# Getting Naughty

Avril Tremayne

What’s the answer to a slow burn?A super-hot fling!High-flying US lawyer Teague Hamilton has always been way out of free-spirited Frankie’s league, but she’s never hidden her desire to break down all of blue-blooded Teague’s barriers and corrupt him entirely! When he accepts her proposal of a naughty-but-nice fling she’s as surprised as he is. But will their hot two weeks be enough to quench a desire that’s been burning for ten long years?

What’s the answer to a slow burn?

A superhot fling!

High-flying US lawyer Teague Hamilton has always been way out of free-spirited Frankie’s league, but she’s never hidden her desire to break down all blue-blooded Teague’s barriers and corrupt him entirely! When he accepts her proposal of a naughty-but-nice fling, she’s as surprised as he is. But will their hot two weeks be enough to quench a desire that’s been burning for ten long years?

AVRIL TREMAYNE is an award-winning author of sexy modern urban romances, featuring heroes strong enough to make any woman swoon and stronger heroines who nevertheless refuse to do so. She took a circuitous route to becoming a writer, via careers in nursing, teaching, public relations and corporate affairs—most recently in global aviation, which gave her a voracious appetite for travel. She currently lives in Sydney, Australia, but is feverishly plotting to move her family to Italy for half of every year. When she’s not reading or writing, Avril can be found dining to excess, drinking lots of wine and obsessing over shoes. Find her at avriltremayne.com, on Facebook at avril.tremayne, on Twitter, @AvrilTremayne, or on Instagram, @avril_tremayne.

If you liked Getting Naughty, why not try

Her Guilty Secret by Clare Connelly

Stripped by Nicola Marsh

Sweet as Sin by J. Margot Critch

Also by Avril Tremayne

Reunions

Getting Lucky

Getting Even

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Getting Naughty

Avril Tremayne


www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08684-4

GETTING NAUGHTY

© 2019 Belinda de Rome

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one’s for my mother—who may require a strong

drink to read past this page!

Acknowledgments

Getting Naughty emerged from my great desire to include the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race somehow, somewhere, in a story. I’m so lucky Alex Lomakin was on hand to share his firsthand experience of the race with me. Thanks, Alex!

I’d also like to thank my fabulous, superpatient editor, Bryony Green, for taking all three of my precious Dare gems and polishing them to a fine sparkle.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

About the Publisher

## CHAPTER ONE

TEAGUE STRETCHED HIS arms over his head and sucked in a lungful of summer air as he peered at Frankie’s doll-sized cottage, which was situated at the end of a long driveway that ran alongside a squat redbrick apartment building.

It was so small he’d probably have to duck to fit under the lintel.

If she invited him in.

If she even heard him knock, given it was barely eight o’clock on a Sunday morning.

His memory of Frankie’s Saturday nights was that they were big and wild, so unless she’d changed drastically in the ten years since he’d last seen her, chances were that at this precise moment she’d be either comatose or contemplating the walk of shame from wherever she’d ended up after work last night.

And it was too bad he chose now to remember that instead of thirty minutes ago, when he’d gotten into the taxi at Sydney Airport. At that point, he could have done as his best friend Matt had suggested during those chaotic last moments at Heathrow: gone to his hotel, gotten some sleep, and called Frankie at a civilized hour to arrange a time to meet for the handover.

Handover! Like he was doing some illicit drug deal.

Not that dealers dragged their supplies around with them in wheeled suitcases. Or maybe they did. What did he know? He was a corporate lawyer, not a criminal one.

Whatever. It was too late to change his mind because he’d let the taxi go and stranded himself.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, get it over with,” he ordered himself, and trudged up the path, stopping at a ratty-looking welcome mat that announced, You Have Arrived at Your Destination.

“I don’t think so, Frankie Lee,” he scoffed, stepping up to the door.

He tugged at the collar of his shirt to make sure it was sitting straight, ran a hand over his hair, dragged in another lungful of air and knocked.

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer.

He knocked again, just so he could say he’d really tried.

Waited for proof of life.

Nothing.

Okay, three strikes and you’re out a-a-and knock.

Silence.

He looked back down the driveway, picturing Frankie in one of her vintage dresses, black hair disheveled, makeup smeared, humming a satisfied tune and swinging her shoes from one hand as she meandered up the path as though she owned the world and all its contents.

Ha! Walk of shame? Not likely. Swagger of pride was more her style.

But, of course, there’d be no sign of her yet. At eight o’clock she’d still be in bed with...well, whomever she’d gone to bed with.

Teague tried to picture a likely “whomever” but that wasn’t so easy to visualize. For all Frankie’s brazen sex appeal, Teague could only recall one identifiable boyfriend from that year she’d spent in Washington, DC. Kyle. Big, burly, covered in tattoos. Kyle hadn’t been around long enough for Teague to get more of a handle on him than that; Frankie had dumped him within a month of their arrival together in DC, after he’d pitched a fit over her taking a second job.

That second job was as a dancer in a gentlemen’s club, so Teague had some sympathy for the guy. Or he would have had, if Kyle hadn’t already worked himself into a lather over Frankie working as a server at Flick’s, which marked the guy as more proprietary asshole than concerned boyfriend. Because come on, Flick’s? Seriously?

Flick’s was a grungy, student-hangout bar/restaurant. None of its patrons had ever stood a chance with Frankie. Hell, most of them were underage, and Frankie might have only been nineteen, but the rolling confidence of her walk flashed a warning that she’d already seen—and enjoyed—everything life had to offer, so they shouldn’t bother approaching her unless they were packing something more interesting than a fake ID. Teague had been under no illusions that he was in the running, despite being two years older than her and probably the only legal drinker in the place. She could fluster him by doing nothing more than breathing in his general direction. The only guy she hadn’t flustered had been Matt—but then, those two were like spirit animals.

So, okay, maybe it wasn’t so hard to envisage the guy whose bed Frankie was in. Someone like Matt.

Teague sighed. He loved Matt like a brother, but sometimes it sucked playing running back to Matt’s star quarterback. And after a twenty-three-hour flight Teague decided he was too tired to receive yet another handoff. So enough! The end! There’d be no call to arrange a time with Frankie. Teague would slip the damn thing under her door, then delete the number Matt had punched into his phone and go have his vacation.

He bent low, assessing the size of the gap...heard a faint rustle. What the—? Uh-oh.

Shit!

The door opened before he could move. He heard his name—“Teague?”—and closed his eyes. Fuck. Just fucking brilliant, to be caught with his head level with Frankie’s crotch.

“Are you coming up anytime soon?” she asked in her sleepily amused Australian drawl, as though a guy bowing down for her on her doorstep was par for the course. Which it probably was.

Slowly he unbent, eyes traveling up the length of a silky cream-colored robe covered in bold red flowers. An outfit deserving of a smokily sinful bordello.

And then his eyes reached her face, and she smiled at him in that how-about-it? way she had, and it killed him that despite the fact he was now thirty-two years old, with a megasuccessful career, property in three countries and billions in the bank, she still had the power to make him feel like a schoolboy with a crush on his teacher. And he didn’t even have a crush on her. He’d never let himself have one, because she was too—too much for him, too dangerous. Hadn’t that been the whole damn point of keeping his distance all those years ago?

