‘Now, are we doing the ground rules before or after I get my orgasm?’

‘Before,’ Kate said, any thought of backing away from their agreement obliterated by the heat of his words, the wild rush of desire that bolted through her.

‘Then let’s do it fast. Before I explode.’

The air was thick with lust as she guided him to the dining table, handed him the pages she’d prepared for their signatures.

‘So we’re—what?’ he asked. ‘Signing a contract?’

She nodded. ‘With a contract we’ll both know where we stand, what we can expect. It keeps things uncomplicated.’

Scott laughed, but didn’t refuse, so Kate started running through the clauses. She didn’t even make it through the first one before Scott cut her off.

‘Katie—you want a contract, then a contract it is. But it’s a sex contract—not a prenup or a business merger. And it’s not even legally enforceable, as we both know. So can you just give me the basics? Then I’ll sign—there’s no way I won’t—and we can move on to implementing it. Because if I have to go much longer without touching you I am going to go insane.’

SYDNEY’S MOST ELIGIBLE …

The men everyone is talking about!

Young, rich and gorgeous, Rob, Scott, Brodie and Luke have the world at their feet and women queuing to get between their sheets.

Find out how the past and the present collide for them in this stylish, sexy and glamorous new quartet!

These sexy Sydney tycoons didn’t get to the top by taking the easy way—the only thing they love more than a challenge is a woman who knows her mind!

So let the fireworks begin…!

HER BOSS BY DAY … by Joss Wood Available January 2015

THE MILLIONAIRE’S PROPOSITION by Avril Tremayne Available February 2015

THE TYCOON’S STOWAWAY by Stefanie London Available March 2015

THE HOTEL MAGNATE’S DEMAND by Jennifer Rae Available April 2015

You won’t want to miss any of the fabulous books in this sizzling mini-series!

AVRIL TREMAYNE is happily settled in her hometown of Sydney, Australia, where her husband and daughter try to keep her out of trouble—not always successfully. When she’s not writing or reading she can generally be found eating—although she does not cook!

Check out her website: www.avriltremayne.com. Or follow her on Twitter: @AvrilTremayne and Facebook: www.facebook.com/avril.tremayne

The
Millionaire’s
Proposition
Avril Tremayne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Peter Alati—best brother ever.

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SCOTT KNIGHT TOOK one look at the redhead standing over at the punchbowl and almost swallowed his tongue.

Tall, confident, beautiful…and dyspeptically cynical, judging by the look on her face. He liked every single thing in that package.

So…exactly what was the pick-up etiquette associated with divorce parties? Were they like funerals—no hitting on attendees unless you wanted to look like a slimeball?

He pondered that while he took another look at the redhead.

Strictly speaking, of course, this was a little more than a divorce party; it was a celebratory segue to Willa’s new committed relationship with Rob. Scott wouldn’t normally have advocated a jump from one hot pan right into another—even when the guy in the second pan was Rob, who was several thousand light years ahead of Willa’s ex, Wayne-the-Pain—but he was suddenly cool with it if it lifted the party out of the funereal stakes and opened the way…

The redhead turned to the punchbowl for another dip. Scott noted that her body was divine. And he stopped worrying about anything other than getting his hands on it.

He headed over to the punchbowl with great purpose, grabbing a beer on the way—punch being way too girly for him. ‘What’s that quote about divorce…?’ he asked, tilting his head towards her—but it was a rhetorical question.

She turned before the words had finished leaving his mouth and a slap of undiluted lust walloped him. She was even better close-up. A scorching mix of opulent looks, with slanted grey eyes, wickedly arched dark auburn brows, regal cheekbones…and a top-lip-heavy mouth painted blistering red.

She didn’t bother answering. Clearly knew she didn’t have to. Knew he was already caught. He could tell by the way she waited, all self-possessed confidence, for him to continue, with the mere hint of a smile on her insanely sexy lips.

‘Jean Kerr, it was,’ he continued. ‘“A lawyer is never entirely comfortable with a friendly divorce, any more than a good mortician wants to finish his job and then have the patient sit up on the table.”’

The sexy lips parted in surprise…and then the corners tilted up, just a little. She looked fascinated. He took that as a sign—a good sign—that his opening conversational gambit had hit the mark. She was with him. Yes!

She took a slow sip of her punch and examined him. Down, up. ‘Are you in the market?’ she asked, and the smokiness of her voice had his libido purring like a tomcat on the hunt.

Mmm-hmm. She’d not only caught him, she was well on the way to hog-tying him and dumping him in a babbling heap at her feet. And he wasn’t complaining.

Scott gave her his I am available for sex immediately smile, which he liked to call his Number One smile, because it seemed to be the one that got the most use.

‘Why, yes, I do happen to be in the market,’ he said.

She laughed. Throatily gorgeous. ‘I meant the divorce market.’

‘I’m not married, if that’s what you’re asking. Or engaged.’ Little step closer. ‘Or partnered in any way, shape or form.’

She made a little moue with her luscious lips. ‘Shame. Would have been fun.’

Scott wasn’t often taken by surprise, but Cool-Hand Red had managed it with five little words. Why was his singledom a shame? Did she only do married guys?

‘Still could be,’ he said, rallying fast as he figured that simply couldn’t be true. ‘Fun, I mean.’

‘With no money involved?’ Little regretful sigh. ‘I don’t think so.’

What the hell? She not only preferred married men, but they had to pay? This was so not Willa’s scene. It wasn’t his scene either, and he’d thought he was up for most things—except for all that hardcore S&M business. Inflicting pain—and receiving it—thank you but no! Not his cup of tea.

She put down her punch, reached into the small and sparkly emerald-green evening bag draped via a chain over her shoulder, took out an elegant silver card case, flicked it open one-handed and handed him a plain, crisp white business card.

‘“Kate Cleary”,’ he read. And then, ‘Oh…’ Wince. ‘Ouch.’

Another of those throaty laughs. ‘Divorce lawyer. Willa’s, in fact. And she’s not only sitting up on the mortician’s table, she’s leaping off it and twirling across the floor with a dance partner. And I’m very comfortable with that. Now…what’s that other quote about divorce?’ She raised a mischievous eyebrow. ‘Ah, yes. Zsa Zsa Gabor. “He taught me housekeeping; when I divorce I keep the house.”’

He laughed. Delighted, relieved, intrigued—and horny. ‘That explains how Willa got the house—who would dare say no to you?’

‘Lots of people dare—but there can only be one winner. And I like the winner to be me.’

Scott’s inner purr became a growl as his libido kicked up a notch.

‘Scott Knight—architect,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘And expert inserter of foot into mouth.’

She took his hand in a firm, cool grip. Two mid-level shakes—not wimpy, not crushing. Perfect.

‘Nice to meet you, Scott Knight,’ she said. ‘And you’re more than welcome to roll out the lawyer jokes. Who knows? There may even be one I haven’t heard.’

‘Ouch. Again. I’m going to need stitches.’

She retrieved her punch glass. ‘Well, I have a needle and thread.’ Sipped. ‘And a stapler too, if you prefer it a little…rougher.’

His eyes skimmed her the way hers had him. She was covered from neck to mid-thigh in snug black. Plain, plain, plain—and off-the-chain sexy. Naked arms and legs. High heels in nude. The little green handbag. Her red hair loose and gorgeous. And the lips—good God, the lips.

He felt a little shiver of excitement as he caught her scent. Tuberose. His favourite.

‘You look like a tearer, not a repairer, to me,’ he said, plucking the words more for their innuendo value than anything else. The only important thing was staying near her. He’d talk about knee replacements if that would keep her close.

‘That’s because I am,’ she said. ‘“Ball-tearer” is the complete phrase, I believe.’

‘You’re not scaring me.’

‘What am I doing?’

