Praise for Natalie Anderson:

About ALL NIGHT WITH THE BOSS

‘ALL NIGHT WITH THE BOSS is a fun, sexy read that will test your every emotion and leave the reader feeling completely satisfied. As much as I understood Lissa’s reluctance, I was rooting for Rory all the way; he was the perfect hero to the end. ALL NIGHT WITH THE BOSS is Natalie Anderson’s debut novel, and if this is just a taste of what she has to offer, then romance readers are in for a real treat.’

—www.romancejunkies.com

About BEDDED BY ARRANGEMENT

‘Natalie Anderson’s second feel-good romance is a thoroughly enjoyable tale sprinkled with plenty of passion, humour and emotion which will enchant readers looking for a steamy read to warm them up on a cold autumn night! Sexy, sassy and flirty, BEDDED BY ARRANGEMENT is a fabulous romance written by one of Mills and Boon’s brightest new stars!’

—www.cataromance.com

‘Let’s have a competition. Our own little thing for charity. We each start Monday morning with say $100 in the kitty. We fundraise. For a week. At the end of the week whoever has raised the most wins.’

‘Wins what?’ She was curious now, fixed on him.

‘If you win, I’ll double the combined amount and give it to the charity of your choice.’

‘And if you win?’ Her eyes were wide.

‘If I win then I get you for a weekend and can do whatever I want with you.’

‘Whatever you want?’ She sounded as breathless as if she’d climbed a thousand stairs.

‘You’ll be my slave.’

Possibly the only librarian who got told off herself for talking too much, Natalie Anderson decided writing books might be more fun than shelving them—and, boy, is it that. Especially writing romance—it’s the realisation of a lifetime dream kick-started by many an afternoon spent devouring Grandma’s Mills & Boons®… She lives in New Zealand, with her husband and four gorgeous-but-exhausting children. Swing by her website any time—she’d love to hear from you: www.natalie-anderson.com

Recent titles by this author:

PLEASURED BY THE SECRET MILLIONAIRE

MISTRESS UNDER CONTRACT

BOUGHT: ONE NIGHT, ONE MARRIAGE

BY

NATALIE ANDERSON

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I could try to write all the ‘whys’

but there isn’t enough room for all the words,

so I’ll keep it simple:

For Mum—for everything.

CHAPTER ONE

‘I CAN’T believe I agreed to come here.’ Cally looked around her, slowly taking in the decadent atmosphere in the hip Sydney bar. It was like Bacchanalia—riotous revelry. There were well over one hundred women filling the place with laughter, leer and enough bling to blind the nation. Canapés were being consumed with glee and being washed down with terrifyingly neon concoctions. High-pitched chatter drowned the relentless deep thud, thud, thud of the music. Anticipation hung in the air. You could taste the excitement, the expectation of one hell of a good show.

Cally screwed up her nose.

‘Oh, come on.’ Mel looked at her with a ‘get a grip’ expression. ‘It’s for charity.’

‘There are better ways of raising money for charity.’

‘What’s better than watching a line-up of the most eligible bachelors in town?’

‘If they were that eligible they wouldn’t be here.’

‘What?’

‘They must be the most conceited meat-heads to agree to participate.’ The snark was enough to earn her another ‘get over it’ look.

‘Don’t be so uptight.’ Mel shook her head disparagingly. ‘You’ve been working way too hard. They’re doing it to support a good cause. It’s a laugh. A laugh.’ Another pointed look. ‘Remember how to do that? Open your mouth, go “ha ha”?’

‘You know I’m damn good at laughing.’ Cally sighed. ‘I’m just not in the mood for this kind of funny tonight.’

‘Well, down your Sex in the Surf or whatever that drink is called, and get yourself in the mood. Sit back, enjoy the show. Nobody says you have to bid. Buy a few raffle tickets and be done with it.’

Mel was right. But the scene didn’t sit well with Cally. It was so far removed from the cause it was supposed to be supporting. Here they were, draped with all this money—conspicuous consumption to the max. Half these people probably wouldn’t give a second thought to those who this event was supposed to be helping. They were paying lip service—just wanting to get together with a gang of girlfriends and ogle some talent. Bitch over someone else’s dress. Out to outdo and be seen doing it.

It was the kind of thing her mother would love. She’d be here, out-glamorising even the most glamorous and providing sound bites in the style of a Miss Universe save-the-world speech. Fortunately she was away sunning herself on a beach in the Mediterranean somewhere.

Cally grimaced as she glanced round again. Nope. So not her scene. She preferred to stay out of the limelight her mother had always sought. Yes, she had money. Yes, she felt a responsibility to do charitable work. But her father had taught her how much more fun it was to do something behind the scenes, or to donate anonymously. When he died she’d made a vow to continue his work and so had maintained strong connections with his favourite charity—the homeless shelter only a few blocks from the opulent home in which she’d spent her happiest childhood years. She loved the time she put into it—feeling as if it was a way of retaining links with him, wanting to do something that she knew would have made him proud.

Mel cleared her throat and glared again. ‘Must you be so earnest, Cally? For heaven’s sake, have another drink. Or one of those chocolate truffles.’

Cally grinned at that. Actually the chocolate truffles were pretty divine. She pulled the plate nearer. Half the women here wouldn’t touch them anyway, so Cally could have their share. Then she gave herself a rebuke over her pathetic holier-than-thou moment. Many of these women gave time as well as money to charity. One of the wealthiest women in the room spent a night a week answering calls on a youth helpline. And, while she might come across as if nothing mattered more than the colour of the dressing rooms in her new guest wing, the way she could listen to and calm distressed teens was incredible.

The music got even louder, and the MC appeared on stage. Applause filled the air. The show was about to start. Biting into another truffle, Cally sat back and acknowledged that maybe Mel was right. Man candy. So what if people were buying some hunky company? She wasn’t shopping. She’d just watch, be amused by the craziness, try not to feel cheapened, buy a few raffle tickets and donate a chunk on the quiet later. She sipped from her wide-rimmed glass and as she relaxed the first man for sale appeared.

‘I can’t believe I agreed to come here.’ Blake looked around him thunderstruck. ‘I know I didn’t agree to this.’

‘You did.’

‘I thought you meant some kind of working bee. You said a spot of gardening, cleaning up.’

‘And that’s exactly what you’ll be doing.’

Blake gave Judith, his PA, a look of withering disbelief. Not if the sound of those braying women was anything to go by. ‘I really don’t think so.’

She’d insisted they come straight from the office, he’d been working late. So here he was after a long day, in his suit, needing a shave. He ran his fingers through his hair to stop him exiting the scene. For a second he wished he smoked so he could do something to relieve the stress. Honestly, meeting with a roomful of sceptical investors had nothing on this. This sounded worse than a bear pit. Now he knew how those gladiators had felt back in the Roman days. The first poor guy had gone on and the howls from the divas in the audience were deafening. Then he heard the bidding begin and the feeling of panic, mixed with distaste, rose.

‘Give the organisers my apologies. I’ll make a donation. Large as you like. But I’m not sticking around for this.’

Judith blocked his exit from the room. Not hard given that she was wider than a small van at the moment. She rubbed at the swell of her belly and looked at him with the beseeching eyes of a homeless puppy. Only hers were blue not brown and there was an irrepressible twinkle in them. ‘You’re not really going to leave, are you?’

He hesitated.

‘You can’t. I said you’d be here.’ She switched to rubbing the small of her back. The action pushed her belly out even further. ‘Blake, please. You promised.’

She wasn’t laying it on with a trowel but by the wheelbarrow. Dump truck even.

His eyes narrowed. ‘The sooner you go on maternity leave, the better.’

She smiled sweetly. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

Like most men, Blake found it pretty difficult to say no to the pleas of a pregnant woman. But while Judith knew she could play on it, she didn’t know the real reason why. There wasn’t much Blake wouldn’t do to keep a pregnant woman happy. He didn’t want to bear any more of a burden than he already did—one lost child was too much as it was.

