to the marina and breathed out a sigh of relief as she reached the jetty. The boats would float her stress away as they always did—on a tide of dreams. Adventure. Possibilities.

One day she would hire a sailing instructor and she would learn… She would learn…

Uh-oh.

Her eyes darted from yacht to yacht…and on every deck she could picture Scott Knight eight years ago, young and free, teaching people to sail. Scott as he was now, teaching her to sail.

One of those now-familiar tortured groans was ripped out of her and she turned her back on the boats.

Coffee—she needed coffee.

She hurried to the marina cafe and was horrified when Dean the barista’s eyes popped at her as if she was a crazy person. ‘You okay, Kate?’

What the hell did she look like?

‘Fine, fine, fine,’ she said reassuringly—before realising that two more ‘fines’ than were strictly necessary did not denote ‘fine’. ‘I just need coffee, Dean.’

‘Really? Because you seem a little wired.’

Forced smile. ‘Really, Dean. Just the coffee.’ Subtext: Give me the damned coffee and shut up.

But as she took her coffee to one of the tables and sipped, Dean kept giving her concerned glances from behind the coffee machine. As if she had a neon sign flashing on her forehead: Beware of woman losing her marbles. Thank heaven her coffee of choice was a nice little macchiato. If she’d had to put up with a cappuccino’s worth of Are you okay? looks she might have gone over and slapped Dean!

As it was, she could chug it down quickly and flee back to her apartment. Where she would look up the official definition of ‘pathetic’! Just to be sure she wasn’t.

Fifteen minutes later she had the dictionary open, her finger running down the column…paternalism…paternity…paternoster…

Aha!

Pathetic: arousing pity, especially through vulnerability or sadness.

In other words, Kate Cleary: sexless on Valentine’s Day. The usually imperturbable Dean, the barista, had instantly clocked her out-of-character vulnerability. And she didn’t need a dictionary to know that she was arousing pity—in herself!

How very…well, pathetic.

Although at least she could dispute the ‘sad’ part of the definition. Because she was not sad. She was sexually frustrated! Completely different from sad. Not that two whole nights without sex was going to kill her. She’d gone way longer than two nights before! Waaaaaay longer. She wasn’t a nymphomaniac! Or…hell! Was she a nymphomaniac?

Nylon…nymph…nymphalid…nymphette… Nymphette? Good Lord—nymphette? Nympholepsy…

Nymphomaniac: a woman who has abnormally excessive and uncontrollable sexual desire.

Ohhh, crap. Maybe she was a nymphomaniac. At her age! That was just…sad.

Oh, God! Sad!

She was a fully-fledged pathetic nymphomaniac.

Kate fled to the terrace—the only place in the apartment she hadn’t had sex with Scott. And the only reason she hadn’t had sex with him on the terrace was because exhibitionism wasn’t exactly his ‘thing’. And, even though it wasn’t her ‘thing’ either, the realisation that she probably would have gone there, in full view of any passersby, flashed through her mind and shocked her.

Depraved pathetic nymphomaniac! That was her. And it was Scott Knight’s fault. Because she’d never been this desperate for sex in her whole life.

And now she wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the view from her terrace, because one quick look at the boats confirmed that Scott was now firmly entrenched as part of her escape daydream.

When the intercom finally buzzed that evening and she heard her sister’s calm voice, she almost cried with relief.

Her family always anchored her. And you had to get it together when you had two children to entertain.

When Shay and Rick had left she pushed the coffee table out of the way so the girls could take up their preferred positions on the rug—seven-year-old Maeve leaning back against the base of the couch, engrossed in a book about cake and cookie decorating, and five-year-old Molly stretched out on her stomach, leaning on an elbow and drawing her version of a fairy house in her sketchbook.

Kate was just about to pick up the phone to order pizza—the girls’ favourite meal—when the intercom buzzed again. Shay and Rick should be sipping champagne at the restaurant and surely could have telephoned if they were having a last-minute panic—but nobody needed to tell a family lawyer that parents could be irrational!

She pushed the ‘talk’ button. ‘Yes, Shay?’ she said with an exasperated laugh.