‘You know what you’re doing, Kate Cleary. You know very well. So let’s cut to the chase. Are you hooked up with anyone? I mean, anyone I couldn’t take out in a Rubik’s cube tournament, obviously.’ He held his breath, waiting for the answer. No, no, no, please.

‘Is that your speciality? The Rubik’s cube?’

‘Well, I’m better with the cube than I am at hand-to-hand combat—although for you I could get a little gladiatorial. Certainly with you I could.’

‘Then how fortunate that I am, indeed, single. So…do you need me to demonstrate my Rubik’s cube abilities?’

‘Exactly how limber are you with those nice, long, slim fingers?’

‘Eleven seconds—limber enough.’ The tip of her tongue came out, ran across her plump red top lip. ‘But I can go slow.’

Scott’s nostrils flared with the scent of her, the triumph of it. He edged closer, until they were almost but not quite touching. ‘I’d like to see you go fast…and slow.’

She raised that eyebrow again. And, God, he knew—just from that—she would be awesome in bed. He was going to have to find out. Maybe tonight…

She tilted her head back. And there was a challenge in that. ‘That’s going to depend.’

‘On…?’

‘What you’re offering.’

He was about to suggest they consider an early departure to negotiate the ‘offer’ when—dammit—Willa materialised, with Rob beside her. Okay, maybe she hadn’t materialised—maybe she’d walked quite normally across the floor and he’d been too busy gagging with lust to notice. But, whatever, the interruption was so ill-timed he wanted to punch something.

‘Kate, I’m so glad you’ve met Scott,’ Willa said, all warm and thrilled and happy. ‘He’s not likely to be a client, though—he’s the confirmed bachelor of Weeping Reef!’

Scott only just held back the wince. Because that made him sound either gay or like a player. Rob, at least, had the grace to wince for him and clap the hand of sympathy on his back.

Kate couldn’t possibly think, even for a second, that he was gay. Not after the conversation they’d been having.

On the other hand… A player? Yeah, he admitted to that. But he liked to do his own warning off of women who had happily-ever-after in their sights—with charm and skill and softly negotiated ground rules that meant everyone had fun right up until the goodbye. He didn’t need his friends making public service announcements to scare away prospective bedmates before he even got to the first kiss.

‘Let’s leave it at bachelor, shall we, Willa?’ Scott suggested through slightly gritted teeth.

Willa, oblivious, turned to him. ‘Oh, are you not a confirmed bachelor? I thought you said friends with benefits was as far as you ever intended to go? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. At all. Of course.’

Scott stared at Willa, speechless. Rob blew out a not laughing, I promise breath. Kate was biting the inside of her cheek, in the same predicament as Rob.

‘After what happened in the Whitsundays I—’ At last Willa stopped. Blushed very prettily—as Willa did everything.

Scott was still staring, frozen, praying she was not going to finish that.

‘Oh,’ Willa said. ‘Well. Anyway. Kate is the best family lawyer in Sydney, as well as being a wonderful, kind, compassionate—’

‘Thank you, Willa,’ Kate interrupted smoothly. ‘But I’m not quite ready for sainthood.’

Scott, unfreezing, saw the flush of pink that slashed across Kate’s high cheekbones—not pretty, stunning!—and decided it was time to take control of the conversation and get his seduction back on track.

Leaning into Willa conspiratorially, he said, ‘I hear Kate’s also a Rubik’s cube champion.’

Kate choked on her punch, trying—again—not to laugh.

And somehow that made Scott want her even more. He needed to get her away from everyone immediately. Out onto the deck into that particular corner that he knew from previous forays at Willa’s harbourside mansion was very private, screened by a giant pot plant.

But any chance of getting Kate alone was snatched from him by another of the old Weeping Reef gang, Amy, who landed in their midst—because Amy never merely appeared anywhere—accompanied by her flatmate Jessica, who’d become an honorary gang member despite never having been near the Whitsundays.

Seduction plans were officially on simmer—but not off the heat. Half an hour—that was all he needed. Half an hour and Kate Cleary would be his.

Amy gave Scott a smacking kiss on the cheek before enveloping Kate in a hug.

‘Kate!’ she squealed. ‘It’s been an age.’

Kate laughed as she returned the hug. ‘Well, two weeks, anyway—you didn’t drink so many mojitos at Fox that you’ve forgotten?’

What the hell…? Scott wondered if he was the only one of the group who’d never met Kate. Well—him and Willa’s brother, Luke, who was still in Singapore. Was this some kind of Weeping Reef conspiracy? Would Chantal turn up at last—because God knew how he’d deal with that—and Brodie? He could picture Brodie sauntering over, snatching the heart of another of Scott’s women…

Not that Kate was Scott’s woman.

Jessica and Kate were hugging now. Okay—this was officially out of control. Even Jessica knew Kate?

‘It wasn’t the mojitos that were news at Fox,’ Jessica said. ‘It was one very particular martini.’

The blush was back on Kate’s cheekbones. ‘The less said about that the better,’ she said with a theatrical shudder.

Scott was suddenly desperate to hear the story. ‘You don’t like martinis?’ he asked—only to have Willa, Amy and Jessica burst out laughing.

He looked at Rob, who gave him a don’t ask me shrug.

‘It was a dirty martini,’ Amy said, putting him out of his misery. ‘Bought for her by Barnaby, my arch nemesis at work, who just happened to be drinking at Fox too. Blond, blue-eyed and gorgeous—that’s Barnaby. Thinks he’s God’s gift to marketing. And to women. And to be honest, he kind of is. Just not to Kate.’

Kate shook her head, laughing, as though batting the subject away.

‘It was the way he said “dirty”,’ Jessica put in, helping herself to a glass of punch. ‘It’s one thing being presented with a dirty martini. It’s quite another to have it presented with a slimy pick-up line. “Just how dirty do you like it, baby?” Yep—that would make any woman want to jump you. Not.’

More laughing from the girls as Kate covered her eyes with a hand.

Rob was practically cringing. ‘Seriously?’

Willa kissed Rob’s cheek. ‘Not all men are as evolved as you, Rob.’

Rob turned to Scott. ‘You ever used that one?’

‘Dirty martini? Nope. And, given the reaction Barnaby got, I doubt I ever will. Although in my youth I did once embarrass myself with a comment to twin girls about a Ménage à Trois.’

Jessica’s eyes bugged. ‘Twins? Like…a real ménage à trois? Or is that the name of a fancy-pants cocktail?’

‘It’s a cocktail,’ Scott assured her. ‘And delicious, apparently—because, as it happens, they both ordered one and made very…approving…noises.’ He cleared his throat, all faux embarrassment. ‘As they sipped, I mean.’

‘They ordered one apiece—with a side order of you?’ Amy asked, batting her eyelashes outrageously.

Scott smiled. The lazy, teasing smile he reserved for flirty moments with women he wasn’t ever going to take to bed. ‘A gentleman never tells a lady’s secrets.’

He saw something flash across Amy’s face. Something like…distress? But it was gone so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it. And the next moment she was laughing again.

‘Well, anyway, enough with the “in my youth” talk. If I’ve got my arithmetic in order you’re twenty-seven—one measly year older than me. And I’ll have you know I still consider myself to be in my youth.’

An odd gasping sound from Kate had Scott turning to her. It looked as if she’d spilled punch on her dress, because she was brushing a hand over the bodice. It must have been only the tiniest drop—he certainly couldn’t see any sign of it—but the next moment Willa was ushering Kate to the guest bathroom and Amy was asking Rob what exactly was in the punch, because she’d never seen Kate’s nerves of steel so much as bend before, let alone be dented.

The punch, apparently, was a combination of vodka, white wine, white rum and champagne, with an occasional strawberry waved over the bowl—that did not sound girly! It was a miracle everyone in the house wasn’t stumbling around breaking bits off sculptures, staggering into walls and pitching face-first into pot plants.

