# The Deal

Clare Connelly

This Christmas, he’ll make her a deal: Four weeks. No strings. Just pleasure!One night of red-hot, anonymous sex isn’t nearly enough. So discovering my masked seductress is none-other than straight-laced Billionaires Club owner, Imogen Carmichael, I propose a new deal: one month of indulgent passion! She’s mine for the holidays. Then I’ll assume my duties as the Rothsmore heir. But the closer we get to Christmas, the more I crave the one gift I can’t unwrap – her…

In the final installment of The Billionaires Club quartet, British playboy billionaire Nicholas Rothsmore makes a deal that Billionaires Club owner Imogen Carmichael can’t refuse—four weeks of pleasure!

One night of decadent, anonymous sex in the superluxe Billionaires Club—that was the deal. Then we would go back to our busy lives, free of entanglements. How could I have known it would be the most intense sex of my life? A night that left me with a gnawing need only she could satisfy…

Miss Anonymous wanted to remain that way. But as the Rothsmore heir, I’ve learned that money can buy pretty much anything…including the help of Billionaires Club and Chance charity owner Imogen Carmichael. I was beyond surprised when the hardworking, straitlaced entrepreneur turned out to be the same woman who’d donned a pink wig, stilettos and a mask and taken me to unexpected heights!

Now I’m offering her a new deal: in return for helping me enjoy my last four weeks of freedom before I assume my family duties and marry the most appropriate candidate, I’ll educate her in the art of seduction, satisfying her every whim with four weeks of exquisite sex. Four weeks with the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met. Four weeks that will have to last a lifetime…

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Harlequin book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero, and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign that she’s in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Harlequin novels continue to be her favorite-ever books. Writing for Harlequin is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or her Facebook page.

Also by Clare Connelly

Guilty as Sin

Her Guilty Secret

His Innocent Seduction

The Notorious Harts

Cross My Hart

Available now!

Burn My Hart

Harden My Hart

Unbreak My Hart

Coming soon from Mills & Boon DARE!

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

THE BILLIONAIRES CLUB

Exclusive. Elite. Always discreet.

Welcome to the Billionaires Club! Join the members of this elite club—Ash, Seb, Orla and Imogen—as they get up to exciting, sinfully sexy and downright dirty naughtiness at exclusive, international and glamorous events. Let the debauchery begin!

Have you received your invitation yet?

Enter the world of the Billionaires Club:

The Debt by Jackie Ashenden

The Risk by Caitlin Crews

The Proposition by JC Harroway

The Deal by Clare Connelly

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Deal

Clare Connelly


www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08721-6

THE DEAL

© 2019 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 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.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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## Note to Readers

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For Sharon Villone Doucett, who was one of the first

readers to find my books, and who has been such a

champion and supporter ever since.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

THE BILLIONAIRES CLUB

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

PROLOGUE

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

About the Publisher

## PROLOGUE. Five years earlier, Becksworth Hall, Wiltshire, England

‘YOU’RE A ROTHSMORE, for Christ’s sake.’

My father is perhaps the only person more apoplectic than I am.

‘She is aware of that.’ Surprisingly, my voice comes out clear and calm, even when I feel as if I’ve run a marathon. I reach for the Scotch on autopilot, topping up my glass. My hand shakes a little. Shock, I suppose.

And I am shocked.

‘This isn’t like Saffron.’ My mother wrings her gloved hands in front of her pale peach suit, the wedding corsage still crisp and fragrant. I reach for my own in the buttonhole of my jet-black tuxedo jacket, and dislodge it roughly, pleased when the pearl-tipped pin snags on my finger. A perfect circle of burgundy blood stains the white rose at the decoration’s centre.

‘How do you know, Mother?’

I don’t mean to sound so derisive, but in the four hours since my cousin received a text from my bride’s best friend explaining that the love of my life wasn’t going to be showing up to our wedding, I’ve had to endure more platitudes and Saffron-defending than I can stand.

‘Well, she’s…’ Antoinette Rothsmore struggles to describe Saffron. There are any number of words I could offer. Suitable. Wealthy. Privileged. Appropriate. Beautiful. Cultured. Words that describe why my parents introduced us and cheered from the sidelines as we hooked up. But the reason we got engaged is simple.

I love her. And she’s left me.

‘Nice,’ my mother finishes, lamely.

Saffron is nice.

Too nice for me?

Perhaps.

I haven’t seen her in three days, but when I did, she was in full preparation mode for our wedding, reminding me that the photographer from OK! magazine would be coming to take pictures of the party so not to let my groomsmen get too messed up on Scotch before the ceremony.

I throw back the single malt and grip the glass tightly. How many have I had? Not enough to make this feel like a distant dream.

