by Cathryn Fox
‘That’s not what your face was telling me a few seconds ago.’
I glower at him—but, hell, he’s right.
I drag my mind back to the job, to what I should be focusing on.
Coco is clearly at home here, her open affection with the other girl and the show they’re putting on for the guy across from them makes that obvious. Nothing in my research suggested she swung that way, but Philip Lauren—my client, her half-brother—had suspected it.
‘I’m not sure I’m her type.’
Jackson grinned. ‘Everyone’s her type if they can deliver in the bedroom.’
Heat unfurls deep within my gut. I can’t pinpoint the cause. Desire, envy, anger... She’s just like my ex, I try to tell myself. Only, Jess’s vice was money. Coco’s is sex. Just as her brother had said.
‘How often does she come in here?’
‘Depends. You asking for you, or for work?’
‘Does it matter?’
It really didn’t. It wasn’t like I’d put his livelihood at stake. It was the reason her brother was giving me shit. He expected me to have uncovered something by now, and the one thing I’d uncovered was the one thing I couldn’t divulge.
‘I’ve promised I’m taking your secrets to the grave regardless.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
He’s talking to me but his eyes are on her, just as mine were. His expression is thoughtful, almost concerned. And I’m listening, my ears attuned to whatever has him looking so intent.
‘It used to be once a fortnight, occasionally once a week, but lately it’s been more.’
‘More?’
‘Yeah.’ He looks back to me. ‘She’s probably been here twice this past week alone.’
‘And that bothers you?’
‘Not so much bothers me, but you know... This place serves a purpose, and whatever that is for her seems to me she’s needing it more and more.’
‘It’s sex, Jackson. Perhaps she’s just on heat.’
I’m purposefully harsh, flippant, but I don’t want his concern. It doesn’t pay for me to care, to soften towards her, but I can feel it happening. As each day goes by, each new discovery only adds to the appealing enigma that is Coco Lauren.
‘It’s more than that for people like her.’
Jackson’s like a dog with a bone. He’s not letting this go. Maybe she’s ensnared him too. Not that I’m ensnared—unable to douse the attraction more like.
‘They come here to get away from it all, and if she’s upping her visits, something’s bothering her.’
‘You sound like you care.’
‘She’s nice, that’s all.’ He gives a shrug and his eyes drift back in her direction. I let mine do the same, watching as she walks in the direction of the ladies’ room, her hips swaying provocatively. I feel the telltale ripple of heat through my groin and clench my jaw.
‘You could be good for her, you know.’
Jackson’s tone has a sincere ring to it that makes my blood run cold, as effective as a cold shower ever would be. Never would I go back to a woman like that. They have a knack for taking you to your knees and I’ve no interest in risking that again.
‘If you haven’t forgotten how to do it, that is?’
‘Shut it, Jackson, or regardless of your bouncers I’ll take you down right now.’
I shake my head and neck the minuscule drink. He’s hit a nerve and he knows it. Hell, maybe that’s why Lady Legs is having such an undesirable effect on my libido.
Who are you kidding? The reason you haven’t had sex in an age is because you can’t find anyone who does it for you. That is, you couldn’t until you started this job, until her...
I look to the closed lavatory door and beat back the thought.
You’re here on business, not for sex. And if you were looking for sex it wouldn’t be with one of these hoity-toity bitches who remind you so much of Jess.
* * *
I’m wired and it’s driving me crazy.
Usually I can lose myself in this place. Forget the trappings of my life on the outside and have fun. It takes the edge off—just enough to go back to it and do it all again. Smile, perform, play the part to perfection.
But not now. Not with Granny so sick.
She’s the closest thing to a mother I’ve ever known, and since losing my father two years ago she’s been my world.
Nothing can bury the pain. I aim for distraction, pure and simple. But not even distraction is enough tonight.
Caitlin murmurs something in my ear, her dainty tongue tracing its delicate ridge, and I watch as the eyes of the up-and-coming footballer opposite—what was his name? Ryan? Reece? Ricky? I don’t know, he’s new—turn to saucers. He’s out of luck, though. I’m not in the mood, and no amount of Cait’s expert attentions are going to do it for me. Not tonight.
I push out of my seat to rise. I take pity on him and give him a view as I lean in to make my excuses to her and kiss her full on the mouth. She tastes of strawberry, the remnants of the daiquiri she’s been sipping, and I linger a second longer, urging my body to obey, to want, to overtake this pain with the numbing heat of desire. But...nothing.
With a smothered sigh, I head to the bathroom, triggering a text to my driver to collect me in ten. I’ll hit the hard stuff when I get home, knock myself out in my own private domain. I’m not even fearing the hangover that’s bound to ensue. Anything to beat off the impending pain of loss that’s hanging over me.
A quick pit stop, a sweep of red across the lips and I re-enter the room. Caitlin’s chatting to Jackson at the bar and the footballer’s long gone. The fact that I’m not struck with the slightest hint of disappointment tells me I’ve done the right thing.
The sigh comes full force now and I move off—just as a wall appears in front of me and I smack right into it. A wall of hard, lean muscle that smells oceanic and male, all fresh and inviting, not like the expensive cloying cologne most guys here favour. No this is more natural, more... Just more...
