The Deal

But so am I and I don’t want it to end. Yet.

I hold her still, pressing a light kiss to her lips before rolling us once more, so I’m on top, staring down at her eyes, running my gaze over the mask and trying to imagine what she looks like beneath it.

I make do with tracing the outline of her mouth with my tongue and she whimpers beneath me. I run my tongue lower, over the divot in her chin then lower to her décolletage, and the valley between her breasts, and then I push my cock deeper inside her, thrilling in the power of this possession, in how well we fit together, in how maddeningly mind-blowing this is.

It has to be the anonymity and the sheer directness of this. While I never take a woman to bed who wants more than one night, there’s still a bit of dancing around to do. Dinner, flirtation, conversation. This, boiling down an encounter to the truth of sex, is rare.

And I like it. I could become addicted to the idea of walking into a private room and finding a gorgeous woman dressed in lingerie waiting for me to drive her wild.

Yeah, this is fucking near perfect.

She cries my name and it drags me back to the present, back to what we’re doing. The clock is ticking across the room and it matches my internal chronometer, the one that’s telling me it’s time to go home and face the music, to pick up the mantle my father wishes to pass on.

It’s time to stop enjoying nights like this, time to stop fucking around and settle down.

But for now, for this night, I have a beautiful woman in my arms, I’m buried deep inside her and I am going to enjoy the rush of power as I drown in pleasure. There is only this, right now.

I watch him from across the crowded party. The wig and mask have been disposed of. I’m myself again: Imogen Carmichael, founder of The Billionaires’ Club, founder of the Chance charity—strait-laced, professional, no-nonsense. I’m the woman everyone wants to talk to and I only have eyes for him.

He looks the same as always. Disastrously handsome, confident, cocky, hot, and, now that I’ve felt his body up close to mine, I can’t look at him without feeling a rush of desire, a slick of heat between my legs.

He’s talking to Minette Gray, the daughter of a Mexican mining magnate who’s launched a successful Hollywood career for herself. She’s stunning, with a mane of long, silky black hair and skin like crushed onyx, eyes that glisten and bright red lipstick. I look at them and for a second I’m transfixed by what a striking pair they make. In the background, beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lights of Sydney sparkle like something out of a movie. I shift my gaze to them, refusing to acknowledge the sharp stab of jealousy that hits me out of nowhere.

Nicholas Rothsmore is a Player with a capital ‘P’. Isn’t that why I chose him to be my very casual, very temporary lover?

I needed someone who’d be good in bed, discreet and wouldn’t particularly care about my ‘no questions asked’ demand for hot, anonymous sex.

Check, check, check.

Her laugh reaches me across the room and I jerk my eyes back to them on autopilot. He’s leaning closer, whispering in her ear.

Shit.

I spin away, pushing down the unwelcome sense of possessiveness that steals through me, focussing on business. That’s what I’m good at. It’s who I am.

My eyes skate across the room. There are Hollywood A-listers, Grammy-Award-winning singers and musicians, Tony-Award-winning stage actors, royalty, sultans, billionaires, media tycoons. Anyone who’s anyone is here, and a tingle of pride shimmies through me because this is all because of me—and all for Abbey.

I think of my best friend, as I often do, of the way she died, the pain she felt, and I square my shoulders. I might have sacrificed a personal life but it’s been worth it.

Nicholas Rothsmore was fun, but that’s over now.

I pull my phone from my clutch and load up The Billionaires’ Club app that runs the forums. Miss Anonymous has a profile with a picture of a stiletto—I have a predilection for heels. She’s served her purpose now. I’m done with Miss Anonymous, done with the future Lord Rothsmore.

I click into the brief bio and scroll to the bottom, where a red button invites me to ‘delete profile’.

I click and she’s gone. Miss Anonymous has had her fun and now it’s time to get on with my life.

If cities were animals, New York would be a gazelle. Fast, nimble, elegant, stunning. I stare down at this adopted city of mine, contemplating the first solo Saturday night I’ve had in…for ever.

It’s been a week since Sydney, and I’ve been flat out closing the Hewitson merger, but that’s done now. Usually, I mark my business triumphs with the kind of partying that would make my grandparents roll over in their graves.

Champagne, women, music.

I frown, surveying the empty penthouse. Only the kitchen lights are on, so it looks somehow more cavernous than normal.