But Scott had a feeling the potency of the brew was not the problem with Kate. She’d looked sort of shocky. Surely not because of that harmless ménage à trois talk? She was too sophisticated for that. It would take him two minutes, tops, to explain that away. Which would leave him twenty-eight minutes to charm her out of her panties.

But twenty minutes later Scott hadn’t managed to get near Kate. Every time he took a step in her direction she moved somewhere else. As if she was on guard against him—which was crazy. Almost as crazy as what the sight of her loose-hipped, strolling, rolling walk was doing to his testosterone levels. Sexiest walk ever.

At the twenty-four-minute mark, as he made what felt like his hundredth attempt to reach her and she replaced the stroll with a dash—an actual freaking dash—towards a small group of people whose average age looked to be a hundred and four, he realised she really and truly was on her guard.

Oh, my God.

He was chasing her and she was running away. This had never, ever happened to him before.

And as he watched her, trying to figure out what the hell had gone wrong, the last six minutes of his self-allocated thirty minutes’ seduction time ticked away…and she was gone.

Disappeared. Like Cinderella, but wearing both of her take-me-now shoes.

He fingered the card she’d given him.

Weird. Very, very weird. A mystery. What had he said? Done?

Well, Scott loved mysteries. And challenges. And women who wore red lipstick.

And he was suddenly very certain that this thing between him and Kate Cleary—because there was definitely a thing—was not going to end with a drop of spilled punch and no explanation.

He looked at her card again, noted the address—a block from his city office.

Easy.

CHAPTER TWO

KATE LET HERSELF into her apartment, tossed her bag onto the couch, kicked off her shoes, wiggled her toes…and let out a tortured groan that had nothing to do with her sore feet and everything to do with the divorce party.

Which had been a disaster.

She couldn’t believe she’d been smut-talking about a stapler and a Rubik’s cube. As bad as Dirty Martini Barnaby! Flirting with that hot, gorgeous hunk like a horny teenager.

And then to discover that the hot, gorgeous hunk practically was a horny teenager…

She let out another tortured groan.

Not that twenty-seven really was teenaged.

But she was thirty-two, for God’s sake! A my way or the highway woman of thirty-two!

She opened the French doors and stepped onto the expansive terrace of her apartment. She’d chosen the apartment for the view—not the Harbour Bridge in the distance, even though that was her favourite Sydney landmark, but the boats. Something about them, bobbing gently in Rushcutters Bay, soothed her. The escape daydream, she called it. Sailing away from her troubles to a world of possibilities. A world of adventure…

She tried to bring herself back to earth by reminding herself of the time she’d forced the husband of one of her clients to sell his boat and hand over half the cash and he’d cried like a baby. But even the memory of that less than edifying spectacle couldn’t stop her thinking about adventures and possibilities.

And tonight, very specifically, the possibility of an adventure with Scott Knight.

The image of him was so clear in her head. That killer body—tall, broad, strong. The slightly spiky mid-brown hair. The alertness of his cool, pale green eyes. That I’ve got a secret smile that was kind of calculating…and somehow intriguing exactly because of that. She’d wanted to twist him into a sexual pretzel the moment she’d heard his lazy, drawling voice—a voice so at odds with the alert intelligence in his eyes it was almost a challenge.

But…twenty-seven years old?

She covered her face with her hands and let fly with one more tortured groan.

Pent-up need—that was the problem. It had been a long time between…cocktails. Dirty Martini, Bosom Caresser, Between the Sheets, Sex on the Beach or any other kind. A damned long time.

Well, she clearly couldn’t be trusted to see Scott Knight again until that pent-up need had been met. She would have to make sure any Weeping Reef gathering was Scott-free before attending. In fact, she’d go one step further and stick to girls-only catch-ups when it came to Willa. So just Willa, Amy, Jessica and the other girl she had yet to meet—Chantal—if she ever showed. No Rob. No Scott. Luke was in Singapore, and the other guy whose name started with a B—Brady? No, Brodie—hadn’t turned up at anything yet. So the whole girls-only thing was definitely doable.

And in the meantime she would find some other man to twist into a sexual pretzel. Someone like Phillip, a barrister who was happily divorced, suave, cultured and—at forty years old—mature. In the right age ballpark.

Then she would let the girls know she was taken, word would find its way to Scott, and that would be that.

Yes, Phillip would do very nicely. She would give him a call on Monday and arrange to catch up with him at the bar near her office for a Slow Comfortable Screw. A Strawberry Stripper. A Sex Machine. Or…or something.

Monday morning for Kate began with an eight o’clock client meeting.

Kate always felt like cuddling this particular client. Fragile, timid Rosie, who crept into her office as though she’d like a corner to hide in. Rosie was so intimidated by her husband she couldn’t even bring herself to tell him he was making her unhappy—so how she was going to raise the subject of divorce was anyone’s guess.

It was not a position a Cleary woman would ever find herself in!

Her frustrating meeting with Rosie reminded Kate how happy she was not to be married. And that, in turn, prompted her to get to the task of calling the equally gamophobic Phillip to arrange that bar meeting. A highly satisfactory phone call that took four businesslike minutes.

Two meetings later she made herself a cup of coffee and opened her diary to recheck her schedule…and blinked.

Blinked, blinked, blinked.

She called her no-nonsense, indeterminately aged, absolutely superb assistant. ‘What’s this appointment at twelve-thirty today, Deb?’

‘Hang on…’ Keyboard clicks. ‘Oh, Scott Knight. He called while you were with your eight o’clock. Said he’d mentioned a lunch appointment when he saw you on Saturday night.’

Kate slumped back in her chair, awed—and depressingly delighted—at the presumption of it.

‘Oh, did he?’ she asked, trying to sound ominous.

‘So he didn’t?’ Chuckle. ‘Well, I did wonder why you hadn’t mentioned it to me, but he sounded… Well, let’s keep it clean and say nice, so I made an executive decision and slotted him in.’

‘Yes, he does sound “nice”,’ Kate said dryly, and smiled at Deb’s sudden crack of laughter.

‘Want me to cancel him, hon? Leave you to your takeaway chicken and mung-bloody-bean salad?’

Kate opened her mouth to say an automatic yes—but into her head popped an image of Rosie that morning. Diffident. Nervous. Panicky. Dodging her husband rather than telling him their marriage was over.

And hot on the heels of that came the memory of her own behaviour on Saturday night, dodging Scott at Willa’s party. So unnerved by the force of her attraction to him she’d mapped out an actual plan for seeing only Willa, Amy and Jessica. Crazy. She should be able to see her friends whenever and wherever she wanted, without giving a second thought to whoever else might just happen to be in the vicinity.

As if she couldn’t handle a twenty-seven-year-old!

And on her own turf…in her own office? Easy.

This would not be like the divorce party, where the kick of lust had taken her by surprise. She would be prepared for it today. And she could tell him directly, herself, that she was no longer in the market—so thanks, but no thanks.

‘Kate?’ Deb prompted. ‘Shall I cancel him?’

Kate straightened her shoulders. ‘No, that’s fine,’ she said. ‘It will take approximately five minutes to conclude my business with Mr Knight. Plenty of time to eat chicken and mung-bloody-bean salad afterwards.’ She nodded, satisfied. ‘Now, can you grab me the McMahon file? There’s something I need to check before the parties arrive to have another crack at a settlement conference.’

‘Mmm-hmm. Settlement conference… That’s what they’re calling World War III these days, is it?’

Scott, no stranger to wooing women, brought flowers to Kate’s office. Nothing over the top. Just simple, colourful gerberas that said I’m charming so I don’t have to bring roses.

Not that he saw any softening in Deb’s face as he handed over the bunch.

‘Seems a shame to spend money on flowers when you’re only going to be in there for five minutes,’ she said.

‘Oh, they’re not for Kate,’ Scott said. ‘They’re for you.’