‘Um…nope. It’s me, Kate.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

SCOTT.

Kate’s vocal cords froze. God help me, God help me, God help me.

‘Kate? Come on—buzz me up. My arms are going to fall off in a minute.’

Kate buzzed the door and then just stared at it, paralysed.

Something was swelling in her chest—a mixture of joy and yearning and uncertainty. What did it mean that he’d come when she’d told him not to? He shouldn’t be doing this. She was glad he was here. No, she wasn’t—because they had rules. But it was Valentine’s Day. No, that meant nothing. She couldn’t let him get away with breaking the rules. No matter how glad she was that he was doing it.

Mmm-hmm. She sure was making a lot of sense!

She heard Scott’s voice vibrating through her door like a tuning fork. That disarmingly lazy drawl, addressed to some stranger. A laugh. Yep—he’d hooked a new fan in under a minute.

She rested her palms against the door, could almost feel him through it.

Breathe. Just breathe.

One knock.

Breathe!

She opened the door and Scott stepped over the threshold as though he owned the place.

‘What are you doing here?’ she managed to get out.

‘Why wouldn’t I be here?’

He handed her two bottles of wine—a white and a red—and carried a six-pack of beer and a paper bag containing who knew what into the kitchen.

Kate followed him, put the red wine on the counter, the white wine and beer in the fridge.

‘You can’t just buzz the intercom whenever you feel like it,’ she said, in her Don’t disturb the children voice.

Scott shrugged. ‘If the intercom annoys you, give me a key.’

Which, of course, was not the point. ‘I am not giving you a key.’

Another one of those shrugs of his. ‘Then it’s the intercom.’

‘You can’t stay,’ she said. ‘I’m just about to order pizza.’

‘I love pizza.’

‘Not for you, Scott. You shouldn’t be here. I told you I was babysitting Maeve and Molly tonight.’

‘And I emailed you back to say that wasn’t a problem.’

‘That wasn’t—? I mean… Huh?’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Were you trying to tell me not to come? Tsk, tsk, Kate—you have to be more specific, in that case. Lawyers shouldn’t be leaving loopholes. So, to be clear…it’s not a problem that you’re babysitting tonight, which is why I’m here. And, yes, Sunday is fine too.’

Kate thought back to her email, his reply, acknowledged the ambiguity…but knew very well he was playing her.

‘You knew what I meant, Scott. And we’re supposed to negotiate if we have a problem with dates.’

‘Okay, let’s negotiate.’

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. Opened her eyes to find him looking all woebegone.

‘Don’t you like me any more?’ he asked.

She stared at him as laughter and frustration warred inside her. ‘No.’

‘But why?’

‘Because you’re—’ She broke off, laughed because she just couldn’t help it, damn him. ‘Just because. And I hope you like entertaining children—because that’s the only action you’re getting tonight. I can’t—won’t—leave two little girls eating pizza while you and I go for a quickie in the bedroom.’

He leaned in close, snatched a kiss. ‘One—that’s just a kiss, not a proposal of marriage, so don’t complain. Two—I’m not asking you for a quickie in the bedroom while the girls eat pizza. And three—it won’t be quick; it will be nice and slow…after Maeve and Molly’s parents have picked them up.’

One more rapid-fire kiss.

‘You really have the most sensational mouth in the world.’ Another kiss—quick and scorching. ‘And make mine pepperoni.’

He had the nerve to laugh at the tortured look on her face.

‘What? Is it the money? I’ll pay you half, as per our contract, if that’s what’s worrying you. Honestly—you lawyers are so tight!’

And with that, he liberated three red foil-wrapped chocolate hearts from the paper bag and presented one to her. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day.’

And there she went—crumbling. ‘Oh, you…you know it’s Valentine’s Day?’

‘Well, yeeeaah! Multiple cards. Even one present—a cute little cat o’ nine tails from Anais that you and I will not be trying out. But nothing—nada!—from you. And, Kate, I’m warning you—if you haven’t had the common decency to buy me a chocolate or a cupcake or at the very least a soppy card, I’m eating half of that chocolate heart.’ Quick unholy grin. ‘And I’ll take mine molten…off your tummy.’

