The Deal / Turn Me On

I laugh. ‘Did you come here to discuss my hair?’

‘No.’ His eyes pierce mine. ‘I came here to find Miss Anonymous.’

‘Why?’

‘Because last week was the best sex I’ve ever had, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I want more. More of her, you, this. And I think you do too.’

My jaw drops, my heart stops, my pulse cracks like a frozen river.

‘Nicholas—’

His name rushes from my lips, too much air, too much feeling. It’s too much. If sex were a college degree, this guy would hold several PhDs. He really thinks I’m the best? The best he’s ever had? Pride soars in my chest, and, more than that, the addiction centres of my brain are going into overdrive because he’s damned right. I do want more of this.

But… ‘We agreed it would just be one night.’

‘That was before.’ He shrugs away the objection, as though it doesn’t matter.

‘But you’re not… Neither of us wants… I mean, what are you saying?’

‘I’m glad you asked,’ he says teasingly, pulling me closer, wrapping his arms behind my back so our bodies are cleaved together in a way that is both sexy and intimate. ‘I came here wanting to fuck Miss Anonymous again, and I did. And still I want more. And now, I think I can see a way for both of us to get what we want.’

‘What’s that?’ I sound as if I’ve run a marathon.

‘Go out with me.’

Panic spirals through me and I shake my head on instinct. ‘I don’t date, Nicholas. I didn’t mean to imply that I want that…’

‘Relax.’ He grins, and something fizzes in my gut. ‘I don’t mean for real.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You haven’t dated in a long time, and that seems like a waste. So date me. Play with me. Fuck me.’ He says the last in a voice that is so deep it rumbles right through my bones. ‘I’m moving home in a month and, suddenly, I can’t think of any way I’d rather spend what remains of my time in New York than with you.’

His voice whips against me, seductive and intense. But I hold onto Chance, to what I owe Abbey, to the single-minded focus this business takes to run. ‘I can’t.’ My tone is clipped, strange-sounding in the midst of our conversation and what we’ve just done. ‘I don’t have time to date.’

‘That’s a cop-out.’ His words are a little mocking.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but it’s the truth. I work really hard, and I can’t spare the time to fill your last few weeks here in New York.’

‘You’re saying you’d rather work than do more of this?’ He lifts a brow and, damn it, he is so hot, and I want him, and he knows it. He knows what he’s doing to me. I swallow, frustration biting into my belly.

‘Look, Nicholas, I appreciate the offer.’ I wince, knowing it sounds like some kind of real-estate merger. ‘But this was only meant to be one night. I hadn’t—’

‘Had sex in a really long time,’ he supplies, a smile on his lips, as if he’s teasing me, and a smile twitches on my own lips in response.

‘I haven’t had a life in a really long time. No friends, no boyfriend, I barely see my family—though I can’t say that’s a bad thing, actually—but I got… I know it’s kind of sad to admit this, I got lonely, okay? I just wanted one night to be like a regular woman in her twenties. And it was great. You were great. But that’s all it can be between us. I can’t afford to get distracted.’

‘Great. I don’t want to distract you.’ He wiggles his brows. ‘At least, not beyond this month.’

‘Nicholas,’ I groan, lifting my hands to my face and covering my eyes. ‘I can’t do it. This all means too much to me—’

‘I get it.’ I remove my hands to find him watching me. ‘Your work is important to you. But you just said you haven’t had a life in a really long time. So why not give yourself one? Just for a few weeks.’

His words catch in my chest. I frown.

‘I’m not talking about a relationship, and I’m not talking about long-term. I’m literally talking about you and me, doing more of this.’ He gestures towards my desk and the window that still bears my handprints. ‘Dating for a few weeks, having fun, all kinds of fun, until it’s time for me to leave.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then, I go back to my life, and you can go back to working twenty-two hours a day and pretending you’re not a red-blooded woman.’

It’s crazy. But what’s craziest of all is that it makes sense. It’s everything I wanted and never thought I could have. A relationship with clear boundaries, limits on what we get from one another and a stop point that would make it impossible for this to overshadow my real life in any way. It’s exactly the kind of relationship I would create, if I thought there was any likelihood I’d find a guy to go along with it.

