The Deal / Turn Me On

I’ll have to be clear with him from the outset, and clear with myself too. With a small smile curving my lips, I think of the tattoo above his heart and reach for a pen. I am my own. I write the words hastily on the back of a store receipt and stick it to my dressing table mirror.

It’s a good incantation. I’m going to say it often. Just in case.

It’s snowing again and cold out. With no idea what we’re doing or where we’re going, I dress with versatility in mind. A pair of slim-fitting black leather trousers paired with a silk shirt with long, bell sleeves that falls off one shoulder and is a dirty gold in colour. I like it because the colour flatters my skin, the softness of the fabric hugs my curves and makes it pretty obvious I’m not wearing a bra, and when the sleeve drops over one shoulder, you can see the hint of lace from the camisole he sent me.

I take a few minutes to style my hair, curling it with my wand so it falls in big loose waves over one shoulder. Make-up is simple—as always—just a slick of mascara and the bright red lipstick I wore the night we fucked in Sydney.

My heart is pounding like a bird trapped in a too-small cage.

There are still twenty minutes to go. Waiting is killing me.

I pace through to the kitchen and pour a Chardonnay, press play on my phone so soft piano music connects to the speakers that are wired through my apartment, filling the space with beautiful, calming jazz. It helps, but I’m still looking at the clock every ten seconds.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I groan, pacing across the lounge for my handbag. On a whim, I swap it for a small gold clutch that matches my shirt and opt for my faux fur coat, wrapping it around my shoulders as I pace back to the kitchen.

Shoes! I need shoes.

Damn it.

I can only laugh at myself and my state of nervousness as I survey my extensive collection of stilettos. Again, with no idea what we’re doing, I should probably choose a shoe for all occasions.

But as I remember the way he looked at my stilettos that night in Sydney, a wild impulse has me pulling out one of my favourite pairs. Supple leather, a pointed toe, and a heel so high and spindly it’s a wonder they don’t snap in two, gives me a few extra inches in height and a mega-boost in confidence.

I add a couple of bangles on a whim, and have three big gulps of wine then stand perfectly still and wait. I breathe in, I breathe out, I empty my mind, I still my trembling—all the tricks the psychologist taught me right after Abbey died, after I’d started having panic attacks.

I don’t have the attacks any more but I still get flushes of anxiety, especially when I have to speak at an event. No one would ever know—I pride myself on presenting the image of a calm and collected entrepreneur, but in no small part my success at faking a confidence I don’t feel comes from this arsenal of stress-management techniques.

My buzzer rings.

My heart leaps to my throat.

I spin and stalk across the lounge, adrenalin pumping through me as I lift the phone off the cradle. ‘Hello?’ Just a husk.

‘Miss Anonymous?’

My smile is broad and instinctive. ‘I’ll be right down.’

I hang up, take one last look at myself and exhale slowly—it does nothing to quell the butterflies rampaging my stomach. They chase me as I exit the apartment and descend in the lift.

‘Good night, Mr Silverstein.’ I smile as I approach the door. He pulls it inward, a kind smile cracking the lines that form his face.

He lets out a low whistle. ‘You look mighty pretty, Miss Carmichael.’

He has a southern drawl a lot like my pa’s. It softens my heart whenever I speak to him.

‘Thanks.’

‘Got a club function?’

I nod, because it’s easier than admitting the truth—that I have a sort of date.

‘Have fun, be safe.’

He says the same thing every time I go out at night. I like it. Even though I’m long past the point of needing protecting, it’s still nice to feel as if someone cares.

Nicholas is waiting just outside, standing on the kerb, the back door of his low-set black car open. A driver sits behind the wheel. I don’t know what I’d expected. A motorbike, maybe? Not necessarily this. But most people I know are chauffeured around. In fact, I’m probably an anomaly for the fact I use cabs or the subway.

As I step onto the kerb, his eyes trail their way over me, slowly, dragging heat and electricity wherever he looks. My heart stutters, my stomach dives.

Anxiety is back, pulsing through my veins. I refuse to show it.

He takes a step towards me, and another, and my pulse races, my heart twists.

‘You look good enough to eat,’ he murmurs, holding a hand out to me. I place mine in it; sparks dance the length of my limbs, and my eyes widen in recognition of the strength of this attraction and connection.

‘I’ll hold you to that.’

His eyes show amusement, but he doesn’t laugh.

Heat explodes between us. I stay where I am; he doesn’t move either. We’re separated by several feet, but holding hands, just staring at each other.

He’s wearing beige trousers, a white shirt and a dark blue jacket, with brown shoes. He looks handsome, sexy, stylish and wealthy.

I wish he weren’t wearing anything.

‘What are we doing tonight?’ I hear myself ask, my lips shifting into a slight smile.

‘Ah. It’s a surprise.’ He jerks on my hand a little, pulling me towards him, and he kisses me on the cheek. It’s so chaste and weirdly sweet that a different kind of heat, a warmth, flows through me. And then, a whisper in my ear, just low enough for me to catch, ‘But I promise it’s going to end in my bed.’

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