‘Nobody does this to a Rothsmore.’ My father’s face has turned a deep shade of puce. I’d think it’s sweet that he cares so much except I don’t for a second imagine he cares about the fact I just had my heart handed to me in tatters in front of five hundred of Europe’s elite. Princes, dukes, CEOs—everyone.

Not that I care about the embarrassment. I care about Saffy. I care about the fact we were supposed to be married and she’s sent me a ‘Dear John’ text via a friend and my cousin.

‘What would you like to do, Father? Sue her?’

‘If only,’ he snaps, then shakes his head. ‘Though the last thing this family wants is a scandal. Damn it, Nicholas. What did you do to her?’

I blink, his question something I haven’t considered.

What did I do to her?

Is it possible I said or did something to turn her away?

No.

This isn’t about me.

This is pure Saffron. Passionate, affectionate, changeable.

I grimace, rubbing a hand over my jaw, neatly trimmed just the way Saffron likes.

I fix Gerald with a firm stare. ‘I did nothing, Father, except agree to marry the woman you chose for me.’ I don’t say the rest. That I fell head over heels in love with her as well.

We used to laugh about the nature of our relationship—how we both knew it was a heavy-handed set-up from our parents. How their interference was like something out of a nursery rhyme. Except we were going to have the last laugh, because we were in love.

We were in love.

When had I started believing in love? What kind of goddamned idiot fool have I become to worship at the altar of something so childish?

I snap the Scotch glass down against the table, a little louder and harder than I intend, and I see my mother jump in my peripheral vision.

I’ve been an idiot.

There’s no such thing as love. No such thing as ‘happily ever after’. No such thing as ‘meant for each other’.

And suddenly, all I want is to get away from this. From my parents and their expectations, from this life I’ve been groomed all my life to lead. I want to get away from Saffy, from our wedding, from my damned broken heart.

I want to get drunk, and then I want to get laid—one way or another I’m going to forget Saffy ever existed.

I stumble a little as I head for the door. ‘Where are you going?’ My mother, behind me, is anxious-sounding.

‘Get Alf to fire up the jet.’ I hear my own words, slightly slurred.

‘But why? You can’t leave. What if Saffron comes looking for you?’

I prop an arm on the doorjamb for support, blinking at my mother for several long seconds. ‘Then I won’t fucking be here.’

## CHAPTER ONE. Five years later, Sydney, Australia

OH, MY GOD. Oh, my God, Oh, my God. There’s an ancient grandfather clock against the far wall and it ticks loudly, but I can barely hear it over the desperate rushing of blood in my ears. Am I really going to do this?

The intimate rooms are perfectly climate controlled—it’s cool in here but that’s not why my skin is marked with delicate goose bumps. I run my hands over my naked legs, waxed and oiled so they’re smooth and soft in honour of this assignation.

It’s not too late to change your mind, my brain shouts at me.

But I don’t really want to change my mind. I made the decision to do this months ago, meticulously planning every detail in order to give myself one night of passion. To give myself a life—even just for one night. It’s been too long since I’ve had anything even remotely resembling a life. Too long since I’ve let go and enjoyed myself.

I still have too much to do, too much to achieve and, despite the tremendous growth and success of the charity, I want more. I need more. Faster, bigger. My charity is my all, and I’m happy with that.

But my body. Oh, my body. Lately, something seems to have awoken in me, a curiosity, a need I no longer seem able to deny. I want to get laid. No, I want to have sex. Really fantastic sex, and then I want to change back into my signature gown, swan out of this room and become, once more, the woman the world expects me to be.

I flick my gaze to the clock across the room. There are three minutes to go. Three minutes until Nicholas Rothsmore the Third arrives to seduce me.

My heart bounces against my ribs. I swallow. I need more champagne. No. No more champagne. I only had two sips at the party—I know better than to get drunk at something like this.

It’s work for me, not play—though I have perfected the art of looking as if I’m playing when I’m not.

But this? Being here in Room Six, the sumptuous décor the last word in elegance and sophistication, dressed only in lingerie, waiting for a man I know solely through the club’s exclusive, private online forum?

My pulse notches up a gear.

I’m waiting to have sex with a stranger.

Not just a stranger.

I lie back against the bed, my eyes sweeping shut as I picture the man in question. Nicholas Rothsmore the Third isn’t just a man. He’s unbelievably sexy, all tousled hair and rock-hard abs, and a firmly committed playboy. Who better to have one delicious sexual encounter with, no questions asked, before going back to my real life?

I lift a hand to check the bright pink wig is firmly in place, tucked all around the hairline as my stylist showed me, so there’s no risk of movement. It’s soft and silky, the hair falling in waves to my shoulders. My mask is bright silver and covers not just my eyes, but lower on my face as well, stopping just above my lips, in keeping with the masquerade ball theme downstairs. Of course, I have a separate mask stashed in the wardrobe across the room, as well as my distinctive couture gown, to avoid any likelihood that Nicholas recognises me, after.

After.