“Hello, Frankie,” he said, blinking a little at her hair, which was hacked off halfway between her ears and her shoulders, the depthless black of it livened up with an inch-wide band of electric blue across the blunt ends. Everything else about her was as he remembered. The gold-tinged skin, the swollen-looking lips that seemed permanently stained a shade of almost red, the pale gray eyes—the left one turned in very slightly, an imperfection that was mystifyingly, profoundly, vulnerably alluring. The haughty black eyebrows that started low over the inner corners of her eyes and ended in a late arch, and heavy black lashes so thick they framed her eyes like eyeliner. She wasn’t beautiful but she was so vibrantly alive it had always been an effort not to stare and stare and stare at her.

“Come on in,” she said and stepped back.

“My suitcase...”

“A suitcase?” She laughed—a suggestively throaty chuckle. “Does that mean you want to stay with me?”

“No!” Jesus! “No, no. No.”

“So that’s a no, then, is it?” She smiled again as she hitched up her slipping robe at one shoulder. “Pity.” One beat, two, as she pursed her lips, assessing him like he was a side of meat hanging at the butcher. As she turned away, she added, “Ah, well, bring it in anyway.”

By the time Teague stepped over the threshold, she was disappearing through an archway at the end of the room.

He closed the door, then just stood there as a riot of color dueled with his eyes. Red couch, big enough for two people to sit on—or it would have been, if not for a basket taking up one half. The basket was overflowing with wool in too many shades to count and had at least six sets of knitting needles sticking out of it, and it boggled his mind because...Frankie? Knitting? There was an exotic rug in reds, browns and indigos taking up most of the wall behind the couch, and the floorboards were covered by a similarly styled rug in variegated creams, ochres and olives. A low coffee table in dark green sat on the rug in front of the couch, and a table at one end of the couch served as a display plinth for a small sculpture—an abstract twist of glass.

There was a doorway at the end of the room, to the right of the arch through which Frankie had disappeared. The door was ajar, so he could see into the room beyond. Rose-pink walls, a section of bed—rumpled white sheets, no coverlet. He pictured Frankie on those sheets—gold, crimson, gray, black, electric blue—and his heart started to thump uncomfortably.

“Teague?” she called. “You like whiskey when you’re straight off a flight, don’t you? So this is me, offering whiskey if you’ll come on through!”

He took a jolting step toward the archway, toward her voice, and then she added, “Or whatever else you want...” and he stopped, waiting, because he knew it was a pause, not an end. “Because all you need to do is name it and it’s yours!”

Name it. Name it?

And it was there—the answer. You, I want you.

His pulse zoomed up so fast, he thought the top of his head was going to fly off. He didn’t want her. And even if he did—okay, okay he did, he always had, but so what, every guy did—it made no difference. She didn’t mean he could have her, that was just—just the way she talked. She’d never meant any of those things she used to say, those things he hadn’t had the knack for laughing off because he didn’t flirt. Ever.

A hot flash of memory—the first time he’d seen her in Flick’s. She’d smiled at Matt, whom she obviously already knew, from across the room, then zeroed in on him—probably having felt his awestruck eyes on her. She’d headed toward them, carrying an overstacked tray of empty beer glasses and conducting an effortless flirtation with at least three separate groups of guys en route. She’d asked him if he liked what he saw. He’d said no, causing her to look at him like he was an alien life-form, and he’d stumbled out something about her being too young—like what the fuck? He’d meant she was too young to be working at Flick’s, because of course she wasn’t. He was simply trying to impress her with his intelligence and legalese seemed the quickest way—a launching pad to talk to her, since her accent told him she was Australian and he knew licensing laws were different in Australia. And she’d chosen a different interpretation of “too young” and told him she was three years over the age of consent, and if he was interested, to ask Matt for her number.

And the pattern had been set. Frankie giving him the come-on every time she saw him, him fucking up the responses.

How good does a girl have to be to score a date with you, Mr. Perfect? Um, er, huh?

I’d ask you to get the eyelash out of my eye for me, Mr. Perfect, if putting your hands on me wouldn’t give you a heart attack—not that I wouldn’t enjoy giving you mouth-to-mouth. I, um, huh?

If you decide to get naughty and come watch me dance at Club DeeCee, Mr. Perfect, I’ll give you a free lap dance. Er, um, no, no! Followed by an actual recoil, during which he’d spilled his beer. He’d rushed on to say it wasn’t that he disapproved, at which point Matt had stepped in, calmly suggesting Teague leave things there because Frankie didn’t need anyone’s approval, she needed money or she’d have to fly home. So Teague, smooth operator, had reached for his wallet—like, fuck!—and she’d kind of frozen as she’d looked at the wallet in his hand and he’d found himself holding his breath. And then she’d said if she’d wanted to turn tricks, she would have stayed in Sydney, and the next second she was gone.

The invitation to Club DeeCee had not been repeated.

“Hey!” she called out from beyond the arch, bringing him back to the present. “Come on in, Mr. Perfect! I promise not to bite—unless you ask me nicely.”

And he felt something snap. Mr. Perfect. He was fucking tired of being Mr. Fucking Perfect.

Mr. Perfect Boyfriend to Romy—sure, Romy, we’ll go as slow as you like. Mr. Perfect Friend to Matt—sure, Matt, take the girl I love. Mr. Perfect Son for his parents—sure, Mom and Dad, I’ll be careful, I won’t do that, won’t go there, won’t take any more risks.

He wanted to not go slow. Wanted to win the girl. Wanted to take a risk again.

Wanted to tell Frankie, Sure, bring it! A pity he wasn’t staying with her? Then okay, he’d stay, as long as it was in her bed. Wanted to throw her down on those white sheets and lick every inch of her until she screamed for him. Tell her to go ahead and bite him, bite him anywhere she wanted, put her mouth all over him, do whatever she wanted to him. He’d take the damn dare, and not think about the consequences for once, and—and know, dammit. Know what it was like to be the man she wanted and not some fucking cautious, stuck-up, Victorian-era prig doing things the right way and giving everyone what they wanted except himself.

He took a step—he was so ready for this!—and then “I was joking!” floated out to him. “It’s just whiskey waiting in here, I’m not going to molest you!”

And he stopped again.

Just joking. Just whiskey.

He wasn’t here for Frankie Lee. He was here for Matt—to hand over whatever the fuck was in the velvet pouch Matt had shoved at him like a guilty secret. And then he’d do what he did every December on his annual three-week vacation: patch up his facade in advance of facing another year of being everyone’s Mr. Perfect.

He took a slow breath and forced himself to move through the arch into what seemed to be a kitchen/dining-room combo at the front, with what looked to be a laundry at the back, stretching around to the right, out of sight. The kitchen was the most basic he’d ever seen. A bench against the wall inset with an oven and cooktop, a row of cupboards hanging high above the countertop and a short return from the wall that housed a mini fridge and a set of pantry shelves. There was no island separating the kitchen from a small table that had one low stool shoved underneath it. No other seating area—unless you counted the wrought-iron table with two mismatched chairs outside. The door leading out there was open, so he didn’t know if Frankie expected him to go outside, stay indoors, sit or stand—all he could do was hover.

She was facing away from him, doing something at the counter, but the moment she turned the two of them would be close enough to share breaths. And goddammit, that robe had decided to slip off her shoulder after all—far enough this time that he could see her shoulder was bare, and he did not need to see that!

“Don’t tell me you had a problem finding your way!” she teased, without turning around.

“No,” he said.

He wished he could add something witty, but he couldn’t think past her naked shoulder.