‘Even so…’ Deb said, but he didn’t miss the tiny sparkle that sprang to life in her eyes. ‘Her meeting is running over time. Take a seat, if you’d like to wait.’

Scott angled himself so he could see through the glass wall of the boardroom. Could see her. Kate.

She was sitting at a long table, her back to him. Beside her was an overly blonded, expensive-looking woman wearing lime-green. The client, obviously. On the opposite side of the table was a man who epitomised lawyerdom. Pinstriped suit, white shirt, conservative tie. Beside Pinstripe was a man who looked as if he’d spent too long on the tanning bed, wearing an open-necked shirt with a humungous gold chain visible against his chest. Gold Chain was holding a dog. A furry little dog. Which he kept petting.

Amongst the four of them—five, if you included the dog—there were frequent vehement headshakes, very occasional nods, hand gestures aplenty. At one point Kate ran a hand tiredly over her hair, which was tied in a low ponytail. It made Scott want to touch her.

And that reminded him that their only physical contact on Saturday night had been a handshake. So it was kind of nuts to be so obsessed with her. But obsessed was what he was.

Suddenly Kate stood. She put her hands on the table and leaned forward—making a particular point, he guessed. She was wearing a cream skirt suit. Beautifully, tightly fitted.

Scott was appreciating the view of her really superb backside when she stretched just a little bit further forward and her skirt hitched up for one split second. Just long enough to give him a tiny glimpse of the lacy band at the top of one of her…ooohhh…stockings.

She was wearing stockings.

All the blood in Scott’s body redirected itself in one gush, straight to his groin. The sudden ache of it made him clamp his jaws together.

Stockings!

Stay-ups? Suspenders? Hell, who cared which?

Then she was back in her seat. Scott realised he’d been holding his breath and exhaled—very, very slowly.

He forced his eyes away from her—scared he’d start drooling otherwise—and saw Gold Chain give the dog a kiss on the nose while keeping his eyes on his wife across the table.

That seemed to incense Blondie—which Scott could understand, because it was kind of gross—who leapt to her feet and screeched so loudly her voice bounced straight through the glass wall. Next moment all four of them were standing. There were waved arms, pointed fingers, even a stamped foot. The stamped foot was from Blondie, who was then subtly restrained by Kate, who seemed serene in the midst of chaos. Pinstripe was using a similar restraining movement on Gold Chain, but was somewhat hampered by the dog snapping at him.

Scott heard a few words shouted—hurled. Custody. Holidays. Missed drop-offs. Interspersed with an occasional ear-sizzling foul-mouthed curse.

Shocked, Scott looked at Deb. Shouldn’t she be calling the cops before someone threw an actual punch? But Deb just kept typing, unperturbed. Which would have to mean that Kate put up with such crap routinely, wouldn’t it? Did that explain Kate’s air of cynicism at Willa’s divorce party? Because if this was divorce, it sure wasn’t pretty.

He tuned back in to the screeches. A custody battle? Had to be. The antagonists were…what?…in their early thirties, maybe? So the kids had to be young. How many kids?

Scott wondered how his own parents would have handled a custody battle. Not that his parents would have done anything so undignified as get divorced. The joining of two old families, the merging of two fortunes, had been destiny working the way it was supposed to—even if he’d never seen his parents kiss, let alone hold hands. Their merger was too perfect ever to be classified as a mistake, so that sucker wasn’t getting dissolved.

But if they had divorced he couldn’t imagine them getting into a raging custody battle. Over him, at any rate. They would have come up with a simple, bloodless schedule of visits, complete with taxi pick-ups and drop-offs.

Custody of his older brother would have been a different story. There would have been nothing amicable about sharing the ‘perfect’ son. Maybe that was the real reason they’d stayed together—the inability to satisfactorily halve his brother.

And what an opportune moment for the boardroom door to be opening, so he could stop thinking.

Gold Chain was coming out, carrying the dog, speaking furiously to his solicitor. Pinstripe had a grip on his client’s dog-free arm and was dealing admirably with dodging the growling dog’s snapping jaws as he walked Gold Chain past Deb’s desk and out of the suite. Kate and her client stayed in the room talking for a few minutes, but then they too appeared. Kate was nodding, her red-lipsticked mouth pursed in sympathy.

Kate caught sight of him—and slashes of pink zapped along her cheekbones as if by Magic Marker. And then she returned her concentration to Blondie.

‘It’s not good enough,’ Blondie was saying. ‘He keeps returning her late. If it doesn’t stop I’ll be rethinking the money. Make sure he knows that, Kate.’

A few soothing words, an unrelenting shepherding towards the suite exit. Out through the door.

And then…silence.

Deb looked at Scott. Raised her eyebrows. That little sparkle was in her eyes again.

Scott raised his eyebrows back, a little shell-shocked and a lot awed at what Kate had just put up with. And still somewhat gobsmacked that such a small dog could be so nasty. He’d back that dog against a pitbull.

And then Kate was coming back. Smiling coolly—very lawyer-like and professional.

‘Scott,’ she said, and held out her hand.

Scott shook it. ‘Kate,’ he said, and could hear the laughter in his voice. Less than forty-eight hours ago they’d been heading for sex. Today he got a handshake.

No. Just…no.

Kate gestured to the office next to the boardroom. Scott walked ahead of her, opened the heavy wooden door and stood just inside, taking in the dignified space. Carpeted floor. Big desk. Behind the desk a large tinted window on the outside world. Large window on the inside world too—untinted—through which he could see Kate speaking to Deb, because the Venetian blinds that were there for privacy were open. Neat, modern filing cabinets. Two black leather chairs in front of her desk. Vivid knock-out painting on one wall—the only splash of colour.

And then Kate was entering, closing the door behind her. He turned to face her. She was close. So close. Cream suit. Red hair. Those other-worldly grey eyes. Tuberose scent.

Just for a second the memory of the top of her stocking burst in his head.

And drove him wild.

Which had to be why he grabbed her by the upper arms, backed her up a step, pushed her against that nice solid door and covered her mouth with his.

CHAPTER THREE

FOR ONE FRANTIC SECOND he felt Kate stiffen.

God, don’t stop me. I’ll die if you stop me.

He licked her mouth—her gorgeous, red, luscious mouth—and with an inarticulate sound that was half-moan, half-whimper she opened to him.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

His tongue swooped inside, tangled with hers…and she was everything he’d hoped she would be. Delicious, and hot, and desperate—as desperate as he was. She tasted so good. Smelled like heaven. Felt lush and ripe against him as he pressed her to the door. He wished he could get her closer—although that was knuckleheaded. If he pushed any harder against her they’d be through the wood, spilling onto the floor at the base of Deb’s desk. And exhibitionism wasn’t high on his must-do list.

Then Kate’s arms circled him and he was closer. Miracle. She tore the shirt loose from his pants and then her hands were under the cotton, sliding up his back, down, then up. Rushing over his skin. No finesse, just raw, hungry possession. Restless, seeking, sweeping…

He heard her whimper, low in her throat, and it set off a flare in his head. He wanted every part of her in his hands all at once. Impossible lust. Outrageous. He grabbed the back of her head, bringing their mouths together so furiously their teeth clashed. But he didn’t stop and neither did she. They were straining together. He could feel her heart thudding against his own rocketing beats. He wished he could see her naked. Needed to touch her bare skin.

Alone. He needed them to be alone.

Keeping his burning mouth fused to Kate’s, he reached, one-handed, grabbing for the cord that controlled the Venetian blinds. He scrabbled there, cursing inside his impatient head until he found it, yanked. Close, dammit, close! And then the blinds came clattering down and they were invisible—just him and Kate, wrapped together—and he was going to take her in some way, by God!