Such a delicious word loaded with promise. After this. After sex.

My heart is hammering so hard now I’m surprised it hasn’t beaten a hole through the wall of my chest.

I can’t have anyone know I’m doing this.

I never get involved with clients, and Nicholas is one of the club’s most prominent members. The last thing I want is to do anything to undermine the club or my charity. Chance is the reason for all of this.

I doubt anyone has any idea how hard I work behind the scenes. On the surface, I’m Imogen Carmichael, entrepreneur and socialite—my mother’s daughter. But behind closed doors, when other people my age are falling in love, getting married, having babies, or even just getting wasted and falling in and out of God knows whose bed, I’m working. I’m working on Chance, I’m working on it, for it, every waking minute, and there’s still so much more to do. We’re nationwide now, but I want more—there are children all over the world who need what we offer. I’ve been toying with the idea of opening a London branch for over six months now but I know it’s going to take a lot of my time and spread me kind of thin.

That’s my focus. That’s my life.

It’s why this night is perfect for me. It’s one night, and with a guy I know to be as interested in serious relationships as I am. Which is to say, not at all. He’s perfect one-night stand material, and excitement is shifting through me.

How long has it been since I was with a guy, anyway?

My lips tug downward as I consider that. At least three years. No! Nearly four. Jackson and I broke up just before Christmas.

Yes, it’s been a long time and, at nearly thirty, if I don’t take control of this, I’m going to grow my virginity back. That’s a thing, right? I’m sure I read it in one of those glossy magazines at the airport lounge a while ago. Okay, maybe nothing that drastic, but I am in danger of forgetting what it’s like to be touched, kissed, driven wild with pleasure.

And I miss sex. I don’t want a relationship, though God knows there are times when I wish I had someone I could talk to, someone I could bounce ideas off. But I don’t have the headspace for a boyfriend. Where would I even fit a relationship into my life? And what would that do to Chance?

One day, maybe. When the charity is big enough to run without me, when we’re fully established—and not just in America, around the world—maybe then I’ll open myself up to something more. But I’m a long way from that, and I’m not going to do anything that might risk what I’ve spent my life building. I owe it to Abbey to keep my focus, to make this a true success.

The quietest noise sounds, but it might as well have been the tolling of a bell. I’m hyperaware of everything in that moment and I sit up, then push to standing, the stilettos I kicked off by the bed waiting for me. I slip them on and catch my reflection in the mirror across the room.

Holy crap.

I look…like sex on legs. I look like someone who does this all the time. The corset is firm at my back and pushes my breasts up, like two pale orbs, and my legs are curvy and slim. The wig completes the look and the mask adds an element of decadence that is just perfect for The Billionaires’ Club.

‘Knock, knock.’ His cultured British tone would be haughty if it weren’t for the permanent husk that thickens his words. ‘Is there a Miss Anonymous in there?’ My tummy squeezes at his sexy, teasing voice.

‘Yeah.’ My own voice comes out high-pitched. I suck in a deep breath, cross the plush carpet to the door and grip the handle. It’s cold beneath my touch. I count to ten slowly, a trick I learned in school, when my nerves used to get away from me.

Slowly, I draw the door inward, my heart unbearably loud and urgent now.

And at the sight of him, it skids to a stop.

A bead of anxiety runs through me. We planned this secretly on the forum, and my only condition was anonymity. He isn’t to know who I am—in fact, I went out of my way to create the impression that I’m some bored housewife just looking to get my rocks off. Naturally, he had no objections to that—if I know one thing for certain about Nicholas it’s that he doesn’t do commitment or serious.

Which makes him perfect for this. For tonight.

‘Come in,’ I invite, waving my hand towards the room. These Intimate Rooms were designed with seduction in mind and they have everything a couple could need for a sensual encounter. The bed is bigger than a king, laid with thousand-thread-count sheets. There’s a fridge stocked with the finest French champagne money can’t buy, a luxurious en suite bathroom with a spa bath and fragrant oils, and members are invited to request a bespoke ‘toy chest’ if their tastes run in that direction.

Nicholas requested handcuffs and seeing that on the booking sheet two days earlier made my body break out in a sweat. A good sweat. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.

He swaggers into the room, his navy-blue suit slim-fitting and flattering to his trim and toned frame. His eyes take in the room, though I’m sure he’s been here before. He crosses to the window—the thick black velvet blinds are drawn for privacy. He flicks the blinds open a little, showing a slice of Sydney Harbour, the unique Opera House right outside the window.

I’m nervous.

Beyond nervous.

I’m full of doubts and desire in equal measure.

I have literally never done anything like this in my entire life.

My tummy loops into a billion knots.

‘So.’ He turns to face me, his lips flicking in the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen. My insides burst a little. ‘What shall I call you?’

‘Miss Anonymous is fine.’ My voice sounds so prudish and disapproving. I force a smile.