He watched as she made her way to the door with her slower than usual—but still pretty quick—gait. He hadn’t been joking. She might have been leaning on her pregnancy vulnerability just then, but he’d noticed how tired she’d been these last couple of weeks. Her husband was a fool. No wife of Blake’s would be working through her pregnancy—not any of it. She’d be at home being cared for and not racing around.

He’d tried to lighten Judith’s workload for her, but she’d laughed at him. Saying she was pregnant, not sick, and that she was as capable as ever of the multitude of tasks he required of her. And, employment law being what it was, he had to let her. He still thought her husband would have more ability to slow her down. But he was so besotted he said yes to anything. Whatever made her happy, made him happy. Blake grimaced. He couldn’t ever see himself giving that kind of power to another. Self-sufficiency was the way to success.

Then again, hadn’t he failed to say no to Judith just now? His frown deepened and his sympathy for her husband grew. Her maternity leave definitely couldn’t come soon enough. And right now Blake had other things to worry about—like being paraded in front of a room full of women wanting to bid for the ‘catch of the day’.

His turn edged closer. He went and stood in the wings, peeked through a tiny gap in the curtain out to the audience. He knew full well Judith had misled him about this ‘charity fundraiser’. OK, not misled, but not filled in all the info on the page. He scanned the crowd. Women who’d probably never got their hands dirty. Never ever come into contact with the people this event was supposedly going to help. The homeless, the hopeless, the destitute, the desperate. They’d have no idea, here they were just doing their ‘bit’ for charity.

He listened to the high-pitched shrieks of laughter as the latest victim suffered the humiliation of being priced. This was shaping up to be one of the most embarrassing evenings of his life. But, as Judith had said, he’d made a promise and Blake McKay always kept his promises. He turned away from the audience, thrust back his shoulders and gave himself the pep talk. Whatever he did, he did to the best of his ability. This was how he’d climbed rung by rung from the bottom of the heap to the top. With sheer grit and determination to be the best. And so, if they wanted a man to perform, he’d be their man—their ‘He-Slave’. He loosened his tie a little. Ran his fingers through his hair to give him even more of the tousled long-day-at-the-office look. He looked across the backstage area at a couple of the other poor souls who’d been railroaded into ‘performing’ for charity. Saw one of them down a neat whisky. He flashed him a tight grin. Then Judith was back, telling him he was next up.

It wouldn’t be the first time Blake had used his body like this. He’d sold out before. Women found him attractive, thought he was handsome. He’d been paid good money to trade his looks. He knew he was above the shallowness, the insincerity. Just keep it light. Think of the money—think of the charity. His time as a model all those years ago had taught him that women loved the brooding look. Not a problem. He really was brooding—on the revenge he’d have on his PA the minute she got back to work on Monday.

He listened to the words of introduction in disbelief. Judith, grinning at him from the opposite wings, had done a fine job in talking up his assets. He’d come up with some hideous filing task to keep her bored for hours on Monday. Then his name rang out and, with a deep breath and a muttered curse, he stormed onto the stage, automatically moving his feet in time to the beat of the loud music. Once he got to the centre he stopped, stood. Clenching his jaw, he stared out. The audience was semi-lit. He could see sparkle and lipstick and hair—everywhere. The blonde highlights dazzled. He carefully looked over the audience, happy to take his time. He walked closer to the edge of the stage, so he could window-shop as obviously as they were window-shopping him. Never show you were intimidated. He would at least pretend to be in control of this situation. Bluff through until he had them.

He caught sight of one particularly blinding blonde and sent her a small smile. The shrieks increased. He turned, walked in the other direction. Blow hot, blow cold. Women were fickle creatures. He knew how to keep them keen; he also knew not to trust them, certainly never to take them seriously. But while his heart was permanently locked away from their clutches, his body didn’t mind messing around now and then. The adrenalin kicked in, and he almost, almost, began to enjoy it. He winked at another screamer. Raise money, get the bids up, up, up.

He almost missed her, his eyes nearly passing over without seeing, except her stillness marked her out in the clapping, cheering crowd. She was the shadow to the blonde and bejeweled beside her. Her dark hair hung in a neat bob. Glossy and sleek, it enhanced her pale skin, ruby lips, the gentle curve of her cheek. She was staring at him. Not moving. Not talking. Not laughing or even nodding in time to the beat. Eerily still in the room full of chaos. He paused, for a second forgetting what he was supposed to be doing.

Stick-figure women dressed in black usually didn’t do it for him. But this woman wasn’t stick-thin and on her the black emphasized her creaminess—her full creaminess. His muscles tightened that little bit, a small flame sparking inside.

She wasn’t shrieking, like the blonde next to her. She wasn’t even smiling. But she was staring. A cool look that had him wanting to shake the reserve from her. He was seized with the desire to make her move. To make her sway, make her want, and above all he wanted to wipe that icy look of condescension from her face. She was judging. He was not a man to be judged. Not by her. Not in the negative way she so obviously was.

Blake liked his coffee strong and dark, a little bitter. He was looking right at a very tempting espresso. For, despite the lack of smile, despite the patent disapproval, there was fire in her eyes.

Double espresso.

The blonde beside her was grinning widely—at her rather than at him. She didn’t seem to notice, she was too busy giving him that scornful look. For a long moment he stood as still as she sat. His jaw clenched, fists curled, and a wash of begrudging desire ran through him—desire to prove her wrong, to prove a point.

It became imperative not just to raise some money here, but some serious money. If he was going to sell himself, it would be for the highest price. At that he realized he’d better get back to the parading bit. For charity, he told himself, gritting his teeth and flashing a genuine tortured look.

He forced himself to relax, to smile at the harpy at the table on the other side, who had enough volume to drown out a crowd at a football match all by herself.

The experience from photographic shoots and catwalk struts came flooding back, his muscles remembering the way to move. With ease he prowled the length of the stage and back, pausing to deliver the ‘look’ now and then. He felt strangely energised, as if he were the one hunting out the prey, not the other way round. And he knew who his target would be this evening.

There was good-looking and there was ridiculous. The ripple of excitement through the audience had been obvious. Every eyebrow in the room had risen as that piece of perfection had so coolly moved out of the wings and onto centre stage with long, fluid strides and an insolent, daring look in his eyes. Edgy, angry man personified. And every woman in the room wanted to absorb his energy and take that dare head-on. Irresistible.

Cally wasn’t unaffected. She sat, desperately keeping a grip on every one of her muscles, barely hearing the gushing sales talk of the MC so bowled over was she by him.

‘Remember, ladies, he’ll be your slave. Act on your every whim. Say the word and he’ll deliver.’

Cally already knew he’d deliver. In that one moment when her gaze had locked with his he’d awakened a ferocious longing deep inside her. But then, she’d always had poor taste in men.

One woman at the table next to theirs shrieked so loudly Cally wondered for a second if the candle had somehow set the tablecloth on fire. But it was just him setting the entire bar alight. Hell, if he kept this up most of the women would be sliding off their seats. Cally knew she would if she hadn’t crossed her legs over and clamped her inner thighs together, trying to deny the instant physical reaction in her body that had occurred simply from seeing him, for what, less than a minute? He was way too handsome. And he knew it. Totally knew it. Of course he’d deliver. He’d have the track record to prove it—the experience of two lifetimes probably.

Cally knew all too well that beautiful men had it too easy with beautiful women. Any woman. All women. And when men had it too easy, they played fast and loose and without care. Given how gorgeous this guy was, she had no doubt he’d be one hell of a jerk. But that didn’t stop her body wanting to slither to the floor in a moist heap and scream ‘take me’.

He’d turned towards the banshee at the table next to hers. His jaw clamped, eyes narrowed in cool appraisal. Then he deliberately let a slow smile spread across his features. Not a natural smile, not a genuine one. But one that emphasised his sensual lips and chiselled jaw and signalled the promise—carnal desire, sensual knowledge. He was playing it up for all he was worth, totally aware of his value and determined to leverage it.