Next second they were spinning, fast and clumsy, and with one rough push it was his back jammed against the door, and he was sucking in gasping breaths with every tiny get it while you can break in their hungry kisses. Her hands were under his shirt again almost before the thud against the wood sounded his willing submission. Skating, racing up to his shoulders, over his chest, across his sides, down his stomach. Then she was reaching for his belt, undoing, unbuttoning, unzipping, her hands diving to touch, to grip him through his underwear.

He cradled her head, hands digging in to keep her mouth fused to his. Felt her hair—cool silk against his fingers. He must have wrenched the band from it because it was loose. They were almost at eye level—and that reminded him she was wearing high heels. The thought of those heels, her legs, made him groan. The memory of the top of her stocking—that one hot glimpse—was ferocious in his head. He wanted to see those stockings, wanted her legs wrapped around him.

His hands moved to her perfect backside. Tight and sexy and…covered. Not good enough. Not now. His hands went lower, down to her thighs. He stopped for a blinding moment as her hand squeezed him and he thought he’d lose it, but determinedly he moved on. The stockings. He had to feel them…touch them.

The instant his fingers reached the hem of her skirt he yanked it up. Out of the way. Out of his way. God, God, God, he’d reached that lacy edge. He could feel the band, snug against her slender thigh. Oooohhhhh. G-o-o-o-d. So damned hot. Fingers toyed at the edge for long moments, tracing the skin at the very top, then sliding up, over her bottom, now covered only by soft, slippery silk. He groaned into her mouth. He had to have her—now.

She spread her legs to accommodate his straining erection between her thighs, pulled him hard into the cradle of her, wordless and panting.

‘I want to see you,’ he said.

But before she could respond he was backing her further into the room. Step, kiss…step, kiss…step, kiss. And then they were at her desk, her thighs hitting the desktop. Her amazing, stockinged thighs. Just the thought of them had his fingers twitching to touch.

‘Open your legs,’ he said, and she did.

And then his fingers were there, feeling the damp silk. He was too desperate to be gentle, wrenching the covering aside so his fingers could dip into her. Urgently slipping inside her, then out, circling, then in, out, circling again. She cried out and he plastered his mouth to hers, bending her backwards at the same time as his arm swooped, scattering everything off the desk onto the floor.

He heard the thump and clatter—didn’t care. Her back was on the desk, her bottom at the edge, her legs splayed and dangling, her feet in their sexy high heels just touching the floor. He was between her thighs, fingers still working, resolutely wringing wordless cries from her. He hadn’t stopped kissing her, scared to break that mouth-to-mouth bond in case she told him to stop. He couldn’t stop now—didn’t want to stop.

Fingers still moving against her, he used his other hand to wrench her skirt higher until he knew—even though he couldn’t yet see—that she was exposed to him.

He imagined the picture: pale fabric bunched around her hips, silky knickers covering her except for the slight skew at her core where his fingers played, the stay-up stockings in an understated nude that just made them that much sexier. Steam. He thought he must have steam coming out of his ears. Hell, he wanted to see that picture.

Okay—he would have to risk freeing her mouth just so he could see that picture.

He pulled back and Kate reached automatically to push her skirt down, but his hands stayed hers.

‘No. I have to see. I have to, Kate.’

Throwing her head back, she let her hands drop to her sides, open to him.

He pulled back, looked long and hard, while his heart threatened to leap out through his eyeballs and he thought he might actually come on the spot. Violet. A flash of purple amongst the cream and nude. That delicious part of her just peeping out at the side. She was the most gloriously sexy thing he had ever seen in his life. He had a feeling the image of Kate Cleary on the desk, spread for him, would be the hottest memory of his life.

He made some low, growling noise—like an animal, because he felt like an animal—and knew he had to get at her the fastest way he could. No condom—because why would he need a condom just to see her briefly in her office on a Monday afternoon? Idiot—don’t leave home without one ever again. So it would be his fingers and his mouth.

Even before the thought had finished he was on her, his fingers there, renewing their endless dipping slide. He dropped to his knees, watching each undulating movement of her hips. And when that wasn’t enough he tugged that violet silk a little further off centre and put his mouth on her.

She bucked, cried out, as his tongue replaced his fingers, as his hands moved to grasp her hips and bring her closer to his mouth, angling her so he could explore every delicious fold and crease. The taste of her was intoxicating. The scent of her arousal, the feel of her as he suckled the pearly clitoris he’d freed from the silk…

‘Delicious,’ he said, between long, slow pulls. ‘I knew you would be.’

And then she was whimpering in earnest, soft mewing cries as he alternated the pressure, building the fire in her with every scrap of skill and care he had, building, building… One last, long, endless, sucking kiss there and her hips bucked off the desk.

And then a low, throaty moan was torn out of her as she came and her hands fisted convulsively in his hair, dragging him into her moist heat, and he was breathing her in as he laved her with his eager, lusting tongue, so damned hot for her.

He stayed there, his mouth on her, until the waves receded.

And then her legs relaxed and she lay like an exhausted doll, legs spread, limp hands slipping from his hair as he stood back and looked at her. She was so wantonly beautiful to Scott’s still hungry eyes that he had to cover his face with his hands—because he wanted to be inside her so badly the sight of her was painful.

A heartbeat later he heard the soft sounds of her getting herself together—sitting up, adjusting her clothes. He dropped his hands a millimetre at a time, gauging his control as he went.

Okay.

She was covered.

He could breathe.

Sort of.

That spectacular blush was on her cheekbones. ‘What about…about you?’ she asked. ‘I mean…you. You know…’

Scott winced. ‘That’s what I get for not packing a condom,’ he said, and pulled up his gaping pants, refastening the openings Kate had wrenched apart earlier. He tucked in his shirt. ‘Not that I expected… Well, not that I expected that.’

Her eyes darted to the Venetian blinds as she edged off the desk and he read her relief as she puffed out a little breath. Had she not even noticed that he’d closed the blinds? That said something about the passion between them.

‘So, Kate, I’d say you owe me,’ he said. ‘And I have an inkling you’re not the kind of woman who likes to be in anyone’s debt, so I’ll collect tonight. Name the place. Name the time.’

She bent to pick up the various objects Scott had so unceremoniously shoved off the desk. Including her laptop, which she didn’t even bother checking for damage.

Ordinarily he would have helped. But not now. Now he just watched. She was doing something inside her head. Calculating. Planning. So best to be a spectator, gathering clues from her demeanour. What was she thinking?

She picked up a box of tissues, but instead of putting it back on the desk she held it out to him. ‘Lipstick,’ she said, gesturing to his mouth.

He plucked a tissue from the box. ‘Still there?’ he asked, giving her his most wicked smile. ‘After my mouth was so busy between your—’

‘Yes, still there,’ she cut in.

Her voice was curt, no-nonsense…but he saw the shiver tremble through her body as she put the tissue box back in its place on her desk.

And then she checked her watch. Followed that with a stride over to the Venetians to open them with one sharp tug of the cord.

‘Oh, no, Katie,’ Scott said at that point. ‘We don’t get back to normal and move on to our next appointments after that.’

She looked at him. ‘Kate. Not Katie.’ She licked her top lip. Again. Eyes closed. Then opened. And then she threw her hands out with a you win sigh. ‘All right—fair enough. Let’s talk.’

She waved him to one of the black leather chairs as she walked around behind the desk and settled into her own intimidating, high-backed number.

‘That was a mistake,’ she said, very direct.

‘I made one mistake—I didn’t bring a condom. Otherwise that went pretty much as I would have liked.’

‘I don’t do relationships,’ Kate said, ignoring that.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Perfect.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You don’t do relationships. I don’t do relationships. But I do do sex…and so, obviously, do you. And very well too.’

She stared at him for a long moment. Then that little lick of the top lip again—God, he wanted to be the one licking it.

‘I have someone,’ she said.

That brought a frown—fast and hard and very displeased. ‘You told me at the party you didn’t.’

‘I’m seeing him tonight. We’re working out an arrangement.’

‘What kind of arrangement?’