Then again, he’d never been garrulous in Frankie’s company. It was just more noticeable today because for the first time ever it was only the two of them. No Matt, Romy, Veronica, Rafael or Artie—none of the old DC gang—to act as buffer and make his taciturnity unremarkable.

She turned at last, passing an unopened bottle of whiskey to him. He instantly studied the label intently, praying she’d get that damn robe back into place while his eyes were safely averted.

Barron. He’d never heard of it. Not that he cared. All he cared about was stopping himself from wondering what her skin would feel like, if the blue ends of her hair would burn him if they slid across his chest, his belly, his thighs, how she’d taste the first time he licked between her legs...

First time? No. No, no, no. No times.

Just joking. Just whiskey.

“Matt said you’re going to watch the start of the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race then fly down to Hobart for the finish, so I thought you might like to try a Tasmanian whiskey,” she explained, no doubt wondering what the fuck was going on with him to make him stare so long at a bottle. “The Barron distillery is close to where the boats finish. I hear everyone goes to the Customs House Hotel after the race but if—if it bothers you to be there and you feel like getting away from the crowd, you could sneak off for a wee dram.”

Teague brought his eyes up from the bottle. “Why would it bother me?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.”

“I’ve got it wrong, then. I just... I’d heard... I mean, didn’t you crew in the Sydney to Hobart in your last year of law school?”

“Yes. So?”

“So didn’t you nearly—?”

“Drown? Yes. So?”

“So-o-o...didn’t you give up ocean racing after that?”

“That wasn’t the reason,” he said.

Several moments passed during which she kept her eyes steady on him, as though she’d extract every last secret from his soul.

“Not going to tell me, huh?” she said at last, and something about the way she was looking at him made him want to tell her, just so she’d know he could be as wild as she was, as wild as any of them, that he once had been, so she could stop looking at him like that—like she understood he’d lost something and it was killing him. How could she understand? There was nothing stopping her from doing anything the hell she wanted.

“Well, that’s okay,” she added softly, and he realized she was more dangerous than ever. Like those sirens from Greek mythology perched on their rocks in the sea, only she didn’t have to sing to men to lure them to destruction—she could make them sing to her as they wrecked their boats on her shore. Otherwise how could it be that he wanted to tell her things he’d never told anyone?

“As it happens, I like strong, silent types,” she went on, and the moment was gone. She waved a hand in the direction of the laundry. “The bathroom’s around the back there on the right if you want to grab a shower. Just maybe move the underwear I have hanging over the shower rail.”

“I showered on board,” he said, way too quickly, because Jesus! He didn’t need to see her underwear and he sure as shit didn’t need to touch it.

“The joys of first-class travel!” she said blithely.

“Yes.” A monosyllable was all he could manage? Seriously?

“And shaved, too, I see.”

“Yes.” Mon-o-syllable. Fuck.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you unshaven.”

Not even a monosyllable. He didn’t know how to interpret that. He suddenly felt as if being clean-shaven was tantamount to being a eunuch.

“I’ve often wondered what you’d look like,” she continued. “Late at night. Or first thing in the morning...”

Nope. He could not speak.

“Which leads me to my next offer. You probably slept on the flight—I hear those first-class suites are something else—but if you didn’t, you’re welcome to use my bed and take a nap, since I know people can’t usually check in to their hotels until the afternoon. You can get to the bedroom via the bathroom or through the living room. I can show you the way if you like...?”

What the hell did she expect him to say to that? “I... No.”

“No as in...?”

“As in I booked my hotel room from last night so I...I’m good.”

“You’re ‘good’? Still? After all these years? That’s a shame.”

“I mean—”

“Because if you weren’t good, if you were suddenly bad, I’d suggest you use my bed for some other purpose.”

Ah, Jesus, he was not up to the challenge of this conversation. It sounded so much like she wanted... But she couldn’t mean... Could she possibly...? No. Nope. Joking. All she was offering was a glass of whiskey.

“Not today, huh?” she said, and this time her laugh was more like a sigh as she turned back to the counter. “Okay, how about I get you a glass and you can take that whiskey outside and soak up some vitamin D. They say it helps with jet lag. Something about melatonin.”

“I don’t have jet lag.” God, why could he not stop sounding like a robot?

“Then screw that theory and just do it because it’s peaceful out there at this time of the morning and there are two chairs, so I won’t have to sit on your lap,” she said, opening one of the cupboards on the wall and stretching up—which required her to lift up onto her toes and hang onto the counter with her free hand.

She let out a tiny snuffle of exertion, and Teague’s chivalrous instincts kicked in, jolting him forward to reach over her to get the glass himself.

Fumbling, his fingers on hers... Frankie going completely still.

A heart crack of a moment, as it hit him somewhere in the region of his balls that this was the first time he’d touched her. The scent of gardenias was in his nostrils. Warmth—her warmth—insinuated itself into his bones. The fine tremble in her fingers vibrated through him. He was aware of the pounding of his heart, the insistent ache in his hardening cock—oh, God, please don’t let her feel that!

Madness, that she could wreak such physical havoc just by leaving her hand under his. If she knew what was happening to his body, the burn and want and awful need, she’d laugh herself sick. And yet the urge to put his mouth on her naked shoulder and taste her skin was so hard to resist. If only she meant all those things she said, he’d—

Scream. Kettle. Whistling on the hot plate.

He snatched back his hand.

Thank God.

Sanity. Reality.

He stepped back from her, leaving her with the glass.

She switched off the hot plate and turned to him, holding out the tumbler. It was expensive-looking cut crystal, but it had a chip in the rim, and that one tiny flaw twisted something in his chest.

He took the glass and their fingers touched again, and her smile faded.

There were dark smudges under her eyes—he wanted to run his fingertips gently over them. A blush—he wanted to lick the heat of it from her cheekbones. And there was something shimmering in the stillness of the moment that told him she’d let him do both those things. But how did a guy go from an accidental finger graze to such intimacy?

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

One of her hands came up to press against her cheek, as though to control the flush of blood beneath her skin, and she let out a laugh that was different from usual—disbelieving, a little embarrassed—and he felt that twist in his chest again.

“Go on out to the courtyard,” she said, and returned her attention to the counter, picking up a cloth as though preparing to wipe it down, only to knock a spoon onto the floor.

He bent to pick it up for her but she stiffened and said, “Leave it. Please just...leave it. I’m going to make myself a cup of coffee so go on out. Two minutes. Give me two minutes.”

He nodded even though he knew she couldn’t see it and carried his glass and the bottle of whiskey outside. Looking around, he decided “courtyard” was an optimistic description. It was a small paved rectangle enclosed by a border of potted plants, with a barbecue in one corner, the rickety table with those mismatched chairs in the center and a gaudily painted garden gnome that was missing a hand plonked seemingly at random.

He chose one of the chairs for himself and positioned it to face the apartments, away from where he could see Frankie in the kitchen, and poured a generous finger of whiskey.

A minuscule sip had him sighing in appreciation. It was piney, creamy—wonderful. He wondered how Frankie remembered he liked a whiskey straight off a flight; he couldn’t remember ever mentioning it. Hell, he wondered how she knew he liked whiskey, period, given he hadn’t been a regular at Flick’s. Veronica would have said it was because she was a “booze whisperer.” Ha. She’d reminded him of that at Matt and Romy’s wedding, where he’d been best man and could have been excused for feeling like crap. Veronica had said something about him being—hello—perfectly behaved.

“Beneath this urbane exterior is a seething mass of violent contradiction, ready to go on an imperfect rampage,” Teague had told her.