I won.

This deal has been in the works for three years. Three years of meetings, negotiations, hard slog and now it’s with the lawyers and I can relax. And celebrate.

Out of nowhere, I close my eyes and remember what I was doing this time last week. I remember her pale body splayed against the dark sheets of the Intimate Rooms in the Sydney base of The Billionaires’ Club and my body is tighter than granite, aching, not just for sex but for her.

Miss Anonymous.

I was right that not knowing her name was part of the appeal, but now the not knowing is driving me crazy. Because I want to see her again.

I want to fuck her again.

A smile lifts my lips, because I don’t just want to fuck her, I want to have her every which way until she’s incoherent with pleasure.

In one month, I turn thirty and England beckons. Lord Rothsmore awaits. In one month, I’ll become the man my parents want me to be—or something more like him, anyway. But for the next four weeks I’m still a free agent, and I know just how I want to spend it.

Determination fires my step. I stride indoors, the temperature change marked. My cell phone is across the room. I lift it, loading up the app and selecting our private message conversation.

Except it’s no longer a conversation with an exchange of words. My comments remain but hers are gone. Italics proclaim These messages have been deleted.

I hadn’t expected that. Why?

Okay, that’s weird. But it doesn’t change how I feel and what I want.

‘Fancy round two, Miss Anonymous?’

I figure her American accent makes it likely she lives here in the States. I can get my helicopter to my jet and travel anywhere. The minute I think it, I realise how desperate I am to see her again.

Even though I’ve spent the last five years fucking my way around the world, I freely admit last weekend was the best sex I’ve ever had. There was something so illicit and hot about it.

Her mask, her hair, her body…

I groan into the night air, looking back at the screen.

Message undeliverable

What?

With a frown, I click out of our message chat and surf to her profile instead. It doesn’t come up when I type ‘Miss Anonymous’. Adrenalin shifts in my gut.

I go to the list of members using the app and scroll through it slowly, my eyes looking for the stiletto she used as a profile picture. Which makes me think of the sky-high shoes she wore as I ran my hands over her clit, feeling her pulsing beneath me as she exploded with pleasure, and I’m so close to coming at just that memory.

I have to find her.

But where the hell is she?

She can’t have left the club. It’s not like that. The entry process is gruelling and elaborate. No one signs up and leaves.

So?

Her profile might have been anonymous but it must have been created by a legitimate member of the club. Even the online avatars are vetted. So who the hell is she? And where did she go?

CHAPTER THREE

‘IMOGEN? THERE’S A Mr Rothsmore here to see you.’

Oh, my God. In the midst of studying the floor plans for a new school Chance will be funding in a couple of years, I jump so hard I bang my knee against the edge of my desk. Pain radiates through me. I ignore it, scrambling for the receiver of my desk phone.

‘What did you say?’ My voice comes out completely different.

‘A Mr Nicholas Rothsmore,’ says my loyal assistant—a woman to whom I offered a job after we met in a shelter for battered women that Chance was involved in supporting; she speaks slowly, as if I might have misunderstood. ‘He has a membership enquiry.’

Oh, my God.

‘I’m in the middle of something,’ I demur, wincing, because The Billionaires’ Club is founded on three tenets: exclusivity, privacy and exceptional customer service. My door is always open to members. ‘I only have a few minutes.’

‘I’ll send him in.’ She disconnects the call and I stand up quickly, my mind spinning. I have about ten seconds to get my thoughts in order.

I’m wearing a cream suit made up of a pencil skirt and a fitted blazer, with a lemon-yellow silk camisole beneath. No bra and my traitorous nipples are already straining against the soft fabric in anticipation of the fact he’s about to be here in my office, my sanctuary. I look around quickly for anything that could give me away.

I’ve had a manicure since the ball—the nails that were bright pink are now a muted beige. I took great care that night to remove any identifying jewellery. My lips were painted bright red whereas now they bear just a hint of gloss, and my long hair tumbles in waves over one shoulder. I pull on it and then remember my eyes…that he remarked on.

Crapola.

I swing around behind my desk and grab my handbag, lifting my oversized Jackie O–style black sunglasses out and pushing them onto my face right as Emily opens the door.

‘Mr Rothsmore,’ she announces, a slightly bemused look crossing her face as she sees me in my disguise.