My eyes trail upwards from where our bodies are still pressed up against one another. A black shirt, open at the collar, an honest hint of hair... How unusual. A square-set jaw, ample stubble... Nice. A full mouth, firm yet sensual, very nice. A strong nose, not too big, not too small. And eyes—
Oh, my God.
I start to lower my lashes, but I’ve never stood down in my life and force my eyes open. Wide.
Fierce blues pierce me, the coloured rims almost drowned out by glittering pupils. I swallow. At least I think I do. But my throat’s still closed tight as my cheeks start to heat. Part of me is aware I should step back. The other part is more than aware that he hasn’t made any attempt to either.
I wet my lips and manage, ‘Hi,’ feeling glad when it’s not the squeak I feared.
His eyes rake over my face and then he seems to come alive on a breath. ‘Apologies.’
Stepping away, he rubs a hand over the back of his head and my palm tickles like it’s mine that’s grazing over the dark buzz cut. And then he moves off and the connection is gone, the spell with it.
What was that?
Distraction, that’s what.
‘Wait.’ I reach out to touch his arm and feel heat permeate my fingertips, solid muscle flexing beneath the shirt. ‘I’m Coco.’
He hesitates as he looks back to me, his eyes still piercing, still ablaze. It’s like there’s a war raging in his head—he looks angry, even. But instead of being scared I’m drawn in. My body is well aware that this is what I need right now and I can’t let it go.
‘I know who you are.’
It’s a simple statement, but there’s an edge to it. I almost want to say it’s contempt, and curiosity toughens my spine as I retract my hand and smile. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’
‘Look, princess, you’re just not my ty
pe.’
I laugh. The sound tinkles, high and easy. I’m already having fun. More fun than I’ve had in a long time. ‘Really...?’
‘Really.’
He makes no attempt to leave, though. Interesting.
I cock my head to the side, let my gaze travel over him slowly, more brazen this time.
‘I hardly think I’m yours either,’ he adds, his tone rough and teasing at the electricity already thrumming in my veins.
I lift my eyes to his as I say, ‘Let me be the judge of that.’
A pulse dances in his jaw and I wet my lips as I step closer, reaching out to toy with the first fastened button of his shirt. His chest stills beneath my fingers but his face is set hard. If not for the slight flare to his nose and that tripping pulse point I’d think the chest thing was a figment of my imagination.
‘You going to tell me your name, or am I to guess?’
His throat bobs and I can sense his need to clear it. I’m not naive when it comes to sex. Sex and attraction. His body is giving me all the signs, even if he doesn’t want me to see it.
‘It’s like that, is it? Hmm... Let me see...’ I smile as I ponder and watch his eyes flicker back at me. Am I amusing him? I want to amuse him... ‘What about... Reginald? Penfold? Archibald...?’ I mock pout at his flat expression and catch the slightest twitch to his lips. Definitely amused. ‘No? What about Terrence? Bert? Ernie—no, Arnie...? Ooh, yes... Arnie... I can definitely see a bit of Schwarzenegger in you...the whole I’ll be back thing?’
I tuck my chin in as I deliver my best Terminator impression and my ridiculous comedic act—which, to be fair, makes me look like I sport a double chin—is totally worth it as he rewards me with a grin he clearly doesn’t want to give.
‘It’s Ash.’
He takes firm hold of my fingers, which have just made tantalising contact with the exposed hairs of his chest, and my moment of triumph dampens as I sense the rejection coming.
‘And I have to go.’
‘Don’t be a party pooper, Ash. We were just getting to know one another.’ I take another step forward and my breasts brush against his chest as I breathe, my fingers still trapped in his warm, firm grasp.
‘And as I said, you’re hardly my type.’
He looks away and I follow his line of sight. He’s looking towards Caitlin at the bar and I realise what he means.
‘She’s a friend of mine...a close friend.’
He turns back to me. ‘So I saw.’
I frown just a little. Is he jealous? Or is Caitlin his type and he means it when he says I’m not? She’s the opposite of me—a fiery petite redhead, free and easy. Normally I’d offer to share—to enjoy a debauched night of fun as a threesome. It’s something we’ve done many a time before. But I don’t want to. Not this time. Not with him.
I realise he’s staring at me, his striking blue eyes penetrating my mind, and suddenly I feel naked...exposed. Like he’s reached inside me and can read the very heart of what makes me tick. Which is nonsense. Utter nonsense.
I plaster on my superficial smile—the one I save for the cameras—and his eyes adjust to the change he’s seen in me. ‘If you’re not interested,’ I say, stepping away, ‘far be it from me to force you.’
I start to pull my hand from his grasp and walk. It’s time to go home and do what I intended all along. Now I can add his rejection to my list of things to forget.
‘Wait.’
He firms his grip over my fingers and I pause mid-stride. Part of me—the part that felt every millimetre of exposure beneath his gaze—knows I should keep on going. But the devil in me, the pain, needs the distraction more. I look back at him and raise my brow in question.
‘I’ve changed my mind. Let’s grab a drink—somewhere else, though. For all Jackson is a mate of mine, his beer sucks.’