It feels almost too good to be true. ‘You want to date me?’

‘Well, I want to fuck you,’ he says with a devilish grin that takes any impertinence out of his correction. ‘But you should be dated. And I’m pretty good at the whole dating thing.’

My heart kicks up a notch. ‘And not at all arrogant with it, right?’

‘It’s not arrogant if it’s true.’

I roll my eyes again but stifle a laugh. ‘I suppose you have a point.’

‘So? Four weeks of debauched fun. What say you, Miss Carmichael?’

My body unequivocally and enthusiastically says ‘yes’. A thousand times over, yes. But I have to think this through. I’m not someone who jumps off the deep end without looking at every angle first. ‘I don’t date clients.’

‘Ever?’ Then, before I can answer, ‘Right, you’re a date virgin.’

‘I am not!’ I splutter, laughing. ‘I have dated.’

‘A millennium ago.’

‘Shut up.’ I punch his shoulder playfully but his eyes flare in a way that promises it could very quickly go from playful to something else entirely if I’m not careful.

‘No one has to know about this.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Could we actually keep this a secret? Is that remotely feasible?

‘What? You’re planning on taking out a full-page ad?’

‘No, but, you’re kind of recognisable, and so am I.’ Temptation is dragging me towards the line of acceptance, though. ‘Why don’t we just, you know, sleep together? My apartment has a basement garage, you can come and go and no one needs to know…’

‘No.’ He lifts a hand, curving it around my cheek, his eyes flaring with mine. ‘It’s obvious you’re a total novice and need a first-rate education. I’m going to take you out.’

‘Wine and dine me?’

‘Yes.’

Heat soars in my chest.

‘It wouldn’t work. I can’t have people talking. This matters too much to me.’ Once more, I wave my hand around my office, indicating the club.

‘I respect that.’ He studies me for a beat. ‘I promise I won’t do anything that could damage your reputation in the club. Scout’s honour.’

I laugh, because he is far from a Scout. ‘Dating you would do that though.’ And it would. Not just because I’m me, but because he’s Nicholas Rothsmore and his reputation would be enough to drag me towards scandal—just the kind of scandal I promise my members the club will help them avoid.

‘So we’ll keep it secret.’ He says it as if it’s simple.

Before I can ask him exactly how he proposes to do that, he pulls me closer, tighter, so our bodies meld and thought becomes a little harder.

‘I saw something on the forums about the Christmas gala,’ he murmurs, his eyes sweeping my face.

‘That we’re looking for donations of time?’

He nods, then drops his head so his lips buzz mine so lightly it’s a form of torture. I push up on my tiptoes without meaning to, so my face is closer, wanting an actual kiss.

He pulls back, just a little, teasing me, tempting me. Frustration kicks in my abdomen.

‘So?’

‘So,’ he murmurs, buzzing my lips again, then sliding a hand between my legs so I sway forward and exhale softly. ‘If anyone runs into us, we’ll tell them I’m helping with the Christmas gala.’ His fingers brush my clit and I dig my fingers into his shoulder, holding on for dear life as he stirs my body to a new fever pitch.

It’s so plausible. Members with certain expertise often volunteer their time or resources when it comes to organising events. Ellie Little recently provided a heap of supercars for a member event. This isn’t unprecedented.

People would believe it.

Probably.

He slides a single finger inside my core and my knees threaten to buckle. His arm clamps around my back as if he knows somehow.

‘Think about it,’ he murmurs in my ear before sucking my lobe into his mouth, teasing it between his teeth. ‘How else will you know what really…’ he moves his finger deeper, brushing his thumb over my clit; my breath hurts ‘…really…’ he bites his teeth down on my earlobe and I make a sound of total surrender ‘…great dating feels like?’

I hold him as he moves faster and pleasure is like a tidal wave swirling around me. I’m not sure I care about dating so much as sex, and sex specifically with Nicholas, but at the same time I’m completely intrigued.

Pleasure is making thought almost impossible, so I ask the first thing that occurs to me before I lose myself utterly in this moment. ‘Why would you do this?’