My voice! Oh, crap. He’s heard me talk. No, he’s heard me scream, over and over. Argh!

‘Thank you, Emily.’ I spent a lot of time with my grandparents, just outside St Louis, so the southern drawl isn’t much of a stretch.

Her bemusement increases. ‘Would you like anything to drink?’ she prompts.

‘We won’t have time for that,’ I say, still in a voice that hums with the Deep South. ‘I’ve only got a few minutes.’

Emily’s trying not to laugh. Crap.

At least Nicholas doesn’t look any the wiser.

‘Well, if y’all change your mind,’ she says, with a wink at me right before she pulls the door shut behind her, leaving me alone with sex god Nicholas Rothsmore in the middle of my Manhattan office. I’m grateful the lenses of my glasses are darkly reflective, so I can stare at him without him having any idea.

He’s wearing jeans today, low-slung and faded, with a long-sleeved black T-shirt. It’s snowing out, so I imagine he’s left a jacket somewhere, and I imagine it to be distressed leather, something that goes with this billionaire-bad-boy-about-town look.

I manage not to drool, but my tummy is clenching with serious lust.

‘Imogen.’ His voice is crisp, professional, but that doesn’t matter, I hear it filtered through lips that have kissed me all over, sucked my nipples until pleasure exploded through me, and I find myself unable to push those memories away. My breasts ache now and heat fires low in my abdomen.

He crosses the room, extending a hand for me to shake, and my pulse shoots up a thousand notches; my body temperature skyrockets.

Act natural. Act natural.

I skirt around my desk, holding my own hand out, and I realise my fingers are trembling, just a little but enough for me to feel incredibly self-conscious. He doesn’t appear to notice as he shakes my hand.

‘Ignore the glasses,’ I explain a little stiltedly. ‘I had an operation.’

An operation? On what? My corneas?

If he thinks it’s a weird excuse, he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he presumes I had a big weekend and am wearing sunnies to cope with the hangover.

‘I need your help.’

Straight to it, then.

‘Sure, have a seat.’

‘I’m fine.’ He ranges to the windows, his stride long and lean, his body powerful. I mean, he looks powerful and sexy and yet I imagine him naked and my knees almost buckle beneath me.

He stares out at the city, snow falling fast beyond my window, the buildings lit up despite the fact it’s mid-afternoon.

‘Well, Mr Rothsmore, how can I help you?’

‘I was at the masquerade last weekend,’ he murmurs, still not looking at me. And I’m glad, because it means I get to look at him. And keep looking. At his broad shoulders, his narrow hips, his firm ass, his long legs. Legs that have straddled me, legs that have pressed hard against mine.

He turns around and again I’m glad for the glasses. He’s waiting for me to speak. I swallow, bringing much-needed moisture to my mouth. ‘Yes?’

A single word, husky and dry.

‘I met a woman there. I didn’t get her name but I’d like to speak to her. Can you put me in touch?’

My heart hammers like nobody’s business. I’m dying inside. ‘I…’

My pulse is thready in my veins.

‘You know privacy is one of the member guarantees,’ I hear myself saying, moving to the bar across the room and pouring myself a mineral water. I take a sip to buy time.

‘Yes,’ he agrees, his eyes narrowing slightly.

‘That guarantee benefits everybody.’ I move to my desk, propping my hip against it with what I hope passes for nonchalance.

‘Nonetheless, the club is about networking and I have a proposition I’d like to make her.’

I swallow, desire flushing through me. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be! One night, no strings, no more. But, God, I want to push him to the floor and kiss him, hard, and beg him to make love to me. I sweep my eyes shut for a second.

Safe in the knowledge I’ve deleted Miss Anonymous from our forums, I shrug. ‘Have you checked the app?’

‘She’s not there, despite the fact we exchanged messages. I’d appreciate it if you could have someone from IT locate her and give me the details.’

I’m floored. And kind of flattered. ‘That would definitely be against membership rules.’

‘And you don’t break the rules, ever?’ he prompts, lifting a brow, and he’s just so perfectly rakish that my heart does a funny little tremble. I definitely broke the rules last weekend, even if they’re just rules of my own creation.

‘Rarely,’ I say with a small smile, which I quickly flatten. I smiled a lot that night. I can’t give myself away. In fact, I really need to wrap this up. As much as I don’t want him to go, he has to.