‘Anon for short?’ he quips, moving to the fridge as he discards his jacket over the back of the black velvet armchair.

I nod quickly. ‘Whatever.’ My name doesn’t matter.

‘You seem nervous.’

Crap. So much for seeming cool and in control. My lips curve into a small smile; his eyes drop to them. My throat goes dry. ‘I am, a little.’ When all else is lost, go for honesty.

‘Why?’

He lifts the top off the champagne expertly and pours two generous glasses. He turns to me, his eyes dragging down from the tip of my head and performing the slowest, most sensual inspection I can imagine. As his eyes shift over my body, I feel as though he’s touching me even when he’s on the other side of the room.

Slowly, so slowly, he lingers on the generous curves of my breasts, my nipped-in, corseted waist, my hips and lower, so heat flushes my cheeks and I’m grateful for the face mask I wear.

Lower, lower, over my legs, until, at my ankles, he grins. ‘Nice shoes.’

I lift a foot, to dislodge one, but he shakes his head, his eyes flying to mine. ‘Leave them on. For now.’

My pulse races. Anyone who knows me—who knows me as I really am—knows I’m not one to be told what to do. But for some reason, the idea of momentarily relinquishing control is kind of empowering and very appealing. I do as he says, leaving the shoes in place. He lifts a finger and bends it, signalling silently for me to join him.

I walk across to him with what I hope passes for a seductive stroll, a feline smile on my lips the closer I get. Here, just a foot or so away from him, I breathe in and taste the masculine fragrance he wears—woody and alpine and intoxicatingly sensual. His shirt is crisp white and at the cuffs he wears shining black cufflinks, which I have every reason to suspect are diamonds.

When someone applies to join The Billionaires’ Club, we run a detailed background check to maintain our exclusivity and privacy. I mean, membership comes with an annual fee of a million dollars, plus the buy-in, so I know the members can get their hands on serious cash, but we need to know more than that. Criminal records, credit history, scandals, everything.

So I know Nicholas Rothsmore’s background, probably better than most who just presume he’s a playboy bachelor living off his family’s considerable wealth. Sure, he was born with the proverbial silver spoon but he’s also smart as all get out and a crazy hard worker. Five years ago he arrived in New York to take over his family’s American branch of the Rothsmore Group and in that time he’s trebled their revenue and expanded beyond a blue-chip investment portfolio to a remarkable presence in the tech world.

Even without his family, he’s a formidable and impressive entrepreneur. Then again, his silver-spoon start in life probably didn’t hurt.

‘Your eyes,’ he murmurs, scanning my face thoughtfully, and my heart rate kicks up a gear, so that I doubt my veins are going to be able to hold the blood in place. ‘They’re so…’

Instinctively, I blink, shuttering my eyes from him. They’re a very dark blue, the colour of the sky at dusk, and I know it’s unusual. I don’t want him to recognise me. ‘No cheating,’ I say, taking the champagne flute he offers, lifting it to my lips. ‘This is secret.’

‘Right.’ His grin is pure devilish heat and his expression is one of amusement. ‘Well, Miss Anonymous, what’s your thing?’

‘My thing?’

‘Yeah. What are you into?’

I think about it for a moment. ‘I don’t have a lot of spare time. I guess, reading…’

‘Fascinating.’ His laugh is a slow vibration that travels around the room before landing at the base of my spine, sending little shards of awareness through my nerve endings. ‘But I meant, in bed.’ He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us, his fingers lifting to curl the edges of the wig, teasing the flossy pink strands between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Right.’ I slap my forehead exaggeratedly and my smile holds a silent apology. So much for acting as if I do this all the time. ‘I’m…a little out of practice.’

‘Are you?’ His gaze flicks to my cleavage again, lingering there for so long a faint murmur escapes my lips. Heat travels along my body as though he’s touched me.

All I can do is nod.

‘Why is that?’

We’d agreed not to discuss anything personal. I think of how to answer in a way that won’t give me away. ‘I’ve been single awhile.’

His smile is just a lazy flicker of those sculpted lips, framed by a squared jaw and a brush of stubble. I like the stubble. I itch to feel it and rather than denying myself that impulse, I surrender to it, lifting my hand to his face so I can run my fingertips over his jaw.

It shouldn’t be so sensual, but just the act of touching him like this is so illicit and sinful that I make a low, husky sound, my body trembling with the first flush of desire.

‘So you are nervous?’ He comes closer, so our bodies brush, and then he moves behind me, so close I can feel his nearness, his warmth, even though he doesn’t quite touch me.

He dips his head forward, something I only realise when I feel his breath on my shoulder, warm and smelling of champagne.

My knees tremble.

‘Look.’ He lifts his hands to my shoulders and angles me slightly so I can see us in the mirror. The sight of myself in this costume—so different from my usual appearance—and Nicholas Rothsmore at my back, his long, tanned fingers curved over my pale shoulders, fills me with a need that demands indulgence.