Sexual awareness brewed with irritation in Cally. It was so typical that she should find a guy like this attractive. Brimming with sexuality and confidence, he’d be as promiscuous as she was celibate. Annoyance with herself—and him—made her temperature spike.

And then, of all the cheesy moves, he winked at the blonde banshee.

Cally let out a loud ‘ugh’ in disgust.

At that moment his gaze landed on her. His subtle smile disappeared, his jaw clamped, showing off to perfection his high cheekbones and strength. And the look of anger was genuine. He’d heard her. He’d seen her. And he was definitely unimpressed.

His gaze became a glare. Defiant, she glared right back. But then, in that infinitesimal pause, something flashed between them, something that pierced through their respective veneers. Cally saw through to a man who was simply doing someone a favour. And for one second she was sorry. She was not rude. His glare softened. What he had read in her, she didn’t know. But she knew she felt damn uncomfortable.

Then he looked away, the MC kept advertising, and the strutting started again. Cally immediately told herself she had nothing to feel bad about. He was a first class performer, playing up to the ladies, standing in a way that emphasised his length and breadth. In order to even qualify as a bachelor for auction he had to have money, status. This guy had it all. And she hated him for it.

The auctioneer started the bidding. Cally was vaguely aware of the first bid, the auctioneer’s fast-talking confidence. But mostly she was aware of the man on stage as he paced the length of it. And time and time again his glance collided with hers. He’d smile into the distance at some woman. Flash his brows at another. But when he intercepted her gaze, the smile was gone and there was nothing but challenge.

She could feel her body’s response beneath her boring black dress. It must be some kind of basic instinct—that the female, when confronted with a tall, dark, ferocious-looking stranger, was overcome with the urge to know him in the most intimate way. It was as if her nether regions screamed ‘fill me, give me your child’—the primal need for women to be attracted to the strongest, the fittest, the foreign. Genes like his were essential for the survival of the species and every female in the room knew it. Bitterness filled Cally as she registered his blatant virility. She couldn’t have children. Not without a lot of help. And yet, she was still drawn to him, as if her body refused to believe its barren fate.

With just a look, a stance, he made woman want to lie and let him do as he pleased. And he’d please. That, more than anything, was the promise in his eyes.

Cally tried not to believe it. She wanted to look away. She really did. But it was impossible.

She was aware of movement beside her. At that she managed to turn and see Mel put up her hand, flutter her fingers.

‘What are you doing?’ Cally asked.

The blonde at the table alongside waved her arm wildly. So did two others across the room.

‘Summoning the waiter.’

‘Are you crazy? The auctioneer thinks you’re bidding!’

‘Oh.’ Mel giggled. ‘You got me.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Cally tried to whisper while jealousy knotted in her tummy. So Mel thought he was hot too. And Mel was about to get married.

They were well into the thousands now—going up in blocks of five hundred. The auctioneer knew she was onto a winner.

Mel smiled serenely and waved again.

‘I hate to break it to you, Mel, but you don’t have that kind of money.’ She pointed at the rock on her friend’s fourth finger. ‘When you get the band to match that, you’ll have the money. But I really don’t think this is what Simon would be wanting you to spend it on.’

‘I’m not betting with my money. This isn’t my bid.’

‘Whose is it, then?’

Melissa turned to look at her, keeping her hand raised, flicking her fingers to show she was still in the game. ‘Yours, silly.’

‘What?’

‘Come on, you wanted to donate to charity. And this is a good cause. A really good cause.’

‘I don’t need a bachelor for the weekend.’

‘Your car needs a good clean.’ She nodded to the front again.

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘Yes, it does.’ Mel raised her hand higher. ‘It needs a long, wet clean with lots of bubbles and a hunky, near-naked man bending over the bonnet.’

The mental image was enough to make Cally wish for an electric fan and a long cool drink. ‘Stop this instant.’

‘What are you going to do? Sack me?’ Mel’s grin was wide. She was clearly getting a kick out of the whole thing, and enjoying the evil looks she was getting from the blonde at the other table.

The bids went higher.

Cally didn’t even know what his name was. She hadn’t been listening when the MC had announced him. She’d been too busy helping herself to more of the truffles from that plate. Now she felt sick and the chocolates were all gone and she desperately needed more to cope with this.

‘Mel…’ wasn’t listening.

The bidding went on, faster, higher, until suddenly it was all out war. Melissa versus the blonde at the table next door.

‘Ladies, the competition is fierce here.’ The auctioneer paused for breath.

Then he did it. Mr Eligible Bachelor sprang down from the stage and coolly walked to the two tables.

Panic rose in Cally as she saw even closer his height, his strength and the unmistakable fire in his eyes.

‘Mel, stop.’ She looked away from him and kept her eyes focused on the empty chocolate plate as if more would appear the harder she stared at it. ‘If you don’t stop, I’ll get up and walk out and leave you with that huge bill.’

She had to stop her. On the one hand she felt totally intimidated, on the other hand she felt a rush of excitement unlike anything else.

‘You’d never do that to me,’ Mel breezed. ‘You love me too much. Besides, the media is here.’

‘What?’ Cally turned her head, looking for the cameras. Great, the last thing she needed was the world watching as she made a fool of herself.

The blonde at the opposite table was throwing them evil looks.

Melissa, with natural-born confidence, and the fact this wasn’t her money, raised her hand again.

‘Please stop, Mel.’

She couldn’t explain why she felt so uncomfortable about buying someone’s company. She’d never told Mel about Luc and she didn’t have the time now. Anxiety twisted her tummy. She’d happily scoff another entire plate of truffles if she were alone. But she wasn’t alone, she was in a roomful of shrieking women, out to buy men, and her best friend was buying one for her.

‘Please, listen to me. I don’t want him. Stop, OK?’

Mel, keeping her hand in the air, sent a sweet smile. ‘Cally, honey, I’m doing this for you. I saw the look on your face when he walked onto the stage.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘He’s hot. And, let’s face it, Cally, you could do with some hot.’

Instead Cally iced over, and spoke slowly and clearly, her private school timbre carrying across the room. ‘I do not need a gigolo.’ She would never, ever pay someone to be in her company.

She finally chanced another look at the man Mel was so brazenly bidding for. He stood alarmingly close. Stock-still with his gaze locked onto her. His glance flickered between her and Mel and she knew he’d heard her last sentence. His eyes narrowed very slightly. Anger touched his features as his jaw tightened. Mel’s arm was still up, ramrod-straight, right by her ear like the girly swot at school who knew the answer to the question before the teacher had even finished asking it.

She looked back at him and saw his attention was now wholly on her. She wanted to shrivel up and slither off behind a rock somewhere.

Then she heard the applause, the cheering. The blonde had retired from the race. The catch of the day was hers for the weekend.

‘Fantastic!’ Mel was practically frothing at the mouth, looking around for an official. ‘Take the money. Take it. Take it.’

Stonily Cally reached into her bag, pulled out her pen and cheque-book. ‘How much was he?’

‘Does it matter? You have millions, Cally.’

Cally signed the cheque, then handed it to Mel to fill in the blank bits. ‘Consider him a pre-wedding present. A last hurrah before you’re bound into monogamy.’

‘I’m already bound and well you know it.’ Mel laughed. ‘This one is all yours.’

‘Not interested. I’m nipping away now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

‘Cally…’

Happily one of the organisers swooped on Mel, animated and excited and thanking her for such a large bid.

Cally took the opportunity to escape. Clutching her bag, she rose from the table, then realised she was going to have to get past him somehow. And he wasn’t budging. He stood, tall, silent, waiting by the table—waiting to wait on her. The butterflies in her tummy were beating their wings furiously and she fully regretted every single truffle. She turned quickly, stepping as fast as her short legs and stupid high heels would allow. As he refused to move and she refused to look at him, she had to brush past him, arm connecting with arm, hip connecting with hip. Goose-bumps spread over her skin and she quelled the shiver, striding out as fast as she was able.