That night was an aberration. An itch I needed to scratch, and I scratched it. A lot.

‘Then perhaps this will be one of the occasions you will?’

I am instantly reminded that he is from a very wealthy, very ancient British family, a member of the aristocracy. He speaks with an authority and arrogance that would usually piss me off, but coming from Nicholas it is incredibly hot.

‘I’m afraid not.’

His eyes narrow. I suspect he doesn’t often get told ‘no’.

‘Not even if I make it worth your while?’

My heart turns over in my chest. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘A million-dollar donation to Chance. For a name.’

My sharp intake of breath is involuntary. It takes me several seconds to process this. My fingers tremble. I curve them around the water glass and sip, needing to process this.

‘A million dollars.’ He’s found his way to my Achilles heel and I’m sure he knows it.

Because I make it a policy of taking whatever I can for the charity. Even my parents’ donations, when I have mostly wanted to tell them to go to hell and take their ‘too little, too late’ conscience-pricking gifts with them.

I take everything that’s offered because I know the charity is now the wall that stands between life and death for so many helpless, impoverished children out there.

‘For a name,’ he murmurs, his hands in his pockets as he watches me intently.

‘Who is she?’

‘I only know that she’s single,’ he says with a grimace that signals frustration.

‘That probably accounts for seventy-five per cent of our female membership.’

He scowls at me. It shouldn’t be hot but it is.

‘We exchanged messages. She’s deleted them, and disappeared off the forums.’

I can’t tell him the truth. But that doesn’t stop me from asking, ‘Why do you want to find her?’

He stares at me for several long seconds, a muscle twisting in the base of his jaw. ‘It’s personal.’

I dip my head forward, trying to slow my breathing, hoping my cheeks won’t be too pink. ‘So is the member’s information. If you want me to look into our records and find out who she is, then I’ll need more to go on.’

His eyes stick to me for a long time and I want to rip off my glasses so I can look him right in the eyes. I want to rip his clothes off. I want to fuck him right here.

Oh, my God.

What’s happening to me? I’ve been single for four years and it never bothered me, but now I can’t be in the same room with a man without wanting to leap into bed. Not bed. Desk. Floor. Window. And not a man. This man.

‘Fine,’ he grunts. ‘We spent time together in the Intimate Rooms.’

There’s a part of me that deeply appreciates his discretion, even though he doesn’t know I’m Miss Anonymous. I’m glad he’s not going into all the sordid details of what we shared. I appreciate that he’s respecting our privacy.

‘That’s what the rooms are for.’

‘I’d like to see her again.’

The room is suddenly a void, as if a black hole has opened up and swallowed us. The atmosphere grows thick, the air is heavy in my chest. Everything’s different.

‘Why?’

His eyes explode with strength. ‘That is also personal.’

I swallow, desire unfurling in my gut like a slow-slithering snake. I want him. I want him so badly. But that’s crazy. I don’t do relationships, and I particularly don’t do relationships with men like this. Entitled, wealthy, spoiled, arrogant.

Even when they’re savant-like in bed.

I clench my hand into a fist to ball up my own temptations.

I have to get rid of him before I do something really stupid. Like giving in to this.

One night. That was all it was meant to be.

‘If she’s deleted her profile, it suggests she doesn’t want to be found, Mr Rothsmore.’ His name in my mouth is so sexy. I want to kiss it against his skin.

I watched him get dressed on Saturday night. I lay in bed sated and so full of pleasure, and I watched as he pulled on his shorts, his trousers, donning the tuxedo he’d had on earlier. Even after sleeping together, that simple act of voyeurism felt strangely intimate.

‘Perhaps.’ His eyes narrow.

‘In which case, I can’t help you.’

‘For a million dollars, you’re not willing to discover who she is?’

I wait a moment.

He pulls a card from his pocket. It’s jet black, matte, thick, with gold writing across the front. As he brings it closer I make out his name and, beneath it, a series of numbers.

‘I’ll tell you what, Imogen. You find her and ask her to call me. Whether she does or doesn’t, the million dollars is yours regardless.’

I stare at the card, the trap he’s unknowingly set one I refuse to enter. Because it’s dishonest. I can’t take his money under these circumstances. I mean, the woman he’s looking for is standing right in front of him.

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