She looked at him out of those clear eyes. ‘A mutually satisfactory “friends with benefits” arrangement.’

‘Work out an arrangement with me instead.’

‘Phillip is forty.’

‘Past his sexual prime.’

‘Closer to my age.’

‘How old are you, Katie?’

‘Thirty-two. And it’s Kate.’

‘Then he’s not closer to your age—I am. Five years versus eight years. And I want you more.’

‘How could you possibly know that?’

‘Because nobody could want you more than I do.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘And you owe me. One orgasm.’

‘I’m not interested in having a toy boy.’

‘And I’m not interested in being one.’ He stared at her, wondering… And then he relaxed back in his chair. ‘Aha! So that was it.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘What happened at the party to make you run away. Amy said I was twenty-seven.’

‘I don’t do relationships.’

‘Yeah—we covered that one.’

‘People who are twenty-seven are in the prime age bracket for relationships.’

‘Newsflash—so are people who are thirty-two.’

‘I’m not like other thirty-two-year-olds.’

‘And I’m not like other twenty-seven-year-olds. Remember? I’m the confirmed bachelor of Weeping Reef.’

‘You said bachelor, but not confirmed.’

‘I lied because I didn’t want to scare you off.’

‘Not exactly honourable.’

‘That’s because I’m not honourable. I have not one honourable intention when I look at you. Which won’t bother you since you’re not interested in relationships. So, Katie, you’re going to have to tell your forty-year-old he’s too late. Unless you didn’t like what just happened…?’

Kate leaned back in her chair. Licked her top lip again, which was now almost bare of lipstick. It was heavy, brooding. He wanted it on his body.

‘There’s no reason I won’t like it with Phillip just as much,’ she said.

‘What—you’d let Phillip go down on you on your desk during business hours, would you?’

‘He wouldn’t want to.’

‘And that’s why I’m the man for you. Because I would. I did. And I would do it again in a heartbeat, Katie.’

‘Kate. And it’s not a matter of liking. It’s a matter of being clear what the end-game is so nobody gets hurt.’

‘I don’t get hurt.’

She looked startled. ‘Everyone gets hurt.’

‘Not me.’

‘You’ve never been hurt?’

Scott’s body tensed. Redirect. ‘Let me put it this way. There’s no need for either of us to get hurt. You mentioned the end-game. Why can’t the end-game be sex? Pure and simple sex?’

Kate had picked up a pen and was tap, tap, tapping it on the desk. ‘Pure and simple sex,’ she said slowly. ‘No strings?’

‘You got it.’

Long moment. Tap, tap, tap. ‘And if I were to lay some ground rules…? You wouldn’t have a problem with that?’

‘Lay away.’

‘I’d need time. To think it through. Come up with an agreement.’

‘I’m sure you already have the ground rules worked out for old man Phillip.’

‘He’s not old.’

‘So your age fixation only works one way?’

No answer.

Scott smiled the Number One smile—I am available for sex immediately—as he got out his business card and tossed it onto her desk. ‘You’ve got until I see you tonight to work out whatever rules you want—but, just to be clear, whether we come to an agreement or not, you owe me. If I leave this office and you suddenly have second thoughts about embarking on an affair with me, you still owe me. You. Owe. Me. And I’m not leaving until you give me a time and a place for tonight where you’re going to pay me back. Katie. So let’s have it.’

She was thinking—he could almost see her brain fizzing.

And then, ‘Seven o’clock,’ she announced. ‘Come to my apartment.’ She scribbled something on a sheet of paper and held it out to him. ‘That’s the address. And it’s Kate.’

Scott reached for the paper, pocketed it.

Kate stood, walked around the desk to the door, opened it.

Scott got to his feet more slowly and followed her. But something about the controlled expression on her face got to him—so instead of walking out and heading merrily on his way, he stopped beside her, grabbed her upper arms, tugged her close and slammed his mouth hard on hers. Long, hot moment. Framed in the doorway for anyone who happened to be in the suite to see.

He released her just as suddenly, and smiled to see the combination of shock and desire on her face as he drew back.

‘You’ve got no idea how much I’m going to need that debt paid when I see you at seven tonight,’ he said softly.

And with that, he turned to wink at the unabashedly staring Deb and sauntered towards the exit.

As he reached it he heard Deb’s voice. ‘That was some five minutes, Kate. So, what will it be? Chicken and mung beans? Or do you need something more substantial—a chunk of raw meat, perhaps—to get your strength back?’

CHAPTER FOUR

RACING HOME AFTER WORK that evening, Kate was kicking herself for not going with her first instinct and simply supplanting Phillip with Scott at the bar. A quick twist of an arrangement already in place. Same bar. Same purpose. Just a different model.

She didn’t know why the invitation to her apartment had popped out of her mouth instead.

Although, thinking back to that hot scene on her desk—God, her desk!—she figured it was probably just as well she’d gone for a more private option. If she couldn’t control herself with Scott in her place of work, with Deb sitting just outside the door, how could she trust herself not to perform her payback sex act in the bar, on her knees under the table?

An image that got her so turned on she switched the water temperature of the shower to cold before getting under the spray.

Lust was still fizzing under her skin when she got out, so choosing something to wear took on a whole new meaning—because it had to be something that could come off easily.

Forgoing underwear, she grabbed a loose, tissue-thin shift in a rich russet colour. Very easy to take off when the moment came. And she hoped the outline of her body under the fine silk would drive Scott a little crazy in the meantime—payback for how crazy he’d driven her.

She left her hair loose. Put on a minimum of make-up. No lipstick—her mouth was going to be all over him, and she didn’t want to leave a trail over his clothes or his skin.

She was so full of nervous energy, she caught herself pacing the floor while she waited for him. At this rate one touch of his clever fingers would have her unravelling—and she was not going to unravel twice in one day! She poured herself a glass of very cold white wine and forced her fidgety limbs onto the couch, trying to summon at least a semblance of composure.

The intercom buzzed at six fifty-nine p.m. and she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. This was it.

As she let Scott in she ran her eyes over his body—white T-shirt, jeans. Very cool, very gorgeous. Her eyes kept going. Down to his…

Oh.

Converse All Star sneakers.

Cool, gorgeous…and young.

Those sneakers were not something forty-year-old Phillip would wear.

Twenty-seven. Okay, wake-up call. What the hell had she been thinking? She forced her eyes away from his feet, up to his eyes, preparing to tell him the deal was off.

But the look on his face gave her pause.

Kate had never seen such taut grimness—and she’d seen some very grim faces in the courtroom. His look got more taut and even more grim as he ran his eyes over her dress, all the way down to her bare feet and back up.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, alarmed.

‘Yes,’ he said, and his voice was every bit as grim as his face. ‘I’ve been replaying that scene in your office in my head all afternoon, and I’m so desperate to get my hands on you I can’t think straight. So let’s skip the pleasantries.’

He nodded at the glass of wine on the coffee table.

‘I don’t want the drink you’re probably going to offer me. I’m not into mood music, so don’t bother asking me what I want to listen to. No need for a tour of the apartment—I can see it’s nice and modern and open-plan. Don’t give a rat’s about the view. And the only thing I want to eat is you. Again.’ Strained smile. ‘Now, are we doing the ground rules before or after I get my orgasm?’

‘Before,’ Kate said, any thought of backing away from their agreement obliterated by the heat of his words, the wild rush of desire that bolted through her.

‘Then let’s do it fast. Before I explode.’

The air was thick with lust as she guided him to the dining table, handed him the pages she’d prepared for their signatures.

‘So we’re—what?’ he asked. ‘Signing a contract?’

She nodded. ‘With a contract we’ll both know where we stand, what we can expect. It keeps things uncomplicated.’

Scott laughed, but didn’t refuse, so Kate started running through the clauses.