‘Beyond the fact the sex with you is fucking fantastic?’

I nod, tilting my head back, staring at my ceiling as everything explodes in my chest.

‘Because in a month I will become the man who’s going to be Lord Rothsmore and any kind of social life will be a distant memory.’ I cling on tighter as my eyes fill with stars. ‘This month with you will be like my very own goodbye party to my real life.’

If I weren’t cresting over a wave of sublime release, I might almost have felt sorry for him, I might have paid more attention to the heaviness in his voice. But I cannot think properly, I cannot act as I normally would. I cry out his name and tip over the edge, my eyes blinking open to find him watching me with an intensity that takes my breath away.

‘Say yes,’ he prompts, a smile flickering across his lips, as though he knows I’ll agree—how can I not?

My throat is parched, my body awash with a shock of feelings, but I nod, jerkily. In that moment, I would have agreed to give him my soul; I would have agreed to anything he asked of me. We have thirty days, not one thousand and one, and yet sex, I think, has become my Scheherazade’s tale, and he is the master storyteller, intriguing me more and more with each and every encounter…

CHAPTER FIVE

WELL… THAT WAS UNEXPECTED.

I settle into the luxurious leather of my limo, staring out at Manhattan as I cut across town. I can still smell her on my skin, on my hands, taste her in my mouth. Desire slides across me like warm water, and I throw my head back, squeeze my eyes shut and exhale.

Miss Anonymous is Miss Imogen Carmichael.

I’ve met her before, but only briefly, and while I thought she was attractive, I haven’t really given her a second thought. I focus on that memory now, remembering the way she was with me, the same way she is with everyone in the exclusive club. Friendly, but in a way I instinctively understood to be guarded. She is exceptional at seeming warm without giving much of herself away.

She’s calm and measured, and the club is a testament to that. It’s a behemoth of an organisation and she oversees all aspects of it, an impressive tribute to her hard work.

What is unexpected is the heat that runs just beneath her surface. The passion that makes her lose herself in the moment just as completely as I do—if not more so. She’s driven by instincts, and her instincts are fire and flame.

It isn’t that I haven’t had good sex. I have. But she’s on a whole other level. There’s nothing practised about her, there’s nothing overthought or contrived. She does as she feels, and she feels as she needs, and her body answers mine in every way.

It’s utterly surreal.

It must have been, for me to suggest we date.

Date! What the actual fuck?

I don’t date. I screw. I screw beautiful, available, temporary lovers then move on. A week here and there, sometimes longer, but always on my terms, and always only if my lovers understand my ballgame. I don’t do promises, I don’t do hearts and candles, love, promises of a future. If I date a woman, it’s because she knows how temporary and superficial it will be.

One day, I’ll marry, someone like Saffy, except I’ll never make the mistake of falling in love with them again. The pain of Saffy’s desertion has been muted by the passage of time but it’s still there, a pressure in my solar plexus whenever I remember it. When I think of how it felt to stand in front of the church and realise that she simply wasn’t going to show. It’s a pain that only grew when, a month later, I learned she’d fallen in love with someone else. While I was preparing for our wedding, she was working out how to leave me for some new guy.

I feel my tattoo restlessly. I am my own.

I’d forgotten that for a while. I’d let the union my parents had pushed me into, had championed and supported, become something else in my mind, so I’d actually let myself fall in love with Saffron. So much so that I was devastated when we broke up. Devastated, humiliated, burned to a crisp.

Never again.

When I get married, it will be to someone who wants the title I can give her and the money at my disposal, who understands that, beyond polite companionship, I’m not offering anything more and that, beyond a need for a couple of heirs, I’m not looking for anything further.

It makes me see my parents’ marriage through a new light. I used to think their lovelessness was kind of sad—the way they wasp their way through life. Now, I get it. It’s a practical marriage. They married because it made sense, they had their son and heir to carry on the family name and probably never touched each other again.

Yeah, it’s a well-worn blueprint for marriage in their circles, in my circle, and I have no doubt my own will be just like it.