“It’s a shame you never got together with Frankie, in that case.”

“Frankie?”

“Frankie—sexy Aussie, Flick’s booze whisperer by day, exotic dancer by night.”

“Yeah, right!”

“Why not?” Veronica had queried.

“Because... Just because.”

A prophecy of sorts—gee, thanks, Veronica!—because here he was, five months later, drinking Frankie’s whiskey. He was pretty sure he wasn’t about do any rampaging, though.

He screwed his eyes shut, put his elbows on the table, clasped his head in his hands and dug his fingers into his skull. Tried to breathe out some agitation.

“Need some painkillers?” Frankie’s voice.

He opened his eyes, gave himself a moment to set his face, then looked over his shoulder to where she was standing, framed in the open doorway.

“You look like you have a headache,” she said.

“I don’t.”

“Do you want a cup of coffee instead of the whiskey?”

“No.”

“Tea?”

“Whiskey’s fine.”

With the shrug of one shoulder—which almost dislodged that damn robe again—she came over to sit opposite him, her back to the block of flats.

He topped up his barely touched whiskey to give himself something to do as Frankie raised her mug and inhaled the steam wafting up from it.

“I’m a philistine, I know,” she said, “but that year in the States got me hooked on crappy coffee. Do not tell any of my Australian friends—they’ll disown me if they discover I drink instant coffee instead of going to a café every morning for a cappuccino-piccolo latte-macchiato-whatever.”

“I don’t know any of your Australian friends.” Stating the fucking obvious as he tried to not anticipate another slinky fall of that robe.

She took a dainty sip of her coffee before answering. “We can rectify that, if you like. Sydney’s buzzing with summer parties, there are two and a half weeks until Christmas, and on Christmas day if you’re not doing anything there’s a thing on Bondi Beach for all the orphans, so—”

“I’m not an orphan.” Boorish.

“‘Orphans’ is more of a state of mind for this gig. What it really means is—is loners, I guess,” she said.

“I’m not a loner.” No, I’m a block of fucking wood.

“I mean people who are in Sydney with no one to spend Christmas with.”

Silence.

And then she cocked her head to one side, examining him. “Not a loner?”

“No.” Granite. Not wood, granite.

“’Cause you always seemed to like to be alone. Even when you were with the others you were...well, alone.”

How to explain that it wasn’t that he liked to be alone, he just was alone.

Impossible.

Because then he’d have to talk about the grief. He’d have to admit that he’d lost more than a sister when Cassandra died twelve years ago—he’d lost part of himself. And he didn’t want anyone else to know that, because they’d want him to find it again, and it was too late to look for it because that wasn’t him anymore.

Yep, impossible.

And so he raised his glass to take a sip of whiskey and said nothing.

“Or maybe it was that you just did your own thing,” she mused. “You never let yourself be pressured into any of Matt’s crazier schemes, at least not until n—” She stopped abruptly, but Teague finished the sentence in his head: not until now.

Slowly, deliberately, he put his glass on the table. “Am I—are we—in one of Matt’s schemes?” he asked. “Is that why I’m here?”

She put down her mug, licked her bottom lip. “You know why you’re here, Teague. At least, you know part of it.”

He reached into his shirt pocket for the small velvet he’d shoved in there before disembarking from the plane. The bag he’d scrupulously not looked into the whole damn flight. He held it out to her.

She watched him, not her hands, as she took the bag and unzipped it. It wasn’t until her eyes dropped that he let himself look down to see what was so important it had to come with him rather than be sent via a courier.

A ring.

His vision narrowed to the glitter of the platinum band in the sunlight, the cool glow of the emerald center stone, the intense sparkle of surrounding diamonds. But the telling thing was that she’d slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand.

“It’s prettier than I remembered,” she said.

White-hot rage coursed through him at those words. Prettier than she remembered? How the fuck could she not remember it exactly? God, what had Matt done to him? Why lay the burden of this history on him now, when it was too damn late? He didn’t want it. Didn’t want to know. But it was there. No going back.

Matt had once proposed to Frankie.

Matt had once been in love with Frankie.

Matt had waited until he and Teague were alone and pressed for time before co-opting Teague into returning the ring to Frankie—which had to mean Romy knew nothing about it.

Teague picked up his glass again, raised it to his mouth and knocked back a gulp of whiskey as the enormity of what it meant almost overwhelmed him. The enormity of what he’d lost.

Romy, he’d lost Romy. No, worse than that—he’d given her away. He’d pleaded Matt’s case for him when Romy had been prepared to move on from Matt, because Matt had never loved anyone except her and Matt was torturing himself over her. A once-in-a-lifetime love shouldn’t be denied—that was how Teague had consoled himself. And now...

Oh, God! God! Now to discover Romy wasn’t Matt’s once-in-a-lifetime love? To learn Matt had loved another woman enough to propose to her?

He shot to his feet, knowing he was about to lose his shit.

“Where are you going?” Frankie asked, startled.

Hell—I’m going to hell. “Thanks for the whiskey.”

She stayed sitting, giving him a quizzical look. “Why are you brooding at me?”

“I’m not brooding.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I don’t brood. Rafael broods.”

“Rafael only ever brooded in Veronica’s direction. You brood all over the place, you always did. It’s just that you’re an iceberg, so it’s hidden beneath the surface. It’s irresistible, you know. Makes women wonder what lies beneath.”

That threw him, so much that it took him a moment to relocate his voice. “I don’t brood,” he said again—it seemed to be the best he could come up with.

She leaned back in her chair. “Okay, you don’t brood, and you’re not irresistible. Happy?”

“Yes. No. I don’t—” He stopped abruptly, telling his feet to move. Frustrating as hell when they wouldn’t.

She sighed gustily. “Taking a wild guess here, but did Matt not explain any of the background to the ring?”

“He doesn’t have to explain it to me, only to—” He cut himself off again, bit his lip to stop her name from coming out of his mouth.

Her eyes narrowed. “Not to you, but to...Romy?” She sighed. “Romy. Of course. I see.”

And because the thought of her “seeing” enraged him when he’d been hiding it for so long, the words “You see what?” snapped out of him like a whip. He was almost vibrating with the need to tell her she was wrong.

“Things you don’t see, Teague. Things you could never see, things you seem to be unready to see even now, things you might never see even if someone waves them in front of your face before beating you over the head with them.” She stood then, too, as though spoiling for a fight. “But you know what? Good for Romy. Lucky Romy, to have two men so devoted to her, so in love with her for so damn long their brains turn to mush!”

“I didn’t say I’m in love with her,” he said, way too loud.

She snorted. “Oh, please, don’t even. That year I spent in DC there were plenty of women who wanted a piece of you, but they all knew they were wasting their time. The only one who didn’t know how you felt about Romy was Romy—and that was willful ignorance, because if she’d let herself see it she’d have had to let you go.”

“She did let me go. She’s married. They’re married! They have Rose now.”

“And Romy made you Rose’s godfather—which means, bozo, she’s not letting you go.” She rubbed the heels of her hands over her forehead and made a sound redolent of both frustration and disgust. “And why should she when you won’t let yourself go?”

“There’s nothing left to let go of.”

“Sure there is. Your propensity to wallow in misery over what you can’t have! How many years have you chalked up pining for her? Eleven? And it was hardly the love story of the century—only two measly months, and nobody ever saw you hold hands, let alone kiss! So perfectly discreet, so completely passionless! Yet you hung in there and let no one take her place with you. And now to find you’re still hanging in there?” She laughed, but there was a jeer in it. “All I can say is you must enjoy being miserable.”