She felt him turn back to Mel, but she blanked him from her mind, blanked the fire of the brief touch from his body. She headed to the exit.

Damn. The press hound from the society mag was striding towards her with purpose. Cally could only come up with the age-old escape—the bathroom. She’d had way more than enough excitement for the evening. If she waited a while in there the show would be back on with all eyes to the front and she could slip out the back unnoticed.

Inside the bathroom she hid out in a cubicle for a few moments until it sounded as if there was no one else in there. Then she went to the basin and washed her hands, running the cold water over her wrists to cool the blood racing in her veins.

Mel had only meant for her to have some fun, but she didn’t know how hideous it had made Cally feel. She’d never forget the moment she’d found out about Luc—the hideous humiliation. Beautiful men weren’t interested in Cally, not unless they were paid to be.

Cally closed her eyes against her reflection in the mirror.

Not going there.

Instead she thought of her father. He’d been loving and warm and kind and had made the fact that her mother hadn’t wanted her merely a niggle in her heart, not an aching tear. But he’d died and Cally had been left alone—and mother and daughter had been forced upon each other. Alicia the supermodel hadn’t been prepared for the plump frump that had been her pre-pubescent daughter. Cally had tried, she’d really tried. But at five feet two she was never going to live up to her mother’s five-foot-eleven grace and beauty and expectations. Under her roof, she’d been more alone than ever. And then there’d been Luc.

Cally frowned at the way her thoughts had come full circle. Then the music and noise coming from the bar increased in volume. The show was back on. Breathing a sigh of relief, she knew she could escape now. She pulled open the heavy door and walked out from the bathroom. And there, standing right in front of her, blocking her path, was her catch.

His hands rested on his lean hips, pushing his jacket back and revealing the white business shirt, emphasising the broad shoulders and the ‘I’m in charge’ air. What was it about men in suits? He looked authoritative, aggressive and ready for action. For a long moment he looked her up and down. She was doing the same to him but trying to be a whole lot more subtle about it, and as she tried not to slide into a heap she stiffened—standing straighter than a steel pipe.

Finally he spoke.

‘When and where do you want me?’

CHAPTER TWO

NATURALLY ‘here and now’ was the first reply to spring to mind. Naturally Cally bit her tongue and looked anywhere but at him. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘This weekend. You. Me. What do you want me to do for you?’ He was being deliberately provocative—surely?

She cleared her throat again. Got her larynx working. ‘This was a mistake. My friend was doing the bidding. Yes, I paid the money, but you can go. Your weekend’s free.’

‘But I’m yours this weekend.’

She tried to smile politely but knew it was an abysmal effort. ‘Look, that’s really nice. But you don’t have to take this that seriously. I just wanted to donate some money on the quiet, my friend thought it would be fun to bid. So.’ She shrugged. ‘There you go. You don’t have to do the man-power bit.’ She snuck a look at him then and immediately regretted it. Mr Tall, Dark and Determined stood over her and she was melting.

‘She said you’d do this—try to get rid of me. She said I wasn’t to let you and that if I wasn’t with you for the weekend she’d tell the organisers and the money wouldn’t go to charity.’

Cally rolled her eyes. ‘As if they’d send my cheque back—they don’t care what happens now. They have the money. That was the point.’

‘I made a promise. I always deliver on my promises.’

Why wouldn’t he go away? Why was he so insistent on doing this when it had been so apparent she’d ticked him off? But then, maybe that was why. ‘Look, if you have to do something, go and clean my friend’s car.’

‘She said she doesn’t have a car and you know it. She said it’s your car that needs a clean.’

Her irritation and discomfort started to leak through her fragile façade. ‘I’m quite sure you’ve got better things to be doing with your time this weekend.’ He’d have plenty of fish to fry—container-loads, in fact. Frustration forced her into unaccustomed rudeness—again. Without even a nod for goodbye she turned and started walking.

He didn’t block her, rather kept pace every step of the way to the door, shielding her from the audience behind him.

‘What are you doing?’ she muttered.

‘Sticking with you until you figure out my first task.’

She waited until they’d got outside and along the footpath away from the bar. ‘This is ridiculous. You can go.’

‘I never shirk my responsibilities.’ He smiled then. One of those smiles designed to garner the acquiescence of anything and anyone in its path. But she also saw steel in his eyes. It didn’t pay to look too hard into their sea-green depths. They’d have her saying yes faster than any of his other, many, draw cards. His determination to get her to say it, was palpable.

She stopped walking. Knowing she was never going to get rid of him until he’d won, she’d let him have this small victory. She opened her bag and found her pen and notebook. She wrote her address on it.

‘Fine. Be here at nine tomorrow morning. You can wash my car.’ Ultimately she’d be the winner. He could clean her car. But that was it.

He took the paper. Carefully folded it and put it in his breast pocket. His smile was small but satisfied. Genuine this time and more attractive than any he’d bestowed on the audience. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

* * *

Blake pressed the buzzer right on eight fifty-eight a.m. The door opened in less than a minute. She wore loose linen trousers and a plain shirt and looked as if she’d been up for hours. On a Saturday morning you’d have thought a woman like this would be lying in and being loved. But he was stupidly glad she wasn’t. He felt tight inside as adrenalin surged through him. Round one was about to begin. His desire to defrost this ice queen was motivation to win.

He watched her gaze skitter over him, saw pink lightly colour her pale cheeks.

She still wouldn’t quite look up into his face. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name last night.

‘Blake McKay.’

‘Pleasure to meet you, Blake. I’m sorry if I was unappreciative of your determination to see this through. My name is Cally Sinclair.’ Her automatic politeness irked him. It was so obvious she didn’t particularly want him there, and yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it. Ordinarily Blake preferred plain speaking. But he could play it her way for now.

‘Enchanted, Cally.’ He reached out and took her hand. The pleasure, at this point, was all his. But he was determined to have her appreciative in no time. The fact was, she fascinated him. He wanted to see her eyes go from disapproving to desirous. He wanted her to admit to the attraction that was making his heart race as he touched her.

She snatched her hand back. Not so politely. ‘I’ve put my car on the drive for you. The garage is open. You’ll find anything you need in there. Once you’re done, you can go.’

Really? He had no intention of leaving after a half-hour car polish. What this stuck-up society miss needed was a good, hard—he pulled back his flare of anger.

‘Damn expensive carwash.’

She ran another eye over his tee shirt and jeans. ‘Feel free to hose off the drive after.’

The door shut in his face. So much for the polite act.

Little minx.

He knew she was attracted to him. Saw it in her eyes. But she was fighting it, denying it. Normally he couldn’t care less. But he was attracted to her too. And more importantly she needed to be taught a lesson. She thought him a gigolo? Her words had burned, and brought back the memory of the time when he’d been used. He’d had no idea of the shallowness, the synthetic structure of Paola’s world. He was quite certain Cally’s world was equally shallow and not one he intended to hang out in for long. She was clearly spoilt and whether there was anything beneath that brittle society air he didn’t know.

But he was going to find out.

He looked over her car. Blake, like many men, knew cars. And cars told a lot about their owners. This owner, he decided, was undoubtedly loaded. You’d need more than a few pennies to buy this baby. He checked the mileage—even more to buy it new as she most likely had. But it wasn’t flashy. A stylish silver bullet. Not overly large but powerful within a sensuously curved form. Not unlike the lady owner herself.

She kept it well prepared, well organised, tidy. But she was also someone who liked comfort, who liked the feel of things. The state-of-the-art stereo, soft leather seats and the faint scent of berries hinted at someone who liked to employ all the senses.