She didn’t even make it through the first one before Scott cut her off. ‘Katie—you want a contract, then a contract it is. But it’s a sex contract—not a pre-nup or a business merger. And it’s not even legally enforceable, as we both know. So can you just give me the basics? Then I’ll sign—there’s no way I won’t—and we can move on to implementing it. Because if I have to see your nipples poking against that dress for much longer without touching you, I am going to go freaking insane.’

The sudden throb between Kate’s thighs had her squirming on her chair.

‘I see I’m not the only one eager to get to the implementation stage,’ he said, and with an inarticulate I give up growl reached out to cup one of her breasts through the silk.

She felt her nipple tighten even further. He pinched it gently, once. She gasped, he groaned, and then he wrenched his hand away and shot out of his seat.

‘Going to need a drink after all,’ he said. ‘No—don’t get up. Faster if I get it myself while you start going through the rules.’ He headed for her kitchen, with a final prompt. ‘Come on, Katie. Get it done for pity’s sake. I can hear you, I can see you—go.’

‘Right,’ she said. Basics. Basics were good. Fast was good. The sooner they agreed on the terms, the sooner she could have him.

Cupboard opening…clacking of a glass on the kitchen counter.

‘Two nights per week,’ she said.

Fridge door opening…closing. ‘What if I want more?’

‘Two per week is the minimum. We can negotiate additional days as required.’

He was pouring. ‘Okay. Next.’

‘Any costs incurred in pursuit of mutual sexual pleasure to be split fifty-fifty.’

He was back with his wine. ‘I can live with that.’

‘No public displays of affection.’

He was sitting. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘Nauseating stuff, PDAs.’

‘No kissing unless it’s sex-related.’

Scott held up a ‘stop’ hand. ‘Hang on. When is kissing between an unrelated man and woman ever not sex-related?’

She was blushing—she could feel it. Because this was an embarrassing clause. It presupposed he would want to kiss her outside of sex. But kisses led to affection. And trouble lay down that road. So, embarrassing or not, it was best to have it covered in advance.

‘I mean no kisses hello, goodbye—that sort of thing,’ she said. ‘Only kisses that lead to or are the result of sex.’

Scott looked at her mouth for a long moment. She thought he was going to object. But then he shrugged.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

‘Fantasies,’ Kate said, and felt the blush deepen.

‘We get fantasies?’ Scott asked reverently. ‘Yee-ha!’

Kate rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. ‘I thought you’d like that part of the deal. There are still rules, however. I’m suggesting a start phrase—if one or the other of us decides to enact a fantasy, a text message with “Play Time” is all that’s required—along with the date, time and place. And, of course, any outfits, devices and accessories will be provided by the fantasy’s owner.’

‘If you could see inside my mind…’

Kate laughed. ‘I’m sure I’ll be seeing what’s inside it very soon. But in addition to a start phrase we’ll need a trigger word which, when said, will stop the activity should one of us become uncomfortable with what’s happening.’

‘Why not just “stop”?’

‘Because that might be part of the fantasy—either a version of “stop” or “don’t stop”. Or it could mean “pause” or “wait” just as easily as it could mean “no more”. Better to have something unambiguous. Like…maybe…a name? Something that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else and wouldn’t have anything to do with sex.’

Scott smiled—a particularly cool smile that made his eyes look like ice. ‘Let’s go with “Hugo”, in that case,’ he said.

‘Hugo?’

‘I can assure you that will stop me in my tracks.’

‘Fine,’ Kate agreed. ‘I don’t know any Hugos, so it won’t be confusing for me.’

‘What else?’ Scott asked, hands clenching and unclenching with impatience.

‘We’re up to confidentiality. The details of this contract must remain confidential.’

‘Okay. Are we done?’

‘Last point. Fidelity is assumed—’

‘Absolutely,’ Scott agreed promptly. ‘I don’t share.’

‘I haven’t finished. Fidelity is assumed, but should an unforeseen sexual encounter occur with someone other than the two parties covered by the agreement—if you or I—’

‘Yes,’ he interrupted. ‘I know what you mean. If you sleep with someone other than me; if I do someone other than you…’

‘Yes. If that happens it must be confessed prior to the resumption of any contracted sexual activity between us.’

But it seemed Scott had reached his limit.

He whipped the pages out of Kate’s hand, grabbed the pen, flipped to the final clause, scratched out some words, added something and initialled the changes.

‘That’s my input,’ he said. ‘No infidelity or the contract is null and void.’

Kate thought about insisting that it remain, because fidelity was for real relationships and this was not one of those—but in all honesty it was a relief. She’d seen too much of the aftermath of infidelity to be sanguine about it under any circumstances.

So…‘All right,’ she said. ‘Should one of us seek our pleasure elsewhere, the agreement is broken.’

‘You won’t need to look elsewhere, Katie. I’ll keep you so busy you’ll be begging for a break.’

He picked up the pen again, ready to sign.

‘Wait,’ Kate said, snatching the pen from him before he could put it to paper. She licked nervously at her top lip. ‘Scott, I think you should read the contract properly before you sign. You’ve found one clause you didn’t like—there may be some wording that’s unclear, or something else you’re uncomfortable with when you have time to think about it. And I don’t want to feel like I’m taking advantage of your youth.’

Scott’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m twenty-seven—not stupid,’ he said. ‘And I hope we’re not going to waste a lot of time talking about my age. Otherwise I’ll be calling “Play Time” pretty damned fast and spanking you—and that’s not even a fantasy of mine.’

‘Not? Really?’

‘Really. Not into pain—giving or receiving.’

‘No spanking. Got it. Good. But, back on topic, you’re not as experienced with the law as I am, so—’

‘Boring subject. And not germane—there’s a lawyer word for you, to prove that not all twenty-seven-year-olds are ignorant morons. I just love lawyer words.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Am I deeding my firstborn child to you?’

‘No.’

‘Am I beholden to you for the rest of my life?’

‘No—just a month. Through to the twenty-eighth of February.’

‘Maybe I’d better read the contract, then, because that’s not going to work for us unless there’s an automatic rollover in there. Considering the size and intensity of my hard-on all three times I’ve been near you, I’m going to need longer than a month to do you every way I want to.’

Kate took a long, slow, silent breath. She’d never been with a man who talked so blatantly about sex. It should have been a turn-off—so why did it have the opposite effect? She had the feeling that if Scott Knight had bought her a martini and asked ‘Just how dirty do you like it?’ she would have offered to show him on the spot.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘there is a rollover option in there.’

‘Right—so give me the damned pen.’

Kate watched as he scrawled his signature.

It made a funny feeling erupt in her stomach—almost as if she owned a part of him with that one dashed name. For a moment it frightened her. She didn’t want to own him. Didn’t want him to own her. Not in any way, shape or form.

He handed her the pen and she hesitated.

‘They’re your rules,’ Scott said, reading her easily. ‘So sign.’

She signed.

And then Scott pushed his chair back from the table, looked across at her. All that grimness was back, tenfold.

‘Now, come here,’ he said.

CHAPTER FIVE

KATE WALKED OVER to him.

‘I love that dress,’ he said. ‘Love that dress. But take it off.’

Kate forced herself to go slowly as she reached for the sides of the dress and started to roll the fine silk between her fingertips, raising the hem gradually. Their first experience, in the office, had been frantic and fast, sudden and shocking and blind. This time she wanted to control it. To offer herself to him one piece at a time. Tease him. Wow him.

Payback.

Scott leaned forward in his seat, eyes intent on the hem inching upwards, until she reached her upper thighs. She paused there as Scott’s breathing became harsher, choppier. One more roll. Another. Bringing the hem higher up, up—until she was exposed from the hips down.

She saw Scott swallow as his eyes focused. ‘Like fire…’ he whispered. ‘Come closer.’

Kate took two steps until she was standing an arm’s length away. He reached out to touch, smoothed his fingers over the narrow strip of dark red hair.