But until then, for one month, I’m going to enjoy Imogen Carmichael, and I’m going to make it one of the best months of her life. I’m going to take dating to the next level, set the bar so fucking high for the poor next guy that he has to spend the rest of his life working to make her as happy and fulfilled as I have in these four weeks.

Why? Because I’m Nicholas Rothsmore and I’m always, without fail, the best at everything I do, and now that includes dating Imogen.

A box arrives the following afternoon. It’s gunmetal-grey with white cursive script embossed across the top, proclaiming the name of an exclusive Manhattan lingerie boutique. My breath immediately speeds up. I ignore Emily’s curious glance as I take it from her, moving to my desk and placing it carefully on the corner.

‘RSVPs are coming thick and fast,’ I say. ‘Ticket payments are way ahead of where we were at this time last year.’

But, curious or not, Emily is all professionalism. She consults her clipboard for a moment. ‘And donations are great too. Sir Bennet Alwin has donated a guided tour of Australia’s Great Barrier Reef on his own personal submersible.’

‘I wouldn’t mind winning that,’ I say with a smile. He’s one of the leading naturalists of our time, and the Great Barrier Reef is regrettably a dying wonder of the world.

‘You can bid,’ she points out.

It’s true, there’s nothing to preclude me from entering the auction bidding, but, much like dating members, I have my own little set of rules that stands me apart from the other club members. In the past, I’ve matched donations for items that can be replicated, so the charity wins twice.

‘I might. What else?’

‘There’s the private performance by the London Philharmonic, the flight over the Baltic in Yuri Ostromonov’s helicopter, the private cruise of the Antarctic and the custom diamond choker from Alec Minton.’

‘Wow. That’s quite a haul.’

‘That’s just in the last week.’

I shake my head, floored by people’s generosity, even when I know half of it is about advertising and the kudos that comes from being visibly associated with The Billionaires’ Club.

‘Seriously, you should see my inbox. It’s overflowing with offers.’

‘Great. Well, let me know if you need me to wade in.’

‘Nope, I’ve got this. The caterer asked you to go by some time this week to review the menu. You’re free Friday afternoon.’

My heart notches up a bit. Before Nicholas left, he turned and said, ‘Friday night. I’ll be in touch with details.’

But the afternoon is a separate matter. I nod, turning away in case the heat in my blood has converted to pink cheeks. ‘Sounds good. Send me a meeting invite once it’s confirmed.’

‘Done.’

As soon as I’m alone, I cross the room and lift the box, running my finger over the embossed text with a small smile. My fingers shake as I pull on the satin ribbon. It loosens then drops to the floor, just a spool of white against the carpet.

I lift the lid slowly, placing it on the desk. There’s a gold sticker joining two sides of tissue paper together. I slide my finger under it, easing it up, deliberately moving slowly to counteract my body’s impatience, needing to control my instincts—which shout at me to rip the damned paper and see what’s inside.

The paper lifts and a delicate cream silk fabric sits inside, perfectly nestled, so I have to lift it out to see what it is. My breath hitches not at the beauty of the lingerie, though it is stunning, so much as at the idea that he, Nicholas Rothsmore, bought it for me.

I hold it up a little higher, skimming my eyes over the delicate spaghetti straps, which lead to a low V of lace. I can tell that when I wear it, my breasts will be visible through the frothy, twisting swirls. Silk kisses lace and it falls in soft folds down to what I guess will be my hips when I finally put on the exquisite piece. I spin, looking back to the box, and smile, because there are matching briefs, silk and lace, with ribbons at the side, so they can be undone with no more than a slight tug.

Anticipation supercharges my blood. I’m about to lay the lingerie back in the box and stuff the lid on when I catch sight of an envelope in the bottom. Intrigued, I reach for it, opening the back and lifting out a single piece of thick card.

It bears his name at the top, and a coat of arms, which, I imagine, belong to his ancient family. I stare at it for a moment, making out a lion, a spiky-looking flower and a bird with a full and impressive plume of feathers.

Aristocratic guys I generally avoid like the plague. And with good reason. All my experience has made me wary of people with too much money, but at least people who’ve had to work to earn it or fight to keep it have some appreciation for the value of it and an understanding for what life is like for those who don’t; the liberties and choices many are deprived of because of a lack of financial viability.