He did the interior of the car first. It needed a clean as a cat needed a dog. But Blake was a perfectionist and as always he’d do a damn good job. And she had paid for it, after all. He found polish and leather cream and worked it over methodically, comprehensively, every last inch.

Forty minutes later it was time to do the exterior. He whipped his tee shirt off over his head to let the sun heat his skin. The inside of his body was already on fire. Burning resentment, desire, curiosity. He found the wax and rubbed it on, liking having the physical activity to burn off the energy her presence coiled in him. She was a little dynamo.

He heard the door slam and turned, hose in hand, to watch as she headed towards him, her legs moving quickly. Her breath was coming short and fast, there was pink in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled.

‘Can’t you keep your shirt on?’

She fidgeted, still looking anywhere but at him. Her glance flicked to the surrounding houses. She was worried about what the neighbours would say? She looked to him finally and he’d have sworn the colour in her eyes deepened. Huge dark pupils stared up at him, surrounded by the rich dark coffee colour, and he wanted to drown in them. He blinked, broke the bond, and saw her cheeks were even pinker.

‘No, it’s hot out here.’ He held the hose low, and flicked it a little so a jet of water splashed at her feet. ‘Wanna get wet?’

Silence throbbed. For a beat or three she stared at him. Her mouth parted a fraction, then closed. Her lips pressed tight together. She turned away, her answer, when it came, more clipped than her high heels as they moved across the concrete. ‘Certainly not.’

He called after her. ‘May I get a drink?’

A pause in the staccato of the shoes. ‘Of course.’

How anyone could deliver a reply with such finishing-school politeness and yet such defiance in her face, he didn’t know. And damn if he didn’t enjoy it.

Cally marched indoors wishing she could be rude enough to suggest he drink straight from the hose. She flustered her way to the kitchen. What to get the man? She was the one who needed long, cool and refreshing, not strong, hot and amazing. She needed a shower. Just past ten in the morning and she was more breathless and bothered than if she were attempting a circuit class at the gym.

Water, juice, lemonade?

Ice. Lots of ice. She turned to go to the freezer and there was nothing but bare, bronzed chest in front of her. She stared—at the defined abs, at the brown nipples, at the dusting of hair that arrowed down into the jeans, at the wall of heat before her. Oh, my. He’d followed her into the house and was up close. Very close.

‘Like what you see?’ Dry humour laced his tone.

She said nothing.

The pause grew. ‘Want what you see?’ Less of the dry tone this time, a husky note of surprise.

Painfully wrenching her superglued eyes away, she stared at the glass in her hand and wondered what it was for.

Then she registered his questions—a good five seconds after he’d asked. Like? Want? Not able to answer honestly, she said the first thing that entered her head. ‘I’ve made soup for lunch.’

There was another pause. Then, ‘Why, thank you. I’d love some.’

Oh, hell. Had she just asked him to lunch with her?

‘But water would be great for now.’ He nodded to the empty glass in her hand.

The way she lost all thought compared to the confident way he handled himself was embarrassing. She walked round him to the fridge and challenged, ‘You’re so cool, aren’t you?’

He grinned and leaned against the centre island bench. ‘I guess. My nickname in my teens was cucumber.’

‘You were that cool even at school?’ She opened the fridge and leaned in, taking her time so the cold air might help her think straight.

‘That might have been it or…’ he answered lazily.

‘Or what?’ She poured water from the bottle, keeping the door open with her body.

‘Maybe it was something to do with size…’

Size? The penny dropped. ‘Ugh.’ She slammed the fridge shut.

His laughter was low and dry and she sent him an evil look until he raised his hands in surrender. ‘Kidding.’ His laughter rumbled again as he looked at her still-fiery expression. ‘Got you, though, haven’t I?’

‘Got me what?’

‘Curious.’

She walked towards him. Deny, deny, deny—the heat in her body, the attraction to him. Maybe it was time she tipped the glass of ice and water over his way-too-hot body. It was like having a million-kilowatt heater in the room.

Eyes narrow and penetrating, he reached out and took the glass from her with a firm, steady hand. ‘Careful.’

She raised her brows at him, not trusting her voice.

‘If my jeans got that wet I’d have to take them off.’ He took a long sip. ‘And I’m not sure you’re ready for me to take my jeans off yet.’

In that instant she knew she had to back off, right away. He was only fooling around but every word had her getting way too excited. He was so undeniably gorgeous, so cheekily charming, so not for her. No more mistakes.

But she was in her kitchen and he was in front of her face and there was nowhere for her to go. She tried to stand and stare him out—pretty hard when he had all the confidence, when he oozed the promise of satisfaction and she was overcome by the desire to test it out.

There was silence in the still kitchen. The teasing glint in his eye had gone and she watched the kaleidoscope of gre-green in his eyes, the widening of his pupils so that the colour was merely a thin outer ring and the centre was serious intensity.

It was a look that had her wanting all kinds of things—all of them involving getting closer. Instead she gave herself a mental kick in the butt. This was his stock in trade. He knew exactly what he was doing to her with his pattern of bold, daring comments, the laughter and cheeky half-apologetic grin and then the intense, searing stare. No way could any woman hold immune to it. She was drawn like the proverbial moth to the flame, and Cally still had scars from the last time she got singed.

But it was Blake who stepped away, breaking the stare, the burning light fading. Cally looked down to the bench. She fully regretted the soup invite, but good manners dictated she couldn’t backtrack now. ‘I’ll call you when lunch is ready.’

‘Sure.’ She could feel his easy grin. ‘I’ll go finish out there.’

You do that, buster. She was going to keep her distance from now on. Cally focused on the chopping board as he turned to leave, but couldn’t stop lifting her head again to appreciate the view as he exited the room. She could look, couldn’t she? Especially when he wasn’t watching. Especially at his butt.

When she called him back in Cally was initially relieved to note his shirt was back on. Unfortunately it was wet in patches and clung a little too tightly to his fit frame. She gripped the knife a little firmer.

‘I’m done out there. You want to come and inspect?’

‘No, I’m sure you’ve done a great job.’

She bent back to her task of chopping the herb garnish. He made himself right at home in her kitchen. Sending her a slight smile, he moved to inspect the pots simmering gently on the hob. He lifted the lid on one and sniffed.

‘So this is the stuff you sell?’

She hid the surprise. So he’d done some homework between the auction and now. ‘Sure. Gourmet soup. Made with the freshest and the best of ingredients, blended to perfection.’

‘Smells good.’ He turned the wooden spoon in another. ‘And you make it all?’

‘Why sound so surprised? You think I can’t actually cook? You think I just add my name to someone else’s recipe?’ She’d done a degree in food science. She knew what was nutritionally valuable and what wasn’t. And she loved experimenting with flavours and tastes. She’d taken the comfort eating thing and turned it into something positive. With a mother like Alicia, what choice did she have? She’d been put on that many diets.

He raised his brows. ‘Did I say all that? Did I even suggest it?’

She felt faint warmth in her cheeks. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone implied that I’ve only used my connections to make a success of my business.’

‘Well, I didn’t imply anything of the sort. And from what I see here I can guess you make a success of your business all by yourself.’

She sent him a quick look of suspicion, but he didn’t seem to be teasing so she gave him the humorous history that she didn’t usually share. ‘When I was a teen my mother decided a cabbage-soup diet would be the one to finally shed my puppy-fat.’

‘Cabbage soup?’

She could hear his disgust and once she’d have totally agreed. She’d never hated her mother more than when she’d told her to detox for three days with nothing but some vile broth made from only onions and cabbages. She’d never felt so sick in her life. And so she’d gone into the kitchen, starving, and made her own soup. Then when her mother had grilled her on what she’d eaten that day she had been able to answer honestly—‘just some soup’.

‘I took to making it myself—played with the ingredients.’ She’d added cheeses, meats, spices and flavouring to soup and turned something spartan and simple into something succulent and calorifically sinful. Her products had intense flavour, were highly sought after, and sold as soup for the connoisseur.