‘Let me in.’

She adjusted her stance and Scott slipped his fingers between her legs, playing there until she was gasping.

He looked up at her. ‘Keep going. I want to see all of you.’

With that, Kate lost any desire for taking things slowly—so much for control!—and reefed the dress up and off. She tossed it to the floor and stood naked before him.

He kept his fingers moving in the moisture between her thighs while he looked up at her. He swallowed again as she pulled her hair back over her shoulders. The movement tightened her breasts, as if she was offering them to him.

His fingers stilled, slipped out of her, and Kate almost protested.

He sat back, eyes all over her. ‘You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,’ he said hoarsely, and with a determination that was almost intimidating bent to remove his sneakers.

He got to his feet, reached into his back pocket for a condom, held it out to her.

She took it and instantly started ripping the packet. Scott—with sharp, efficient movements—took off his T-shirt, unzipped his jeans, pushed them and his underwear down and off.

And, God, he was gorgeous. Hard. Huge. Perfect.

He reached for her, pulled her in, groaned long and low as their naked bodies connected, slid together.

‘I’m sorry, but this won’t take long,’ he said. ‘We’re not going to make it to the bedroom. Not this first time.’

He pulled back, jaw clenched tight. Nodded at the condom in her hand. ‘Put that on me and I’ll try not to come while you do it.’

Trembling, eager, Kate complied, while Scott uttered a string of low-voiced curses. And then he basically stumbled back, pulling Kate with him, until he was sitting on the chair again.

‘Straddle me,’ he said. ‘I can get more deeply into you from this position. And I want to go deep. Deep and hard. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Kate said, in a breathy voice she hardly recognised as her own.

She slid onto his lap, wrapped her legs around him, around the chair. He held her hips, settling her, then shifted so her bottom was in his hands, manipulating her so she was more perfectly positioned for his entry. Another groan, this time against her neck, followed by a sucking kiss there. Then, with one almost vicious thrust, Scott was inside her, pulling her closer, closer. Another sucking kiss on her neck and then his mouth was on hers, kissing her deeply, tongue plunging within, licking her top lip, back inside her mouth.

‘Best—the best ever—to be inside you,’ he said against her lips.

And somehow those not very romantic words pushed Kate over the edge and into orgasm. She grabbed his face. Pulled his mouth closer, too close for words, and fed him gasping kisses until he followed her, with one long, last, deep thrust, into an explosive orgasm.

Best. Ever.

Those two small words were all Scott could think of as he came back to earth after the most mind-blowing release of his life.

Kate. So jaw-droppingly sexy. Looks that were almost taunting, they were so hot. She’d met him thrust for thrust, taken him as deep and as hard as he wanted to go, kissed the wits right out of his head.

He snuggled her close for a long, quiet moment, stroking her hair gently now that the first rampage of lust had passed. He felt her heartbeats and his, in unison, starting to slow. But he figured he’d never have a normal heartbeat around Kate. She fired his blood like nothing he’d ever experienced. Everyone else he’d ever been with paled in comparison. Every other one was a girl. But Kate was a woman.

And, for now at least, his woman.

At the thought, he felt himself start to harden again, still inside her.

She laughed, low and deep. She’d felt that, then.

She pulled back and looked into his eyes. Kissed him again, lush and soft, and he got harder still.

He stood, bringing Kate with him. Her legs wrapped automatically around him.

‘Bedroom’s back there,’ she said with a head movement.

‘I hope it’s a single,’ he said with a laugh as she squirmed against him. ‘Because anything wider than that is going to be a waste of space.’

Three hours later Scott got quietly out of Kate’s bed, pulled on his jeans and T-shirt, and looked down at her.

She was deeply asleep, no doubt exhausted after what he’d put her through. Even when he hadn’t been able to get it up after that third time he hadn’t stopped touching her. Mouth, hands…all over her.

Best. Sex. Ever.

He thought about leaving and going home—but that felt…wrong. Sneaking away as though he’d got what he came for and didn’t have to linger. Not that Kate would mind, given the contract. Sex—just sex. The end-game. He could sneak away and it wouldn’t be regarded as sneaking by either of them.

But they hadn’t had dinner and he was too hungry to leave. She would be too if she woke before morning. He padded into the kitchen, checking the contents of the cupboards and fridge. Not overly stocked, but he could fix omelettes.

Making himself at home—as he always seemed to do in kitchens—Scott got busy with eggs and whisk and was soon sliding his perfectly cooked omelette onto a plate. He grabbed a glass of wine—making a mental note to bring some beer to leave in Kate’s fridge—and pondered where he should sit to eat.

But it was no contest—and he knew it in his heart.

He’d said earlier that he wasn’t interested in the view from Kate’s apartment. And in that first hot burst of screaming desire it had been true—she was the only thing of interest to him.

But he knew what the view was, and now that the edge had been taken off his caveman libido he wanted to see it.

Rushcutters Marina, where he’d boarded his first yacht as a child and learned to sail. Sailing had become a passion. His one and only rebellion had been taking that year to sail in the Whitsundays rather than go straight to university the way his parents wanted, the way his perfect, by-the-book brother had. For Scott, sailing had been…freedom. And even though he’d given up sailing, there was something about boats that just kept pulling at him.

So he settled himself at Kate’s girl-sized outdoor table and looked out at the water as he ate. It should have been peaceful but, as ever, he found peace elusive.

He finished his omelette and walked over to the edge of the terrace, looking out at the water, listening to the gentle lap of it against the boats.

It was so different from the Whitsundays, and yet it made him remember that time eight years ago at Weeping Reef. The six of them—Willa, Luke, Amy, Chantal, Brodie and him—had formed what they’d imagined would be a lifelong bond, when their lives had been just beginning, only to see that bond disintegrate before that one summer was over.

All because of a love triangle.

One moment Chantal was Scott’s girl; the next she was Brodie’s. No words needed. Because everyone had been able to see it, just from the way they’d looked at each other.

Brodie was the only person Scott had ever confided in about all his childhood crap—and it had been hard to deal with his best friend slipping straight into the place his brother usually occupied in his tortured mind: the best, number one. As the white-hot knowledge had hit, Scott had lashed out, and everything had crashed and burned.

Scott and Chantal, both stuck working at Weeping Reef for the summer, had never recovered the friendship that had been between them before they’d become lovers.

Brodie had simply disappeared.

And Scott had missed him every single day. He still missed him.

The fight seemed so stupid, looking back. But that was what happened when you combined too many beers and too much unseasoned testosterone.

Chantal was just a girl—albeit it a smart, beautiful, wonderful girl—and what they’d had was a romance of proximity. They’d arrived at the resort before the others, and everyone had automatically assumed they were an item because they looked perfect together. A default relationship. With occasional sex that had been fun but hardly earth-shattering.

The fight hadn’t been about Chantal. Scott knew that with hindsight. That fight had been all about him. About never being quite good enough to win the prize. Never being quite good enough to be the prize.

At least he’d learned from the experience. Learned not to trust. Learned to take control of his emotions and hang on to that control at all costs. Learned to keep his pride intact. Learned not to care too deeply. About friends…or lovers.

Now, if only he could work out how to deal with the restlessness that had followed him ever since, he’d be happy. But it was as if he was in a constant battle with himself: let go and just be; don’t ever let go; let go; don’t let go; just be…

‘Couldn’t you sleep?’

The soft question from behind him startled him out of his heavy thoughts. Scott took a moment to school his features. And then he turned, dialled up a smile—one that was a little bit naughty, a little bit sex me up—which he routinely used on women he’d just laid.

Kate was wearing a loose, light dressing gown, and looked tousled and natural and lovely.

‘You wore me out, Katie,’ he said. ‘I needed fuel, so I made myself an omelette. I’ll make one for you too—because if you tell me I didn’t wear you out in return, I’ll die of shame.’

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