“I don’t enjoy it!”

“No? Then get over it, the way the rest of us do. ’Cause I can tell you, lots of us want people who don’t have the good sense to want us back.”

“If you’re talking about Matt—”

“I’m not talking about Matt. God! I’m not interested in Matt and I never have been—not like that. And he’s never been interested in me that way.”

“How can you say that when he bought you an engagement ring?”

“I can say it because he wasn’t my fiancé—you were.”

## CHAPTER TWO

WHAT THE FUCK am I doing? was the thought uppermost in Frankie’s mind as she let those words settle.

Making an idiot of herself over Teague Hamilton seemed the best answer. It’s what she’d done that whole year in DC—lusting, very obviously, for a man who was hung up on someone else.

She thought back over that harried phone call from Matt, the to-and-fro about the ring, about Teague, Matt’s slight hesitation before he’d said that last thing and disconnected: You’re a smart girl, Frankie, figure it out, will you?

Since it was obvious Teague remained hung up on Romy—and damn if she didn’t find that infuriatingly stubborn loyalty as attractive as everything else about him—Frankie wasn’t sure what there was to figure out. Did she want to waste any more time? Because even a normal ménage à trois was overrated, if you asked her; one where the third participant was purely a fantasy in the thick head of one of the active players had to be straight out masochism.

If only he didn’t look so delicious, standing there all frosty-fronted and buttoned-up.

If only she wasn’t so sure she could defrost and unbutton him if he gave her a chance!

If only he’d give her even half a chance...

He sat again, reached for the whiskey, poured out another nip and wrapped his fingers around the glass without lifting it. She marveled at that magical something he had that could make anything near him transform into something whole and lovely—even that crappy chipped glass.

Oh, God, she had to have him. Had to try one last time. Maybe if she tamped down the femme fatale, parceled out the offer of sex in digestible chunks, she might not scare him off this time.

He raised the glass to his mouth at last and took a sip.

“Better?” she asked, taking her seat again.

All he did was look at her.

“Not better,” she said. “Want me to explain?”

He flicked a vague hand on the tabletop as though he’d reached the end of his stamina, which she interpreted as an invitation to proceed.

“Remember Kyle?” she asked, starting easy.

“Big, muscles, tats. Badass.”

“More asshole than badass,” she said, and sucked in a quick breath. “Well, a year after I came home, he turned up in Sydney, engaged to an Aussie. He clearly has a thing for the accent—not that I’m throwing stones, seeing I’m partial to American ones.” She paused to give him a chance to register that he, himself, had an American accent. But...nope. Blank.

“A-a-anyway,” she went on, “Laura—the fiancée—understandably wanted to get married here in Sydney, where her family is, and because Kyle really is an asshole, he decided it’d be fun to invite me to the wedding. I was on the verge of sending back a thanks-but-I’m-pairing-my-odd-socks-that-day reply—” she had to pause there, because she needed a moment to rein in the fury that Kyle would dare expect her to turn up, after what he’d done to her “—until a week before the wedding, when he came to King’s Castle, the club where I work, with an entourage of drunks, presumably an early bucks night. At that point, I figured I’d go to his goddamn wedding and take the hottest date I could get.”

“And you chose Matt.”

“Well, not exact—”

“Because Kyle was always jealous of him,” Teague interrupted, pouring himself more whiskey. “I remember Matt and Romy talking about it.”

“As I was about to say, not exactly.”

He frowned at her. “But they told me—”

“Yes, they flew in for the wedding, but Kyle wasn’t jealous of Matt!” Frankie said, watching to see if he noticed the slight emphasis—but he obviously still didn’t have a clue, so she swallowed a sigh and continued. “And I wasn’t intending Matt to be my date. It’s just that I mentioned the wedding in passing on the phone, and he wanted the job because, well, why not? Which tends to be the way Matt and I operate. Why not?” She laughed, because looking back, it was insane. “By the time he and Romy landed, he’d upped the drama quotient and decided we needed to be fake-engaged. Romy, however, insisted Kyle wouldn’t buy a relationship between me and Matt because we had too much of a brother-sister vibe. Go figure, huh?” Pause. “Brother-sister? Because we’re so much alike? And people who are too much alike...?” Pause. Surely he knew what she was saying? Surely he could work out she was alluding to him and Romy? Mr. and Ms. Perfect—a doomed combination, ’cause everyone knew opposites attracted. Bu-u-ut, nope. Not even a blink. “So I guess I’ll cut to the chase. Fact is, Romy said if we wanted to mess with Kyle’s head, you’d make a better fiancé.” Another pause, to see if that sank in.

But all she got was a confused question. “Why would that mess with his head?”

“Huh?”

“I’ve never spoken to him.”

Dear God, men could be obtuse! “No, you’ve never spoken to him, but he saw you at Flick’s. He saw you...and me...? Watched me serve you...?”

He was shaking his head, still not getting it. Seriously, did lawyers not need to be smart?

“What possible reason could you give for you living here and me in the States?” he asked, missing every damn point.

“That we were still deciding where we’d ultimately settle—here or in New York.”

“I’d never live apart from my fiancée.”

“No, you wouldn’t, would you, Mr. Perfect? But Kyle bought it—probably because he’s Mr. Asshole!” she said. “And let’s face it, everyone back in those DC days knew your family was rusted onto the Upper East Side and you’d be rusting on right along with them in due course. Plus I’d made it crystal clear to Kyle during our ill-fated, short-lived romance that it would take a miracle to budge me from Australia, so yeah, you and I had big decisions to make.”

“Then why did we decide to get married?”

“Er, because we were in love?”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “If I loved you so much I’d consider leaving New York for you, why couldn’t I be bothered to come with you to your ex-boyfriend’s wedding?”

“Ah, well, you see, your father was receiving some big law prize, so you sent Matt to represent you and to—to protect me.”

“Protect you from what?”

“Unwanted advances.”

“Whose?”

“Kyle’s, of course. You see, he didn’t just visit the club, he expected me to dance for him.”

“He what?”

And damn if he didn’t look as though he was going to punch something—a look she remembered from the time Kyle had come into Flick’s to rant at her after that hideous night at Club DeeCee, and Matt had had to restrain Teague to stop him intervening. “Of course, I didn’t dance for him, and he left...relatively peacefully,” she said. But Teague was still looking thrillingly on the edge of violence, so she moved right on. “So, anyway, Matt, Romy, law prize, yada yada. The thing is, we built up the story until it was so convincing, I almost believed our impending nuptials were a done deal. Frankie’s wedding—that’s what we called it. A weekend of utter insanity, looking back.”

“And none of you thought it would be of interest to me to know I’d suddenly acquired a fiancée?” he asked, supercarefully.

“No-o-o, because—technical point—you hadn’t acquired one. And they probably didn’t tell you because...” She trailed off there because somehow, without changing his expression, he looked more ominous than he had over Kyle being a dick.

“Because?” he breathed out.

Swallow. Pull off the bandage fast now. “Because we knew you’d hate it.”

“And how did you know that?”

“Because you weren’t, you aren’t... I mean you’re not... That is, you’re...you...?”

A moment, during which he blinked once, and then he said, “I see.”

His face was completely expressionless now, and that made Frankie so nervous—and, face it, way too turned on—she couldn’t immediately think how to proceed.