She moved to stand next to him at the hob, stirred the other pot and grinned at the recollections. ‘Now my cabbage soup is one of my biggest sellers.’ She looked up, forgetting that eye contact with him was dangerous to her mental agility. ‘It has a full cup of cream in every pack.’

‘Naughty Cally.’

She batted her lashes. ‘What can I say? Subversive is sometimes the only way.’

‘Subversive,’ he echoed softly. ‘I must bear that in mind.’

Staring up at him, she felt the heat from his gaze far more than the heat from the element that was threatening to burn the soup. Then, of all the ridiculous things, she shivered. Immediately his eyes darkened, and she sensed rather than saw his tiny movement closer and her own minuscule advance in response.

The rattle of the pot lid pulled her back. She turned the gas off quickly, lifted the pot and stepped away from his stifling nearness. Went back to mundane conversation. ‘I make my own stock from scratch. I love the whole process.’

He watched her retreat with that teasing glint now back in his eyes. She knew damn well he knew how he affected her. He must be so used to it. But, man, it was humiliating. She told her backbone to lose the invisibility cloak. Couldn’t she at least try to dish it out as well as him? Couldn’t she tease him in the way he teased her? Meaningless, playful banter?

He stirred the soup in the other pot left on the hob with suspicion. ‘Don’t you ever eat anything else?’

She turned in surprise, then stopped to actually think about it. ‘Not often, no.’

‘You just live on soup?’

‘Well, I have a smoothie for breakfast, then, yeah, soup for lunch and dinner. I’m usually in a hurry and just grab some from the shop. It’s good to taste it—now that it’s produced on a bigger scale I need to make sure none of the quality is lost.’

‘Don’t you ever want to chew on something? You don’t get bored?’

‘No.’

‘Hmm.’ He seemed to ponder for a moment. ‘You know, I like something I can really get hold of. Something with some texture, some bite.’ He looked back at her with wicked eyes again. She knew he was flirting, dangerously close to being bold. Well, she could handle that—couldn’t she?

‘Is that so?’ She sent him a look from under her lashes, laughing inside at her pathetic attempt to inject cool into her voice. Then she turned to the fridge and opened the vegetable drawer that was always bursting with fresh produce.

The cucumber was thick and long and she weighed it with her hand, fingers curling tight around its girth as she turned back to him. She saw the sparkle in his eye and she gave him a bland smile back. The she picked up the biggest knife in her collection—not one she’d usually use on a hapless vegetable, but, in this instance, a point needed to be made. With quick, precise movements, she stripped its skin. She glanced back up to him. He’d stepped to the other side of her bench and was watching, the corners of his mouth twitching. She looked back down, slightly disconcerted, and got on with her dissection. Mr Cucumber could get a load of this.

For a few minutes the only sound was the bang, bang, bang as the blade hit the board. She worked swiftly, efficiently, until there was only a pile of pulp.

‘So, let’s see, you’ve skinned, deseeded and sliced that cucumber till it’s barely recognisable.’

‘Sure.’ She had the cool tone down pat this time. ‘I think we can safely say it’s dead. Now it’s ready to be eaten.’

‘Only now that you’ve stripped it of its life force?’

‘That’s right.’ She went back to the fridge and got the container of thick yoghurt. Spooned some into a dish, mixed it in with the cucumber and added seasonings.

‘There are a couple to choose from, but I think you should try the spicy sausage.’ She spoke over her shoulder as she spooned the steaming soup into a bowl. ‘I think you’ll find it has plenty of texture and bite. You may even need some of the yoghurt dip to take the edge off.’

‘The one with the cucumber? Because, let’s face it, without the cucumber, that dip would be nothing.’ He grinned then. It widened into a full-blown smile and laughter followed. Warm, rich, irresistible laughter. Suddenly, effortlessly, Cally found laughter bubbling out too.

‘You’re not all you seem, Cally,’ he teased as their humour dimmed.

‘In what way?’

‘There’s a little more to you than I expected.’

‘What did you expect?’

‘As little as you expected from me, I think.’

She looked up quickly, only to be caught again by his gaze.

‘Not just a pretty face,’ he murmured.

She got back to fussing with the bowls pronto. He wasn’t talking about her. She wasn’t a pretty face at all; she was plain and ordinary. And his face wasn’t pretty either; it was beautiful. ‘Never go out with a man who is better looking than you’—that was her motto. She just had to remember to stick to it.

‘You mind eating in here? The formal dining room doesn’t get the sun at this time of day and it seems a shame not to make the most of it.’ She set the bowls at the stretch of bench along the window.

‘No problem. This looks great.’

He waited politely until she’d placed her own bowl and was seated alongside him. She gestured to the condiments, and the fresh chopped herbs. ‘Please.’

‘Thank you.’

They dipped their spoons together and she watched as he lifted his to his mouth. She barely tasted her own soup as she was so focused on seeing his reaction.

He took a moment, then smiled. ‘It’s good.’

CHAPTER THREE

CALLY felt more pleased than if she’d won the gold medal at the annual gourmet food awards. To cover it, she schooled her features back to bland and murmured, ‘I know.’

She took another mouthful before offering a polite query, all the while refusing to acknowledge the knowing smile of amusement on his face. ‘What do you do, Blake?’

‘Do?’

‘Yes, as in job.’

He looked surprised. ‘I’m a venture capitalist.’

‘Really? Who with?’

The surprised look broadened. ‘I have my own company… Weren’t you listening to the intro the MC gave me last night?’

She shook her head. ‘I was too busy eating the chocolate truffles at the time.’

‘Priorities.’ Full of satire, his smile twitched.

‘Absolutely.’ In contrast she spoke earnestly. ‘I never intended to bid. That wasn’t why I was there.’

He didn’t reply and she wondered if he didn’t believe her or if it was just that he was too busy demolishing the soup. It didn’t take either of them long. Good. She stood to clear the bowls, hoping soon she’d be rid of him—she needed to work on her resistance.

‘Thanks very much—that was delicious.’ He stood, stretched, his body towering over her.

‘It was a pleasure,’ she answered mechanically. He was too close again and the tremors inside could hardly be controlled. ‘I don’t have any more jobs for you. So thank you very much and…um…I’ll see you out.’

‘I don’t think so, Cally.’

She’d feel intimidated if she didn’t feel so turned on. She stared as he walked closer towards her.

‘I don’t think I should leave yet.’

‘As I said, I don’t have any other jobs…’

‘I wasn’t thinking about doing any more jobs.’ He cocked his head to the side, looked a little too sexy. ‘I was thinking we should talk some more.’

‘What about?’

‘Us. This…’ he made a juggling gesture with his hands ‘…zing between us.’

‘Zing?’ Her voice leapt up an octave or three.

He moved closer. ‘You want me. I can see it.’ He stepped again so they were almost touching and she tensed even more. ‘You jump every time I come near you.’

‘Um.’ How did she answer that one? Her cheeks alone were telling him everything he needed to know—that he was right.

‘I want you. You want me. It’s simple.’

She knew it was pointless to even try to deny it. The tension in her muscles increased and yet at the same time her insides were melting—he wanted her? She shook her head free of the fantasy. This was just some game—he was just acting the bachelor auction part.

‘It’s not simple. And my wanting you is stupid.’

For a second satisfaction flashed across his face. She had a weird blip of pleasure in seeing that her admission pleased him.

‘Why?’

‘You’re not my type.’

‘I’m not?’ He looked disbelieving.

It made her all the more determined. Coldly she reinforced her reply. ‘Not at all.’

She turned on her heel, went to the sink and started rinsing dishes.

At a far more leisurely pace he followed, coming to stand too close, again. And his questions were too close too. ‘When did you last get any? You’re looking way too uptight.’

Astounded, she turned. ‘You are sailing dangerously close to the wind.’

‘Hmm. I like a little dangerous.’