‘Tonight, we’re just two people.’ He speaks slowly, the words buzzing right against my ear. ‘Who came here to fuck.’

I swallow, my throat moving convulsively. His coarse description sends a frisson of awareness down my back, because he’s right. This is physical, primal, animalistic. ‘Right.’ I went into the forum looking for this. I don’t know why I’m panicking at the eleventh hour. I draw in a deep breath and smile slowly, calming my nerves.

‘That’s what you want?’

‘Count on it.’

His hands move to my back, where a delicate lace ribbon holds the corset together. He loops a finger beneath the bow, watching me with a hint of mockery as he pulls on one loop, loosening it appreciably.

‘You can stop this at any time, if you change your mind,’ he murmurs, pulling on the other loop.

My breath snags in my throat. I shake my head slowly from side to side. No way on earth am I going to put a stop to this.

‘Good,’ he growls, easing the corset down so my breasts spill over the top. He stops moving and stares at me in the mirror, his eyes hot and possessive, glued to my body as though I’m the first woman he’s ever seen.

Strangely, I don’t feel at all self-conscious now, despite the fact I haven’t been naked in front of anyone in a really long time. I’m someone who wears underwear even at the gym or the spa; when other women seem perfectly happy to strip down completely in the sauna or whatever, I’m buttoned up in the corner, sweating into my cotton.

I just don’t really do the naked thing.

But here, in the privacy of this intimate room, wearing a mask, with a prearranged lover loosening my lingerie, I have no reluctance; not even a hint of hesitation. This is what we’re here for. It’s just a transaction.

Convenient, satisfying sex.

At least, I hope it’s satisfying. His reputation sure as heck precedes him, but then, sometimes the myth is bigger than the man.

I don’t chase that thought down; I don’t have time to think about that. His hands are running up my sides, his eyes on mine in the mirror as he brings his hands around front to cup my breasts, his fingers finding my nipples and tweaking them so I let out a low growl, the pleasure from such a simple touch totally overwhelming.

‘I don’t want to stop it.’ The words are squeezed from my throat, breathing and speaking almost completely beyond me.

‘Good.’ Another husky admission before his fingers are sliding into the corset, pushing it even lower until it hits my hips and then falls apart completely, leaving me standing in just a scrap of elastic and lace. His eyes hold mine as he slips a finger into the waistband of my thong and then flicks it. I jump a little, and laugh, the sting unexpected, and unexpectedly sensual. Especially when his hands caress the area almost instantly, soothing the flesh.

My pulse is trembling like a fire in my veins and heat is rushing my insides. He moves his hands around my hips; still watching me intently in the mirror, he slides one hand into the front of my thong. I’m so glad I waxed there too.

His fingers brush my flesh, finding my clit with expert precision, moving over it slowly at first, so I gasp because the touch is unfamiliar and for a second I fight an urge to ask him to stop, because I haven’t been touched here in a really, really long time. And never like this. He is some kind of maestro because the very idea of objecting disappears from my mind almost instantly as I succumb to the blinding heat of this pleasure, this possession. It’s just the lightest touch but flame explodes to molten lava and I’m burning up, heat in every cell of my body, every nerve ending.

His mouth drops to my shoulder, kissing my flesh there, moving closer to the nape of my neck. His breath is cool, his kiss warm, his touch perfect and suddenly pleasure is like a lightning rod, forking through me, so I have to bite down on my lip to stop from crying out.

‘Don’t be quiet,’ he urges, and I blink, finding his eyes in the mirror. He’s watching me with an intensity that robs me of breath, his steady grey gaze fascinating and intelligent and somehow all-seeing, so I feel as if beyond my arousal he must be comprehending so much more about me right now. As if he might be seeing into my buttoned-up soul, might be seeing all of my usual tensions and removing them from me.

And I don’t care.

‘Look,’ he prompts, lifting one hand to my breast and cupping it, while his fingers work faster until I’m tumbling so close to the edge of a ravine that I can only exhale in short, shallow rasps. There’s nothing to grab onto; nothing to save me from falling.

‘Watch yourself,’ he says more insistently, though it takes me several seconds to process his words because my brain is no longer firing on all cylinders. All of my blood is busy being pleasured inside my body, being lit on fire by his intensely skilled ministrations.

‘Oh, my God.’ The words tumble from my lips and then I’m groaning, tilting my head back but doing exactly as he said—watching me, us, this. Watching as he moves his hand and pleasure makes me blush and my nipples hard and then I can’t watch any longer because I’m scrunching my face up and giving myself over completely to the total subjugation of sense and reason in place of white-hot desire.

I am falling, I am falling too fast to stop, and yet somehow I’m also flying, all the way to heaven.