But it’s the lords and the sirs, the counts and the barons who are, by far, the most…wankery. In fact, the only member I’ve expelled from the club was a lord with an impeccable reputation, but we discovered he’d drugged a waitress at a club event—one of our members had found them in the Intimate Rooms just in time—but, God, it could have been so much worse.

Not that all the guys with titles are bad. They’re just definitely not my type.

I have no idea what my type is, but it’s not Nicholas.

That gives me a sense of relief because I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now, and so the only way I can really date him is because I know it will go nowhere.

Miss Anonymous—

I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.

Wear this.

N

It’s so simple, so completely to the point, but my heart stammers as though he’s breathed the words into my ear, and I need to sit down for a second to regroup. His handwriting is bold and confident, just like him, and he uses—what else?—a fountain pen. I lift it to my lips without thinking and breathe deeply, as though I might somehow catch a lingering hint of him on the card.

Friday is still three nights away and suddenly the wait feels excruciating.

Fortunately, I’m flat out too busy to pine or anticipate…much. Wednesday will be spent doing membership interviews and vetting, Thursday will be planning out next year’s events and schedules, making sure we have something seriously incredible planned for each month. Right now, The Billionaires’ Club is the hottest ticket in the world—my waiting list is a mile long.

It’s a great position to be in but it’s also dangerous territory—someone else could set up and start taking my business if I don’t make sure our offering is consistently better. Extra is my middle name.

We’ve got Egypt on the calendar next year, including the kind of money-can’t-buy access to the Pyramids of Giza followed by a starlit dinner right beneath the Sphinx, with delicacies from all over the world being flown in for members. Imagine a carpet of stars, a thousand candles lighting the way and one of the world’s best jazz musicians crooning some beautiful music all evening long. Followed by a night in a tent that, once you’re inside, is more like a six-star hotel.

It’s taken a huge amount of work to organise—dealing with the authorities and making sure we’re not violating any local customs or laws—but this is what people pay their million dollars a year for. Oh, the ticket price itself is extra on top, but without being a member, you don’t get a look-in.

On Friday, I meet with the gala caterers to do a small tasting of the menu, as well as the wines, and go over the running of the night, explaining when we’ll serve which courses and why.

It’s a busy day, and I’m glad for that, glad that by the time six o’clock rolls around I’ve barely had time to stop, let alone think about Nicholas.

Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve barely stopped thinking about him but in a ‘back of my mind’ kind of way. But as I lather myself in the shower then towel off before smoothing oil over my hairless legs, all I can think about is the next few hours and the certainty that soon his hands will be where my hands are.

My pulse fires at just the thought. When I slip on the lingerie he sent me, my body is already a field of live wires so my breasts tingle and my stomach twists.

I stare at myself in the mirror, still nowhere near ready, but wanting to stay just like this. Not to go out so much as to stay in. I wish I hadn’t agreed to date him, only to sleep with him. Except I’m actually a little excited to see what a guy like Nicholas has planned.

And sex is happening.

I just have to wait a few more hours.

Is this completely crazy? I don’t get involved with members. Even though The Billionaires’ Club is my creation, my baby, and I’m prominent in the community, there’s a distance between me and everyone else. I have to oversee things, to make sure it goes smoothly. I have to run the business side of things and manage membership difficulties.

I can’t be seen fooling around with someone in the club.

This has to stay private. And it has to be brief. He said he’s going back to England in a month, but that’s no real impediment to us seeing each other. I mean, the club has rooms all over the world; we host events everywhere. He attends most of them, like all of the members. So I’m bound to see him again, often enough that we could keep this going on a semi-permanent basis.

And then what?

I see him slinking off to the Intimate Rooms with someone else? I hear along the grapevine he’s getting married to Lady Asher Cumber-something-or-other?

Because that’s how this plays out.

And if I don’t retain a bit of control here, I’ll get hurt. I might seem, on the outside, as if I have everything ordered in my life, but loneliness is pervasive and powerful, and the temptation of being one half of a pair might lead me to forget the sense in all this.