She let her look say it all. Only he seemed to find it amusing rather than quelling. He leaned across, his hand trapping hers on the tap as he spoke low and tauntingly in her ear.

‘You know what you need? You need a good hard—’

She yanked her hand out from under his. ‘Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.’

‘What was I going to say?’ He looked all innocence again—the devilish rake disappearing in a disarming smile.

‘It’s time you were leaving. My lover is due here any minute and he’s the jealous type.’

‘Liar.’ He laughed. ‘No jealous lover would let you loose at a man auction. No lover would leave you alone on a Saturday morning.’

‘Fine. No lover—jealous or otherwise. It’s still time you were leaving.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘You are so confident, aren’t you?’ she snarled. ‘It’s a wonder your bed still stands with all the notches you’ve carved into all four legs.’

‘Why are you so determined to think me some sort of Don Juan?’

‘Well, aren’t you? Have you listened to yourself recently?’

He chuckled, acknowledging the hit. ‘I don’t usually talk quite like this, Cally. It’s just that you make it impossible not to.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Look, I like to keep in shape, but I’m not the sleazy playboy you seem to think I am.’

‘Keep in shape? It’s a form of exercise for you?’

He gave an outrageous grin. ‘Sometimes. It can be a wonderful stress relief, you know.’

‘Hasn’t anyone made it difficult for you?’

‘Not recently.’ He sighed. ‘OK, so I’ve had some fun in my past, but I don’t want some image-obsessed bimbo—a vacuous body too concerned with the pose she’s in to be able to give as good as she gets. That actually gets pretty boring after a while.’

‘To be able to give as good as she gets?’ Cally was stunned at his arrogance. ‘You really think you’re that good?’

‘No. But I always put my all into it and sometimes the chemistry…you can’t contain an explosion. But that kind of chemistry is rare.’ He paused. ‘This kind of chemistry.’ He inched closer, voice dropping. ‘I’m only interested in this kind of chemistry now and I haven’t encountered it in a long time.’

‘So, what, you’re telling me you’re celibate?’

‘Not entirely.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But I’m guessing you are.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘And you shouldn’t be.’

She turned back to the sink. ‘It all comes too easy for you.’

‘Why not have some fun, Cally?’

She wanted to bury her head in her hands. But it was strangely fascinating, liberating, to tackle it head-on.

‘When did you last have an orgasm?’ He sounded as if it were the most natural thing in the world to ask.

She winced. Head on was right. She couldn’t believe she was leaning against her kitchen sink in the early afternoon with an almost stranger analysing her sex life.

The last time she had an orgasm? How did she answer that?

Cally was used to being in the minority for lots of things: in the small fraction of female entrepreneurs; the twelve per cent of the world’s population that was left-handed; well shorter than average; one of the few unfortunate enough to have a faded supermodel for a mother…and part of the small percentage of women who’d never had an orgasm during penetrative sex.

Truth be told, Cally had never had an orgasm in any kind of sex. She’d faked it. Took her inspiration from the movies. It wasn’t that she was left cold. It was just that she’d never quite got there. She’d got close with Luc. She had. But he’d never taken the time. It had always been over just as she’d been getting warmed up.

Of course, once she’d found out, she’d known he’d just been getting it over with. They’d only slept together a dozen or so times. A few weeks when she’d thought she was madly in love, and he’d been doing her mother a favour. Not even a favour—doing a job. Paid for and everything.

She hadn’t tried much since. She’d kissed, and got to whatever base it was that was almost all the way there. But old insecurities were hard to let go of—that she wasn’t really attractive, that men were only interested in her because of her connections or her wealth. And once she found out the extent to which her endometriosis had hindered her chances of a family she knew she didn’t have much to offer a man.

So Cally had decided she didn’t need a guy, didn’t need sex. She could be single and celibate and have a fabulous life—especially with her career. Most of the time she didn’t even think about it. The ability to trust men had been beaten out of her. Since Luc she’d embraced the ‘why bother’ approach wholeheartedly. And most of the time she was happy. She focused on her business, and smoothed over the scar on her heart that said husband and kids weren’t for her. That was fate. She didn’t need the grief of worrying about it any more. You didn’t miss what you’d never had—right?

But then, occasionally, there were wants. And Blake McKay was all want for her.

‘I’m serious. When did you last have an all-body, all-screaming release?’

‘I’m not discussing that with you.’ In the split second after she’d answered the question every single doubt reared in her head and every single reason why she was single stood in her brain, itemised in a flashing neon bullet-pointed list. And, despite years of happily getting over it, getting on with it, it hurt.

‘You can’t even say it, can you?’

‘Orgasm!’ she shouted. ‘Orgasm, orgasm, orgasm, orgasm!’ She glared. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Not nearly.’ His grin was wide and wicked. ‘Five.’ He nodded. ‘Five times. Five times in one night.’

She looked at him blankly.

‘Is what I promise you.’

‘You’re kidding. Five in one night?’ Transfixed, she gazed at him. ‘You really think you could?’

‘Like I say. Chemistry. Inevitable explosion.’

So she was tempted—and he knew it. For one mad moment she considered it—a wild fling. Five big Os in one night—could he really? Was it even possible? Hell, if anyone could, he could. He might deny it but a playboy he was—experienced. And if nothing else mattered, if nothing was at stake—most definitely not her heart—could she be free long enough for it to happen? Hell, she didn’t need five, one would be enough.

‘No one ever has to know.’

She bit hard on her lip to hold back the groan that had its origins in her belly.

He leaned into her, and she stared into the stormy sea eyes. ‘Why wouldn’t you act on an attraction this strong?’

She sucked in air, and refused to let herself think he was as attracted to her as she was to him. This was some sort of game. He was so used to winning and he only wanted to have her because he thought he could—she didn’t want to be just another milestone on his way.

He reached out, ran his knuckles down her cheek. ‘This can’t be faked.’

Her face flamed under his touch, her lips desperately dry.

‘You can’t fake it with me, Cally.’

Her knees were at risk of failing and she was about to crumple to the floor. If she turned her head just a fraction those fingers would brush her lips. Blood buzzed to them; she wanted to feel him…

Injection of steel required immediately! Memories of Luc burst into her brain. She’d believed a pretty face and some pretty lines before and been so burned she’d never trust another. She walked away from Blake, put the island between them again, chewing away the tingling sensation in her lips as her back was turned to him.

But she had to admit she liked his blunt approach, his unashamed candour. At least he seemed to be up front—again it was liberating. And she’d return the favour.

She turned to face him, put her hands on the bench, sighed deeply. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re actually too good-looking.’

‘I’m sorry?’ He leaned against the opposite side of the bench, bending so their faces were level.

‘Yes, you know. Thick dark hair. Big green eyes. Long lashes. Square jaw. Stubble. That’s just your face. I’m not even starting on your body. I’m not going any lower than your chin.’

The smile broke his intense expression, lit him up from the inside. ‘I’m too good-looking for you to have fun with?’

‘Yes.’

He laughed. ‘So you only go out with ugly guys?’

She was silent.

‘I begin to see why it is you’ve been without for a while.’ He leaned closer, spoke to her slowly as if English were a foreign language to her. ‘You know there’s a big flaw in your argument. You have to be attracted to the person. If you think he’s ugly he isn’t going to turn you on, sweetheart. What are you going to do—lie back and think of England?’

‘History has proven that I have terrible judgment, terrible taste in men.’

‘Based on looks?’

She nodded. ‘I get bamboozled by them. Blinded, can’t determine the false from the genuine.’

He frowned. ‘You can’t see past the exterior to work out whether inside the person is OK or not?’

‘No.’

‘So now if he’s good-looking, he’s immediately a no-go?’

Reluctantly she smiled at his bemusement.

‘But physical attraction is a pretty major ingredient, isn’t it?’ He wasn’t dropping it.

‘Sure it is. But it’s not just me who thinks you’re good-looking. Look at the battle at the auction last night. Women were beside themselves over you—practically launching at you from the aisles.’