I dig my nails into my palms and, because I am secret and he is not, I cry his name as I tumble over the edge. ‘Nicholas,’ I moan into the glamorous bedroom. ‘Oh, God, Nicholas.’

It is a wave that won’t stop, as if the last four years of celibacy have left me with a hyper-charged sex drive. How did I not realise that until now?

‘Oh, this is going to be fun,’ he drawls, his British so very sexy, so husky, so hot, and I laugh, because I’ve already had more pleasure than I bargained for. I can’t imagine what else he can do with those clever, clever hands. And that mouth…my eyes drop to it in the mirror and it lifts into a knowing smirk.

‘Oh, yes, that’ll be fun too.’

My eyes jerk to his. He’s watching me with what I think is amusement.

Normally, I might feel embarrassed at having been so completely lost to that amazing feeling, but I’m not. Because firstly, there’s nothing wrong with sexual pleasure—and this is the man to know that. And secondly, he has no idea who I am! This is totally anonymous, totally secret, totally no-consequences, no-holds-barred sex.

That knowledge is empowering, so I spin where I’m standing and look up at him. Even though I’m tall, there’s a height differential between us that means I have to look up.

‘How come you’re wearing clothes?’ I murmur.

His shrug is pure indolent heat. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Let’s do something about that, shall we?’

His nostrils flare at the challenge in my words. My fingertips tremble a little as I begin to undo his buttons, concentrating hard on the task so afterwards I think I probably could have moved a little more seductively. Not that I can muster much energy to care, because now I’m eye height with his naked chest and it is a sight to behold.

The first thing I notice is a tattoo that runs above his left pec, near his heart. It reads, in a strong cursive script, I am my own. I trace it with my eyes, imagining what would lead someone to have that written over their heart. I don’t ask. We’re not here for that kind of inquisition.

‘Holy crap.’ It’s just a whisper, so soft and hoarse in the silence of the room, with only the grandfather clock’s metronomic beat for company, but he hears and he grins.

‘Yeah?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Now it’s my turn to look a little mocking when I turn to face him. ‘Like you don’t already know.’

Because how could he not? While he’s slim, he’s also insanely toned, a buff chest loaded with muscles, eight firmly defined ridges calling out to be touched. I lift my fingers and trace over the pectoral definition, lingering on his own hair-roughened nipples, surprising myself when I flick one, just as he did with the elastic in my underpants, and he lets out a growl.

‘Retaliation,’ I simper, grinning as I move to the other.

His hand catches my wrist, his eyes flaring. ‘Careful, Miss Anonymous.’

‘Oh?’ My fingertips tingle. With his hand clamped around my wrist, his eyes watching me, I blink—a study in wide-eyed innocence. ‘Why is that?’

‘You’re baiting me,’ he points out.

‘Yep.’ And I flick his other nipple, so he tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling, his Adam’s apple moving beneath his stubble. More than that, through the confines of his trousers, I feel his cock jerk and power rushes my veins. Power, desire and a surge of sheer, desperate attraction.

I drag my fingertips lower over his body, moving them in teasing circles over his washboard abs then out to his hips, up a little, and lower, to the soft leather belt that’s threaded through his trousers.

Now my lack of speed is deliberate. I can tell it’s driving him crazy and, hell, I love that. I loosen the clasp and pull on the edge of the belt, watching him as I slide it out of his belt loops. I drop it to the ground beside us then concentrate on the button and zipper, easing it down, pushing the sides apart.

Suddenly, and out of nowhere, I’m uncertain. He understands and takes over, kicking his shoes off and stepping out of his trousers at the same time. Only his dark grey boxer briefs remain.

‘My turn,’ he murmurs, and I don’t understand what he means until he kneels at my feet, looking up at me as he slides my lace thong lower. I watch, the pink wig swishing against my shoulders as he uses my techniques against me, moving too, too slowly. Frustration gnaws at me. I don’t want slow. I want to be naked and possessed by him.

I go to step out of my thong but his hands are firm around my thighs, holding me where I am. He makes a tsking noise in response to my silent expression of inquiry, and then he’s slowly pushing the lace lower, so I have to stand there and wait until finally my thong is at my ankles and I can kick out of it.

I keep the shoes on and he makes no effort to remove them.

I can’t think about my shoes though. He’s kneeling before me and now his mouth is moving to my clit, and the pleasure I’ve been surfing since he walked in the room is dragging me away again, swallowing me into its midst, so I’m dropping off the edge of the earth, just pure sensation and feeling.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, but the last thing I think before I come—this time against his mouth—is that wild, anonymous sex might be the hottest thing ever.

## CHAPTER TWO

JESUS CHRIST, SHE is unbelievably responsive. I lift her up easily, carrying her across to the bed. Her breasts are soft against my chest and I’m searching for her lips, kissing her, tasting her sweetness as I bring her to the edge of the bed and drop her onto it.