“Go on,” Teague said, his voice as smooth as dark blue silk.

“I guess the thing that made it work was that Kyle was never going to see you again, because he’s not in your circle or your league, and he and Laura were going to live in Chicago, which meant I was never going to see them again, so...”

“So?”

“Well, so what was the harm in it?”

He blinked at her again. Blink. Blink. Banked fury is how she’d describe it. Hot as fuck! “And the ring?” he said.

“We knew it needed to be a good one, because everyone knows you’re filthy rich. No, not filthy. Never filthy. Clean. Clean-cut. I mean—” Stop. Babbling. She cleared her throat, got herself together. “So, anyway, the three of us went shopping, and we chose this one—” she waggled the fingers of her left hand “—because it looked like the kind of ring that would come out of a rich family’s vault.”

“It’s nothing like the rings in our family vault!”

“Well, Kyle didn’t know that. And you have to admit it looks expensive. Because it was expensive.”

“And Matt bought it for you—even though he could have borrowed one from my actual family vault if he’d bothered to ask me.”

“But they thought... They never would have expected, um...”

“I get it. Believe me, I get it. I was not—not...”

“Not insane,” she said, because surely that was a compliment, but he blinked again, like it was some strange, startling, unwelcome news being broken to him. “And, anyway, the ring was a last-minute plot embellishment so there wouldn’t have been time to ask you for a ring, even if we’d dared, and...and...and what difference does it make? Matt was on the way to being seriously wealthy, and you know how generous he is and—”

“So why didn’t you keep it, if he could so easily spare the money?”

“Because I don’t do that. I don’t accept unearned gifts from men. Matt knows that. The plan was for him to sell it and donate the money to charity.”

“Charity.”

“Charity. But I guess... Well, it wasn’t important to him, the—the ring...after it served its purpose. So he—he forgot about it.”

“Forgot.”

“Forgot. Until...” She paused to take a deep breath. “Until a week ago, which is where things get tricky.”

“Tricky?”

“Or interesting, depending on your point of view.”

“Interesting.”

“The fact you keep repeating me makes me think you may need to pour yourself some more whiskey.”

“I don’t need any more whiskey.”

“Then pour it and put it in the middle of the table in case I need it.”

He said nothing, just grimly poured the whiskey then pushed the glass dead center.

“So,” she continued, “think about what happened a week ago.”

“Can we not play guessing games?”

“I need to do this gradually.”

“A week ago...” he prompted.

“Rose’s christening” she said. “Matt called to thank me for the gift I’d sent.”

“The silver rattle with the coral teething handle.”

“Oh!” she said, surprised. “You saw it?”

He shrugged, looking grumpily awkward, as though he’d been caught doing something embarrassing. “They showed me all the gifts.”

“Did you like it?”

Another awkward shrug. “It’s very...you. The vintage thing.”

“So you didn’t like it?”

“What? Yes. No. I mean—What? I liked it, okay? I do like it.”

“So you like me?”

“I, er... What?”

“You say the rattle is very me, and you like it, which has to mean you like me. Don’t look so freaked out! It’s not a crime to like me. Lots of people do.”

“Yes, all right, I like you. Now can we move on?”

“Okay, okay!” she said. “Sorry to discompose you.”

“I’m not discomposed.”

Except that he was, she could tell.

“I like you, too,” she said, just to push it.

“Frankie, for the love of—”

“Fine, fine, keep your shirt on...or not. Sorry! Okay, I’ll get on with it. The thing is, the fact the rattle is vintage reminded Matt he still had the ring, which is art deco, of course, and we—we did a deal and...” She stopped there, reaching for words. “Hmm. This is harder than I thought it’d be.”

He multitasked by giving her a what-the-fuck? look while shaking his head and throwing his hands in the air, and she had to fight hard to resist raising her hand to her hot cheek again. Blushing was so obvious—no wonder she never did it! But she had to continue, blush or not, because she could almost see her window of opportunity closing and she knew once it closed it wasn’t going to open again. It was now or never.

“In for a penny, right?” she said, and scraped her chair back from the table as though the extra foot she’d put between them would help her breathe. “The ring... I told you, I didn’t want it.”

He looked pointedly at her finger.

“Yes, I know, I’ve ended up with it anyway,” she said, and removed the ring, put it back in the pouch and tugged the zipper closed. “But what if I were to tell you the only reason I let Matt send it was because he promised me you’d bring it?”

“I’d say he and Romy could have told me over scones and tea anytime this past week instead of making me think there was some dark betrayal going on with all the cloak-and-dagger crap he went through at the airport.”

“You’re really not getting it, are you?” She covered her face with her hands. “Am I not making it obvious or does he just not want to know?” she said into them.

“If I’m the ‘he’ you’re talking about,” Teague said dryly, “I can assure you ‘he’ would love to know what’s going on!”

She took in a deep breath, then removed her hands. “A dark betrayal—that’s exactly what was going on. Nothing to do with him and me, nothing to do with you and Romy. To do with you and me.”

“Yes, with me as your unwitting fiancé, I got that.”

“Not that.” She licked her lips. She’d always prided herself on her straightforwardness but God, this was difficult. “The thing is, I’ve thought about you... I mean, you’re so... It’s just that—” She broke off with an inarticulate exclamation of disgust. “Okay, I’m just going to say it.”

“Well, thank God for that!”

“It wasn’t the ring Matt was sending me. He was sending me...you.”

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

And then he frowned like he really did not get it!

“Teague!” she cried. “Seriously!”

He looked behind him, as though he thought she must be talking to someone else even though she’d just addressed him by his damn name.

“Teague!” Trying again. “I’m talking about you having a fling while you’re here.”

“I don’t have flings.”

“Oh, I know that, Teague! I tried hard enough to get you to have a fling with me the whole time I was in DC! But now... Well, now you’re here, and I never thought you would be, so I’m making one more attempt. And you can say no, but I hope you don’t, because I think I can help you not be miserable, or at least give you a respite from it while—while you’re here. In Sydney. So. That’s all.”

Silence. Stillness.

A rush of heartbeats later, with her words hanging in the air, he shook his head. “No,” he said.

“Well!” She blushed again, brought both hands up to her face. “This is embarrassing.”

“No, I mean—” He made a sound—like a cross between a sigh and a huff. “You said something about meeting your friends, so I thought you must mean I should have fling with one of... But—” Slight head shake. “Do you mean a fling with you? No. You can’t mean that.”

“That’s funny, Teague, because I’m pretty sure what I’m doing right at this moment, sitting here at some godawful hour of the morning when I’m far from at my best, is offering myself to you straight up, since you’ve never been able to take a fucking hint.”

He looked over his shoulder again. God, did he really have no idea how insanely hot he was? He was frowning as he brought his eyes back to her. “But... I don’t... Huh?”

“I see I need to spell it out, so here goes—I want you, Teague Ingram Spencer Hamilton. I want every perfect inch of you, and I have since the moment I saw you. Which would make you the man Kyle was jealous of and therefore the perfect fake fiancé. But I can see we need to take baby steps here, so I propose that I come over there and kiss you. If you like that, we can talk about going further. If you don’t...? Well, I guess we’re no worse off, are we, since it’s just a kiss between consenting adults?”

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” she asked, cautious now, because that seemed way too easy a capitulation after the agony she’d just been through.

“Why not, right?” he said, and bit at his top lip. “That’s the catchphrase? Why not?”