And with that gobsmacking pronouncement, Scott swaggered into the living room while the last of her resistance disintegrated.

‘Which one’s Maeve and which one’s Molly?’ he asked. ‘No, don’t tell me. My friend Willa told me Maeve is seven, so that would be…you.’ He pointed to Molly, who giggled. He did an over-the-top double-take. ‘Not you?’

Head-shake from Molly.

‘I’m Maeve,’ Maeve said, and Scott plonked himself down on the rug and leaned back against the couch next to her.

‘Okay—will you be my Valentine?’ he asked and handed over one of the hearts.

Her eyes lit as she shyly took the heart and nodded.

‘Ohhhhh!’ That came from the rug. ‘What about me?’

Scott nodded sagely at Molly. ‘Well, it just so happens I’m in the market for two Valentines tonight.’ He produced the other chocolate heart and a beaming Molly came over for long enough to take it from him and give him a sweet little hug before she resettled on the rug.

He turned to Maeve. ‘So, Maeve, what’s so interesting?’

Maeve flashed her book’s cover.

‘Ah, you’re going to be a chef,’ he said.

Maeve nodded, still shy.

‘I’m not bad in the kitchen myself,’ Scott said, and proceeded to talk about biscuits.

Biscuits? That was just so…random. Biscuits! And chocolate hearts on Valentine’s Day. And asking Willa about the girls. Kate didn’t know what to make of it all. What to make of him.

Unless it was that he was completely irresistible.

She called for pizza, then set the dining table, while Scott charmed her nieces—looking absolutely nothing like a confirmed bachelor as he did it.

The man knew his baking. The pros and cons of shortbread, ginger snaps, honey jumbles, chocolate chip cookies and macaroons were all discussed at length. And the absolute deliciousness of…what?…whoopie pies?…was being extolled? Kate had never heard of a whoopie pie.

‘They’re like little chocolate cookie sandwiches, with a creamy filling,’ Scott explained to Maeve—who’d never heard of them either. ‘Next time you’re here, we’ll bake them together.’

‘Can I bake too?’ Molly asked.

‘You sure can. Three of us can make three times the pies! What have you got there, Molly?’

In no time Scott was lying next to Molly on the floor, having the picture explained to him. Maeve abandoned her book to lie on Scott’s other side.

Scott gave a bit of improvement advice, explaining that it was his job to design houses, and as Kate paid for the pizzas she heard the girls asking him to redraw the house for them.

‘I’d be honoured,’ Scott said, and then got to his feet and helped the girls up. ‘But first—pizza!’

It was adorable the way he got the girls drinks, helped them choose the biggest pizza slices, chatted about the most beautiful houses he’d designed in a way that made them sound like magic castles. After dinner he stayed with Maeve and Molly while Kate cleared up, drawing in Molly’s sketchbook and making the girls ooh and ahh.

Yep, bona fide adorable.

And Kate just had to see the drawing. So she peeked over Scott’s shoulder.

Oh. Ohhhhh.

It was the perfect little girls’ house. Towers and turrets. Winding paths. A secret entrance to an underground treasure cave, a private elf garden, a sunken pool with a waterfall. He’d sketched two bedrooms, labelled ‘Molly’ and ‘Maeve’, with fairytale beds and magic mirrors and spiralling staircases.

When Kate took the girls off to clean their teeth and get ready for bed, each of the girls kissed Scott goodnight—one per cheek—and he blushed.

Scott Knight, who could talk more boldly about sex than any man she’d ever met, blushed.

Kate felt her heart do one of those swoons inside her chest, and thought, Uh-oh. This is bad. Very, very bad.

She read to Maeve and Molly until they drifted into sleep, and then—a little apprehensive—went to find Scott.

He was on the terrace, where he gravitated every time she left him alone.

‘I poured you a glass of wine. It’s there on the table. And sorry, Kate, but that table’s going to have to go, along with the chairs,’ he said. ‘It’s so fragile I feel like I’m going to break something every time I’m near that furniture.’