She laughs, a sound so sexy that I swear it writes itself into my mind as though it were chiselled from stone. There’s something about it, husky, sweet, laced with promise and heat. I don’t give her a second to recover; my mouth chases hers and pushes her backwards, my body coming to lie over hers even as she scrambles higher up the bed so she’s lying fully on it.

I trap her wrists with one of my hands, pinning them above her head so her beautiful round breasts are high and firm and then I bring my mouth down to one, sucking on a nipple, rolling it with my tongue, flipping it, my body weight holding her still as she writhes with pleasure. I smile against her pale skin and then move to her other breast, my spare hand plucking the nipple I just released, and I grind my hips so my rock-hard dick—that is giving me no end of grief right now, desperately needing to bury itself deep inside her—throbs and begs for release.

Soon.

We agreed to fuck, once. She was very specific about this. She wanted to get laid.

I can’t be away from the party for long. It has to be efficient.

A quickie? It feels as if it should have been outlawed, given how damned sexy she is. This is not a woman who should ever be made love to quickly, unless it is a desperate preamble to a long, slow seduction.

She deserves to be explored and tasted and delighted until she is hoarse from crying out in pleasure.

As if my thoughts have conjured her voice, she spills my name into the air over and over, arching her back, begging me to take her.

I don’t want to, though. I want to prolong this; I want to lose myself in her.

These rooms were built for privacy—not even a hint of the party downstairs reaches us, and I’m glad. I kind of hope she’s forgotten that a thousand of the world’s most well-heeled individuals are just a hundred or so metres away.

‘Please,’ she whimpers, but in a way that makes it clear it has nothing to do with her desire to re-join the party, or her worry that she might be missed. It’s more than that. She needs me.

I push up on my elbows, staring down at her, but I want to see more. I want to watch her come. More than just her expressive eyes and pouting lips, I want to see her whole face. I move my hand to the mask and begin to shift it but she jerks away and, from what I can see, her expression sobers instantly.

‘No.’ The word is deadly serious. ‘It stays on.’

Shit. I forgot. Anonymity is part of the deal.

‘Sorry.’ I grimace. ‘I just wanted to see you.’

Her smile is laced with pleasure. ‘You can see enough.’

I arch a brow but inwardly I disagree. Still, it’s better than nothing, and sure as hell better than I expected when I agreed to this.

I’m no stranger to random hook-ups, but something about this woman’s approach fascinated me. Her desire for anonymity, and the fact she is new to the club—I haven’t seen her profile on any of the forums before and thanks to networking I’m pretty familiar with most of the members.

So she is new. Someone who has just come into money?

No. I can’t say how, but I can tell she’s old money. Cultured. She has a certain air about her, a way of speaking that’s instinctively familiar.

‘You do realise we’re here to sleep together?’ she prompts, her brows lifting above the edge of the mask.

My laugh is immediate. ‘Are you complaining?’

‘Nope.’ She digs her white teeth into the pillow of her lower lip and need rushes through me. Fuck, she’s hot. So hot. I drop my head and pull her lower lip between my teeth, my whole body mashed to hers, her nakedness its own kind of torture, so close to me, so close and yet there’s still a scrap of cotton between my cock and her sweet warmth and suddenly I’m done being patient and I’m done with the idea of making this last.

Sex is sex. She wants a wild time, and that’s what I’m going to give her.

I push up onto my elbows. ‘Stay here.’

There’s a box of condoms in the bedside table. I pull it out and cross back to the bed. She’s watching me in a way that fills me with a torrent of needs and I intend to indulge each and every one of them.

There’s something about not knowing who she is that makes this even sexier. Except…

Ridiculously, for the first time, I wonder about her life outside this, outside this room and our agreement. ‘You’re not married?’ I prompt, staring down at her as my lungs work overtime trying to suck in enough air to keep me alive.

‘Married? I told you, I haven’t done this in a long time.’

My smirk is to hide my cynicism. It doesn’t work. ‘I don’t think celibacy and marriage are necessarily oxymoronic.’

She grins, and I hold my breath, needing her to tell me she’s single. I like sex. I fucking love it, unapologetically, but there are some lines I will never cross, and fucking someone else’s wife is one of them.

I like my women to be completely mine, even if it is just for one night.

‘No, Nicholas.’ The words are soft, sweet, and they run over my skin like oil. ‘I’m not married.’

Good. But I don’t feel a burst of relief—yet. ‘Engaged? Seeing someone? I’m not getting in the middle of anything?’

Her teeth are gnawing at that perfect, full lower lip again. She pushes up to kneel and moves across the bed, somehow managing to look elegant and coordinated. Her hands connect with my chest and my breath hisses out of me.

‘I am definitely not in a relationship with anyone. Except my remote control. And my MacBook.’ She grins, and I feel a kick of curiosity about who she is outside this.

I ignore it.

Tonight isn’t a prelude to anything except sex.