Why not? Not exactly enthusiastic consent, but her somersaulting heart urged her to go for it anyway, so she was already bracing to get up out of the chair... But, no. No, dammit. Because it was him, she needed it spelled out. “You mean I can kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“Is that the whiskey talking?”

He shook his head. “Yes,” he said.

“Oh.”

He nodded then. “I mean no.”

“Er...”

“I mean it’s not the whiskey. I mean yes, I want you to kiss me.”

Done. Frankie got to her feet, no more dancing around, no more fencing. She was going to kiss him until his toes curled and his hair caught on fire. And if it came to nothing, she’d be glad she’d been given the chance to know what it was like to be with a man like him, a man who did nothing without care and thought and respect and decency, even if it only lasted for a kiss.

Slowly, she came around to stand beside him, every move cautious, like she was stalking skittish prey. “So...” she said, gesturing to his lap. “May I?”

He nodded, opening his arms to unfetter the access, and she lowered herself carefully onto his lap. His arms closed then, coming around her. She drew a shaky breath because it felt so good to be held by him. She looked into his eyes and lost herself for a moment in the bright, clear blue of them. A blue so pure she could almost believe he belonged nowhere else, only here, under a cloudless Sydney sky.

How long did they stare at each other? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know she’d laid her palm against his cheek until she felt a twitch beneath it—just a tiny tic.

She lowered her eyes to his mouth and found that its perfection was marred by a small white scar at the outer right edge of his top lip. Scars. Everyone had them, but she, of all people, knew you sometimes had to look close, or deep, or even all the way through a person, to see them. He’d bitten at that mark, when he’d agreed to let her kiss him, and that already told her something: that being not quite perfect bothered him. And because of that, the almost undetectable scar made him more perfect to her, more perfect for her.

The rest of him was immaculate. Chiseled jaw, straight nose, symmetrical features. His hair was expertly cut, thick and neat, dark blond streaked with wheat. His eyebrows and lashes were a burnished deep gold. He was delicious summer to her—the beach colors of him, the heady promise of warmth and sun-touched skin and luminous light. So dazzlingly handsome, she was slow to become aware of other things about his body that had nothing to do with bright days, but everything of urgent nights. The leashed power in his arms, the rock-hard strength of his tensed thighs beneath her bottom, the implacable erection against her hip...

She’d never been more conscious of her near-nakedness—which was saying something since she danced in her underwear for an audience four nights a week—and the thought of him touching her skin made her more excited than she could ever remember being. She had to do this right. Had to. She didn’t care what it was that had wedged open a chink in his armor—rebound, jealousy, pique, a need to prove something or to be someone else—but she knew this moment was vital. “Ready?” she asked.

“Yes,” he breathed out, and she slowly, slowly brought her face close and rested her mouth on his. She closed her eyes, waiting through the first thrill, savoring the moment—not just the feel of his firm lips but the way his arms tightened around her. She tried to catalog all the sensations swirling inside her, wanting the memory to be embedded deep. The air still with the heavy warmth that foretold a slide from pleasantness to heat within the next few hours. The faint green scent of her plant border mingling with the tang of salt in the air and his understated vetiver aftershave—earthy, grassy, smoky. The occasional squawk of a seagull and faint whooshing of waves hitting the sand at nearby Bondi Beach. His heart, beating fast like hers. His cock, straining in his jeans, the presence of it getting her from damp to wet with astonishing ease.

Oh, Teague, she said in her head, because she needed to hear his name somewhere in this moment and she dared not say it aloud in case he came to his senses, and his lips parted as though accepting it from her.

She tasted whiskey as he licked at her lips, and the world swung like a flickering lantern in a storm. Men liked her mouth—the shape, the pout—but from Teague she wanted more. Teague she needed to actively lust for it, so although she wanted to take her own pleasure, she forced herself to stay pliant for him, letting him take and test and do what he wanted.

His arms were tightening, then loosening, then tightening as he shifted beneath her, like he was searching for control. She knew what he was going through—but she also knew the cure was to be found in going further than a kiss. His hands went to her hair, gripping tight to hold her still as he moved from licking to sucking at her mouth, even as he continued to move restlessly beneath her. She wished she could take him inside her right that second, because she could feel how good it would be.

And then suddenly, she was straddling him, but she had no idea how he’d repositioned her without disconnecting his mouth from hers. Magic again. A magic that spoke of experience as unexpected as the size of his cock, which was obvious now her legs were on either side of him. She could feel herself swelling for him, her clitoris pulsing so insistently she wanted to put her fingers there to relieve the pressure. She loved the restraint that kept him from rushing onward, craved it, even...and yet the challenge was there: to make him lose it. But hadn’t that always been the lure of Teague?

Slowly, she opened her mouth—an invitation to enter. He neither hesitated nor plunged, simply fitted his mouth to hers and let himself take what she offered. Thrilling, to both control the action and be with someone who had such control over himself. Even as one of his hands left her hair to slide the robe off one of her shoulders, he moved slowly and deliberately, kissing more deeply. She felt her breast come free of the silk, and then his hand was cupping her, his thumb rubbing back and forth over her hard nipple. God, how did he know the exact level of pressure to make the pleasure so wickedly intense?

Lick me there, she begged, but only in her head because this was no time for spoken words, only for what he would do unasked. Please, Teague, please.

Again, he seemed to hear that silent plea, because his mouth left hers and he trailed his lips, his tongue, over her chin, down her neck, across to her breast, all the way to the tip, where he licked...and kept licking.

She looked down, wanting to see his hand holding her breast, his head where she’d imagined it so many times, his tongue rasping over her. A whimper escaped, then another. She couldn’t seem to stop her hips from moving back and forth, urging him on. Not that she wanted to divert him from what he was doing—she wanted whatever was happening to unravel at whatever pace he set. She’d been waiting for this man for so, so long, and he was so good at this, at making her wild and keeping her leashed.

She felt a tug at her robe again, the other shoulder, and then her robe slid down in a silken fall around her waist, held in place by a ribbon tie she wished would spontaneously break so he could see all of her.

But he was wholly preoccupied with touch and taste as he cradled her breasts in his hands, alternating his licking tongue with one tapping fingertip over her nipples. So methodical—the soft tap, the steady lap. Better than she’d dreamed. Because of what he was doing or because it was him doing it? She didn’t know. And she didn’t care, as long as he kept going.

She pulled her arms free of the robe, raising her hands to his head, his hair, not to pull him closer but to just...touch. She imagined removing his clothes with the same patience he was lavishing on her breasts. Unbuttoning his shirt, sliding down the zipper of his jeans, stringing out the reveal. The thought of seeing him naked, of touching his skin, of tasting him, made her want to beg him to let her at him. His name trembled on her lips, but just as she would have said it, he changed the pressure of his tongue and her breath caught hard.

Oh, God! Dear God! Everything inside her was going haywire, crackling and surging. Her breathing was suddenly chaotic. Shallow pants and gasps. She was trembling, her hands tightening in his hair, and—Oh! Oh, oh, oh! She wanted to catch it, whatever it was that was spiraling inside her. But she couldn’t. It was fast, like quicksilver, elusive, but building, expanding. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t. But it was, the spiral expanding to a whirlwind, faster, faster, stronger, God, God, God.

“Ahhhh!” The sound burst out of her as the vibration of her orgasm rocked her from her nipples all the way down to the core of her jammed over his cock. “Teague!” she cried, and it was somehow shocking to hear her voice, his name vibrating in the air, and realize that everything that had happened since she’d sat on his lap had happened in silence. Shocking...and so sexy.