‘You weren’t. You didn’t even want my services and you’d paid for them.’

She grimaced. ‘My friend bought you. She just used my money because she knew I, along with the rest of them, thought you were attractive.’

‘So what if others find me attractive?’

‘I could never trust you. And I could never trust other women around you.’

Blake stood, head tilted as he considered her reply. He watched the rush of honesty reflected in her face and saw that the brown in her eyes was starting to melt. ‘Do you take everything so seriously? Who needs trust? We’re talking a bit of fun, not marriage and babies. I never talk marriage and babies.’

Not any more. Not ever. It was important she understand that. Paola had taken him for a ride once long ago and it was a ride he’d never take again. It still hurt so much he could hardly breathe when he thought of it. The way he’d been so vulnerable, how badly he’d wanted exactly those things—marriage, their baby. But she hadn’t, and she had got rid of both him and their baby. He sucked in a quick breath, pushed the pain away. Instead he concentrated on the temporary temptation before him, with her gaze that told of provocation but also barely hidden interest.

‘Why am I not surprised?’

She was determined to peg him as a philanderer—trying to use it as a flimsy barrier against the red-hot attraction that was pulling them together. He, conversely, didn’t see the point in fighting it. If they gave in to it, it would wane and disappear. One night full of passion would do the job nicely.

So she’d been messed about by some pretty boy some time and was shoehorning him into the same mould. Did what she thought of him really matter? Oddly it did. He’d been above angry at the auction, seeing the contempt so clear on her face. He wanted to prove her wrong.

And he couldn’t stop the attraction that was making him step beyond boundaries, the pleasure in seeing her cheeks flush as their conversation veered into the deeply personal. He wanted to know her, inside and out—but he had to establish the ground rules first. He’d make sure she understood exactly what it was between them—transient lust and nothing more. Then they’d be free to indulge it—and he would make sure she was more than satisfied. Equal participants aiming for extreme pleasure.

‘So how long has it been?’

He watched her expression as irritation warred with uncertainty. She didn’t reply. Clearly it had been quite some time. Wholly chauvinistic satisfaction washed through him. Good. He didn’t like the idea of other men holding her.

‘OK. So you’re unimpressed by my looks. I’ll have to win you with my other charms, won’t I?’ She’d surprised him, admitting to her attraction like that. But she’d also made it clear she wasn’t going to act on it—which irritated him no end. Not only because he wanted her to, but because fundamentally he was a man of action. When you saw something that needed doing, you did it.

And Cally Sinclair needed doing.

If they could have a weekend of good, hard, physical fun they could walk away and no one be any the wiser—a consideration he sensed was important for her and one he was happy to allow. He just wanted to see her face pink from pleasure, her eyes drowsy, wanted to feel her shudder around him, wanted to see her relaxed in the way that only sex could make you relaxed. He wanted to watch her the moment that sensation overruled mind—at her most basic, where manners and social niceties were long abandoned and need was driving her. Need for him. And, yes, he wanted her in a state where she’d do anything for him. Panting, pleading, begging. The way she’d dismissed him still rankled—so he was a gigolo that she didn’t need? Well, he’d see about that. He planned to drive her crazy, to have her admit her desire for him—not just with her mouth but with her body, to have her unable to deny it. He wanted to shake this prim little bird from its tree and watch it fly. He was certain she would soar.

Determination marked her features as she shook her head. ‘Not going to happen. I’ve told you, you’re not my type.’

‘I think you’re clinging a little too tight to that line.’

‘You’ve way too much ego for me.’

He stared at her for an explanation. Grumpily she gave him the angle he’d hoped for.

‘Come on, the way you were parading up on that stage…’

‘It was for charity,’ he answered easily before starting to dig. ‘Anyway, you were the one handing over the money. You bought me. Paying for a bloke?’

‘It was for charity.’ She was ultra-defensive; her mouth tightened ‘It wasn’t about the result, the prize—about you—it was about fundraising for people less fortunate than ourselves.’

‘Really? My, what a philanthropist. Well, what are you willing to do for charity, Cally? How far would you go?’

‘I give a lot to the causes I believe in.’

‘Bully for you. Hell, it must be hard getting together with a bunch of girlfriends for a boozy night ogling men in the name of charity. Sitting there thinking of all those poor people as you eat your chocolates and drink your champagne and decide which hunk you want to clean your car. That’s really doing your bit, Cally.’

He’d crossed the line now, and damn if he wasn’t enjoying every minute of it. Time to make a play for it. ‘I have a suggestion for you.’

She barely registered interest, she was too busy looking annoyed.

‘Let’s have a competition. Our own little thing for charity. We each start Monday morning with, say, a hundred dollars in the kitty. We fundraise. For a week. At the end of the week whoever has raised the most wins.’

‘Wins what?’ Curious now, fixed on him.

‘If you win, I’ll double the combined amounts and give it to the charity of your choice.’

‘And if you win?’ Her eyes were wide.

‘If I win then I get you for a weekend and can do whatever I want with you.’

‘Whatever you want?’ She sounded as breathless as if she’d climbed a thousand stairs.

‘You’ll be my slave.’

Cally gulped in a deep breath. And another. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘No.’ He smiled but searched with his eyes. ‘Not keen? You wouldn’t go far for your charity, would you? All talk. See, I was quite happy to give my time. You’re only willing to give your money.’

‘That’s not true.’ Indignation burned as she thought of the hours she’d spent at the shelter. But she wasn’t about to tell him what she did every Thursday night—and had done since she was a child. Her father had taken her, week in, week out, to stand in the kitchen and help prepare the meal. It was his way of showing her that not everyone lived in mansions with more servants than residents. And if you were fortunate enough to be born into a position in which you had both time and resource to help others, then you gave both time and resource. It was a lesson she’d embraced—never wanting to have the shallow lifestyle of her mother. Wanting to give back, wanting to be more her father’s daughter than her mother’s. She’d been going there so long she had a close bond with many of the long-term drop-ins, and had shared much with the other volunteers and the manager. It was just her small way of making a difference. Quite often it was the highlight of her week and she’d never abandon them.

So she didn’t need to prove anything to Blake McKay, did she? He could think what he liked. And as for what he was suggesting? No way.

She refused to acknowledge the imp in her head that was screaming ‘go for it’. ‘There’s a bit of a difference between cleaning a car and what you’re…implying.’

He looked amused. ‘I wouldn’t be doing anything that you didn’t agree to.’

‘I wouldn’t agree to anything like that.’

‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’ His grin widened.

OK, so now she felt the need to prove something to him. That he wasn’t going to have it all his own way, all so easily. Not with her. She’d definitely be the one to get away. ‘Anyway, it’s more than likely I’ll raise more money than you.’

‘Indeed. All those wealthy friends you have. Make a few calls and you’ll have a few thousand just like that.’

Oh, he thought she’d do that, did he? Her eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t beg from my friends. They have enough obligations. When I fundraise I do it properly.’

‘I’m sure you do everything properly, Cally.’

The implied criticism was too much. ‘Fine. You’re on. One hundred, starting Monday. Shake hands to seal the bet.’ She held hers out across the bench, primly, a little high.

He ignored it. ‘No. A kiss to seal the bet.’

‘Fine.’ She’d show him immune—starting right now.

She watched warily as he walked around the island, turning with him so the bench was at her back and he was in front of her. He stepped so close she didn’t think she had room to breathe. One arm came either side of her and he rested his hands on the bench, totally hemming her in—strong barriers, and an even stronger set to his jaw.

Oh, dear. Her immunity was fast disappearing. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, didn’t want to reach out to him, so she tucked them behind her back and clutched at the curved edge of the stainless steel bench. Bad move, because it meant her entire torso—and below—was exposed and pushed slightly in his direction. If he leaned just a fraction closer they’d have full-body, length-to-length contact. Her breathing shortened. Could he hear her heart?

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