And I’m more than optimistic that this will prove satisfying.

In the back of my mind is my father’s edict.

‘Five years, Nicholas, and each year I expect you to come home wiser and ready to make me proud. And each year you disappoint me.’

I slide a finger into the box of condoms and pull a foil square out. Miss Anonymous takes it from my fingers, lifting it to her lips and tearing the top off. I watch with a racing heart as she pushes my boxers down, just low enough to release my cock, then her hand is cupping my length, her fingertips brushing my tip, delighting in the drop of cum she finds there.

‘I’m so glad your reputation isn’t exaggerated,’ she teases, sliding the condom over me and easing it down my length. My breath hisses out of me as she snaps it at the base, then squeezes me in her palm, my cock jerking against her hand, my whole body standing to attention.

‘I’ve had enough. Reading about you on that idiot gossip blog, seeing you with a different woman every goddamned night. If you’d married Saffron you’d have three kids by now.’

Everyone seems to have forgotten Saffy left me—for a firefighter from Bristol, as it turns out.

‘If you’re not married by the time you’re thirty then you can forget about becoming Lord Rothsmore. You can forget about the whole damned thing.’

It has been distinctly tempting to tell him to go to hell with his bloody title and inheritance. As if I give a damn.

Except I do. I care about my mother, and I care about my father, I even care about the legacy into which I’ve been born. But more than that, I’m becoming a little bored of this lifestyle. What started off as rebellion has become an unbreakable habit and it’s all just a bit too easy.

Miss Anonymous is right. My reputation precedes me. Women fall at my feet, doors open because of my name and the title I’m due to hold.

I’m ready for a challenge. I’m ready for something different and unexpected.

I’ve decided I’ll go home soon—before I turn thirty—and show my parents that, heirs or not, I am someone they can be proud of. I am someone who can think with more than his dick.

But for now, for tonight, I’m going to enjoy being the man my reputation has made me.

‘Exactly how long has it been?’ I prompt as I find her lips, tangling my tongue with hers, pushing her head back, so she falls flat against the mattress once more.

Her eyes, expressive and somehow familiar, swirl with uncertainty and then they zip closed a little, hiding herself from me. ‘A while.’

‘A month?’

She laughs, a skittish sound. ‘Longer.’

‘Six weeks?’

She shakes her head.

‘Jesus. Two months?’

Pink spreads across her décolletage. ‘A bit more.’

I frown, hating the thought of that, and hating it for her—because she’s so sensual, so responsive, so completely driven by desire. I can’t imagine how she could go even a night without sex, let alone months.

I nudge her thighs apart with my knees, and push my tip to her entrance, running my fingers over the bright pink of her wig. ‘Let’s see what we can do about that, huh?’

She nods, no smile on her lips, but I feel her anticipation and I recognise it because it one hundred per cent matches my own. Her breath is held; the room is quiet except for the incessant ticking of the clock against the wall. Outside, Sydney sparkles, beautiful, old, subtropical.

My hands press against the bed on either side of her and I watch as I slide inside her, slowly at first, but her muscles are so freaking tight that I lose my control for a second. Instinct takes over and I thrust deep inside her, grunting as I drop my head and kiss her hard, mimicking the thrust of my body, the tease of our flesh, the taste of her.

She lifts her hips, rolling them, and I have to fight to stop myself from going faster and harder and losing this.

This is sublime.

‘Fuck me,’ she whispers, her hands in my hair, driving through it urgently, and I grind my teeth together and do what we both want, thrusting into her hard, quickly, until she’s moaning over and over and then she’s pushing at my chest, trying to roll me over.

She’s not strong enough but I flip anyway, turning onto my back and dragging her with me, so I get to look up and see her full, round breasts moving with every thrust, as she lifts up and down my length, taking me deep inside her.

She moves fast, running her hands over her own body, and I am totally transfixed by the sight of this, of her. She is stunning, fascinating, wanton, sexy. She is everything in that moment.

I dig my fingers into her hips, holding her down low on my shaft, and then I buck, taking control once more, driving into her until her cries are louder and hoarser and she’s falling apart again, and I’m so close to coming, but I don’t. I can’t. I won’t.

I hold on, I keep myself on edge, steadying myself with monumental discipline and effort, and then I push up to sitting so I can run my tongue over her delightful breasts once more, chasing circles around her nipples, teasing her flesh, sucking her deep into my mouth and teasing her until her hips are jerking frantically and I can feel how close she is.

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, this is fucking near perfect.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Check, check, check.

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Champagne, women, music.

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

I won.

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

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

Miss Anonymous.

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

I want to fuck her again.

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

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

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

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

I hadn’t expected that. Why?

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

‘Fancy round two, Miss Anonymous?’

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

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

Her mask, her hair, her body…

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

Message undeliverable

What?

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

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

I have to find her.

But where the hell is she?

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

So?

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