His hands tightened on her breasts—the only sign that he’d heard that impassioned plea of hers—but the pressure of his tongue remained constant, over, over, over, feasting on her as she rocked on his lap and keened out his name again, and at last she slumped, her limbs loose, her head flung back, her hands slipping from his hair.

Did he realize what he’d just done to her? It had never, ever happened like this before. She wouldn’t have believed it was possible to orgasm from a man doing nothing more than using his fingers and tongue on her nipples while she sat on his lap. And now she wanted more, because if he could do that to her so effortlessly, what would happen when he brought that exquisite patience into play between her legs? When he eased into her, when he took her? Oh, God, how she wanted him to take her.

She let out a little groan and pushed herself hard against his cock—take a hint, Teague. And he took the hint, all right—he stopped dead.

Hold, hold, hold, as his breaths huffed out of his nostrils, and then his hands released her to grip the tabletop on either side of her.

The next second he was turning his head, averting then closing his eyes, closing her out, closing himself in.

Oh, no. No!

A darting look down displayed Teague’s impressive erection—surely this wasn’t over?

But try as she did to convince herself he wasn’t rejecting her, she knew that he was. And the fact that it was a conscious decision, an intellectual decision—because it sure as hell wasn’t a physical one—cut deep. He might want her—he clearly did want her—but he didn’t want to want her.

And that just wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t going to be anyone’s runner-up gift certificate, the consolation prize you accepted half-heartedly when you didn’t win—she was the first-place trophy, goddammit, or nothing!

She dragged her robe up, thrust her arms through the sleeves. “Safe to look now,” she said, aiming for amusement, not quite hitting it.

He brought his eyes back to her, and she cocked her head at one of those lean, strong arms of his that were still caging her in.

He dropped his arms—release—and she eased herself off his lap and stood, tightening the sash of her robe. She took a step back, readying a condescending do-you-really-think-I-care? eye roll for the gentlemanly apology she felt sure was about to come. Would it be for what he’d done to her? Or for not wanting her after all?

He opened his mouth—but before he could enlighten her, the cry of a baby drew his startled attention.

Frankie knew the source of the cry: there was a new baby in apartment 3B. She also knew, as Teague’s eyes fixated on the back of the apartment building, that it wasn’t the baby per se that was making the blood drain out of Teague’s face. The problem was all those windows—five stories of them—looking down on her courtyard. Putting on a sex show probably ranked somewhere after two trillion on Teague Hamilton’s bucket list—right after getting a lap dance at a gentleman’s club.

She felt the dumbass blush start up and did her best to battle it back. Fact was, she hadn’t intended a peep show for the neighbors, but Teague would probably think it was all in a day’s work for her. He probably also thought it was normal for her to go from a kiss to an orgasm in...what? Three minutes flat? Hell, he probably thought she had an orgasm every time she gave a guy a lap dance.

“I guess I’d better go,” he said, standing as he brought his eyes back to her.

She got the eye roll in after all. “Guess you’d better.”

“I’m sor—”

“Don’t say it,” she said, cutting him off. “I already know.”

“That’s not... It’s just... I mean, it’s not you, it’s m—”

“Jesus,” she said, cutting him off again. “Definitely don’t say that!” She produced a laugh from some hidden well of pride. “I’m not the kind of girl to resent a quick orgasm on a Sunday morning, so let’s just leave it at that. I’m fine, you’re fine, I’m pretty sure the baby wasn’t watching, and if anyone else in those apartments saw us, at least they don’t know who you are, and since I won’t breathe a word to anyone you know, your reputation will remain stain-free.”

She stepped back from him. “So, moving on. I’ll go throw on a dress while you call yourself a taxi. If you like, you can call Joe, my regular driver—his number’s on the fridge. He works the godforsaken hours between two and nine in the morning, so if you’re lucky you’ll scrape in as one of his last jobs. And he knows to come all the way up the driveway, almost to the door, so no need to do the walk of shame down to the street with who-knows-who watching.” She stretched her mouth into a no-hard-feelings smile. “By the time Joe’s here, I’ll be ready to say goodbye like any old friend and wish you happy holidays or whatever you Yanks call the season to be jolly.”

She swiped her almost-full mug off the table, and as she walked toward the house, tried not to care that it was still warm to the touch.

“Frankie!” he said, just as she stepped inside.

She stopped but didn’t turn around.

“I don’t want...to be miserable,” he said. “Just—just so you know.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “You don’t want to be, but you are, aren’t you? I’m sorry I’m not the one to help you with that after all.”

And then she forced herself to walk unhurriedly to her bedroom, as though she was perfectly, absolutely fine, thank you, because she wasn’t miserable, even if she’d just thrown herself at a guy who did not want her for the three-thousandth time!

She closed her bedroom door supersoftly, then leaned against it and slapped a hand over her mouth to trap the moan that was fighting to get out.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Failure. Utter, abject failure.

Well, what had she expected? A half-naked lap dancer who had the indecency to come faster than a speeding bullet wasn’t exactly the woman Prince Charming would set his sights on. And all before the clock ticked over to 9:00 a.m.—giving new meaning to the question “will he still respect me in the morning?”

Well, fuck that. She respected herself.

If Teague wanted to be hung up on a woman with whom he’d never had sex and never would, he was welcome to go on being miserable for the rest of his fucking life. Ha! As if Romy was being all princessy and virginal, anyway, married to Matt, of all men. Maybe Teague needed to think about that before he sloughed off an offer of hot, dirty sex with a woman who actually wanted him!

Well, not her problem. She had plenty of clients at King’s Castle who didn’t judge her for a damn thing! They’d cry with joy if she let them touch her the way she’d let Teague Hamilton touch her! She had one regular who was a billionaire, just like Teague, and he’d begged her a hundred times just for a kiss.

Okay, truthfully, Banjo Snow was a billionaire but he was not “just like Teague.” Banjo was...sleazy. Married, with a mistress on the side, as well as propositioning Frankie every chance he got.

She had other clients, though. Geoff Rhodes, for example. A nice guy who liked her in her clothes as well as out of them, and who happened to be one of the best real estate agents in Bondi so was scouting out premises for the shop she planned to open.

Her shop. That was what she should be thinking about, not some fantasy that was past retirement age. She had a storage locker full of treasures she’d been lovingly collecting for years, she had Matt’s ring to launch the store via a charity auction, and the only reason she didn’t have a boyfriend was because a man was in her top ten list of good things to have but not in the top three or five or even eight! There would be time for men once she knew her business had a chance of making it.

Perspective. That’s what it was all about. A fling with the man of her dreams would have been nice, but it wasn’t essential to her happiness.

She took off her robe and hung it on the clothes rack she used in place of a wardrobe, then flicked through the hangers and chose a cheerful 1950s sundress, printed all over with cherries on a pale blue background. An innocent, nonthreatening dress. She took a few minutes in the bathroom to brush her hair and slap on some makeup, then she came back through the bedroom, opened the door and stepped into the living room with a chirpy “Right, then,” to announce herself to Teague.

But there was no Teague. And his suitcase was gone.

Almost before her brain accepted that he’d left the house, she heard voices outside. She went to the door, concluding that Joe had arrived and Teague must have gone out to put his bag in the trunk. She reached for the handle...and then pulled her hand back. If Teague had intended to come back in and say goodbye, he wouldn’t have closed the door, would he?