She had to agree it looked like a children’s toy set next to Scott’s imposing frame. Everything did. But she forbore from pointing out that she was not going to change her furniture for a man who wouldn’t be in her life for long.

Whew. That hit her. This was finite. It had a start date and it would come to an end. She couldn’t let herself forget that just because he’d smiled at her once as if he saw something wonderful in her. Or because he’d made love to her once as if he was embedding himself inside her.

Scott took a long pull of beer from the bottle in his hand, gazing out at the marina as Kate fetched her glass and joined him at the edge of the terrace.

‘What’s it like? Sailing?’ she asked.

‘It was fun.’

‘Was?’

‘I don’t sail any more.’

‘But…why? I mean, why not?’

‘It was just…’ Shrug. ‘Time to concentrate on the important things in life.’

‘Fun is important.’

He looked down at her. ‘I am having fun. With you,’ he said, and leaned down to kiss her.

‘I know why you do that,’ she said, when he pulled back. ‘Do what?’

‘Kiss me.’

‘Well, duh, Kate! I do it because I like kissing you.’

‘You do it to distract me. So you don’t have to answer my questions.’

‘And does it? Distract you?’

‘Yes. But why are such simple questions a problem for you?’

Pause. ‘Prying into my past is not part of the deal, Kate.’

Kate felt it like a slap—not just the words but the keep your distance tone. She found she was gripping her glass too hard, so put it on the broad top of the terrace railing.

She heard Scott sigh. Then he was smoothing his hand over her hair like an apology. ‘Kate, the sailing… It’s just something I set aside to focus on the realities of life—like studying and working. And look at me now—I’m an award-winner!’ Low laugh, with all the self-deprecation his brother lacked. ‘It’s enough for me.’

‘If it were enough you wouldn’t spend every moment I leave you alone out on the terrace, watching the boats.’

‘Pry-ing…’ he sing-songed.

‘It’s not prying to ask questions about a person you…you’re…’

‘Having sex with,’ he supplied. And sighed again. ‘You drew up the contract, Kate. There wasn’t a clause for fireside chats in there.’ Slight pause. ‘Right?’

‘Right.’

‘So has anything changed for you?’

She wanted to say yes. That things had changed. Because of the way they’d made love two nights ago. The way he’d presented her with a chocolate heart. And blushed when two little girls had kissed him. The way he tried to pretend that the boats bobbing on the harbour held no fascination for him when she knew they did.

But if things changed he would go. She knew it instinctively. Not yet. Not…yet.

‘No,’ she said quietly, and picked up her wine glass, sipped. ‘Nothing’s changed.’

They stood in silence, side by side, staring across at the dark water, the city lights in the distance.

And then Scott cleared his throat. Just a tiny sound. ‘Good. Because the whole fireside-chat thing… It would be like me asking you…’ Shrug. ‘I don’t know…’ Shrug. ‘If you wanted…maybe…to have children. One day, I mean.’

Another clearing of the throat. ‘Because you’re so good with the girls anyone would wonder about that.’

What the hell? Kate slanted a look at him. He was looking out at the Harbour.

But then he turned, looked at her. Eyes watchful. ‘And you wouldn’t want me to ask you that, would you?’

‘If you wanted to ask me that, Scott, I’d answer. Because it’s no big deal.’

‘Ah, but I don’t need to ask. I already know the answer is yes.’

And for the first time in a long time, Kate thought, Yes. The answer, very simply, was yes. Except of course she’d lost that simple answer somewhere along her career path.

She turned back to the boats. Long moment.

‘You know, Scott, I’ve seen fathers who say they’ve been tricked into pregnancy and shouldn’t have to pay child support. Divorcing parents using child custody as carrot and stick to punish or bribe. Surrogates who decide to keep their children when those children are the last hope of desperate couples. Fathers pulling out all the stops to avoid their children being aborted. Twins separated and fostered because of financial pressure. Unwanted children, abused children, ignored children. I’m not sure that’s an enticement to parenthood.’

‘But you wouldn’t be like any of those parents.’

‘No. But a lot of women are good at choosing the wrong man.’