‘Somewhere else?’
I genuinely hesitate. What I have in mind requires the sanctity of Blacks—this club. These four walls keep everything private. It’s why I come here. To let my hair down, to beat off the stress, do whatever I so desire without judgement. Without exposure to the press. Without threat to the great house of Lauren.
‘There’s a pub not far from here...serves proper craft beer.’ He gestures to the bar, where the footballer has returned and is trying his luck with Cait again. ‘Bring your friends.’
I chew my lower lip. Would it hurt? Just this once?
But it would only take one photo, one loose tongue, even, and the press would pounce. My reputation would be in pieces and Granny’s trust—love—would be irrevocably lost.
No, while Granny still lives, I’ll be the Coco Lauren she believes in, no matter if it’s not the whole story.
Guilt churns away in my stomach—but, hell, I am that Coco Lauren in all the ways that matter. Not that she’d see it. She would never approve of my pleasure-seeking side, never understand that I have no interest in relationships and the disappointment that they bring.
No, she would simply tar me with the same brush as my mother and be done with it.
And no one is worth taking that risk for, Coco, no one...
Copyright © 2020 by Rachael Stewart
Keep reading for an excerpt from Undone by Kelly Rimmer.
Undone
by Kelly Rimmer
CHAPTER ONE
Jess
GRANDMA CHLOE, IF you can hear me from wherever you are, you better be proud of me for sticking this out.
My grandmother died four years ago, but I will always live my life by the principles she taught me. She used to say that when your friends or family need you, you move heaven and earth to be there for them. That’s one reason I’m putting myself through the sheer torture of attending a wedding tomorrow—one of my least favorite things to do, by the way, especially in this case, because I’m not just a guest, I’m a bridesmaid. Oh, and did I mention this is the second time I’ve been a bridesmaid for this couple? I’m basically a saint for doing this.
Or maybe I’m doing this because the bride is basically a saint.
Yeah, that’s more like it, and that brings me to the other reason I’m putting myself through this clusterfuck of a weekend: the bride is my best friend, Isabel.
Isabel has big blue eyes and natural curls in a startling shade of ash blond. She’s recently turned thirty-five, but she looks much younger even on rare occasions like this one, when she’s wearing a full face of makeup. I think her anti-aging secret is her wholesome lifestyle, which is obviously an extreme measure and not one I’d ever be willing to try myself. I’m thirty-five too, but when I’m not wearing makeup, I look like an aged, freckled version of Pippi Longstocking, if Pippi partied way too much in her twenties.
It’s fair to say that Isabel and I are the unlikeliest of friends. She’s sweet, I’m sharp. She’s kind and gentle and softhearted, I’m… Well, I’m just not. We’ve had a lot of great times together, but we also have very different approaches to life, and every now and again I wonder why she puts up with me at all. What I don’t wonder about is why I’ve kept her around. Izzy is the lite version of humanity—all of the goodness, none of the calories. She’s easy to love, and for the most part, quite uncomplicated when it comes to her friends—a rare trait, and one I value highly.
I’d be lost without her. Completely, hopelessly lost.
Right now, maybe for the first time ever, I wish that Isabel wasn’t an exceptional human being. In fact, I’m wishing that last year, when she abruptly decided to divorce my business partner Paul, I’d have done what I usually do when people around me do something stupid—told her exactly what I was thinking. If I’d been harsh enough, she’d probably have cut me out of her life. Yes, I’d have been lost and miserable and sad and I’d have missed her forever, but then again, even feeling miserable and lost and sad would have been preferable to what I’m feeling right now.
Izzy and Paul sorted their shit out—only this happened just a little too late to stop the divorce, and now they want to get remarried. So here we all are, at their brownstone in Chelsea for the rehearsal dinner before their second wedding takes place tomorrow. There are fairy lights and candles and big vases of fragrant white roses on the long table that centers their dining room. There’s soft, orchestral music playing on the speakers. Isabel and Paul are both radiant. It’s all so joyous and romantic that it makes me a little ill.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m utterly delighted that they sorted their shit out and they’re both happy again. It’s just that all of his haste and love and joy and renewal means that instead of ordering my first wine for the night in a bar somewhere and scanning the room for a companion, I’m sitting here chugging champagne like it’s water and watching the door as if it’s about to burst open to reveal some kind of Jess Cohen kryptonite.
Which it kind of is.
Because Paul’s brother Jake is due to arrive any second now, fresh off a flight from the West Coast, where he now lives. And…okay. I’m not exactly thrilled about being a part of this wedding party tomorrow, but it’s maybe just a tiny bit possible that my imminent encounter with Jake has more to do with my anxiety than the festivities themselves.
“What’s up with you?” The voice belongs to Marcus, my other business partner, who’s sitting to my right. He speaks quietly—keeping his voice low, no doubt so as not to upset the other members of the wedding party. Paul and Isabel are opposite me, and Abby, Marcus’s fiancée, is in the restroom. She’s very pregnant with twins. As far as I can tell, being very pregnant with twins means you spend half your time looking exhausted and terrified, and the other half peeing.
“What’s up with you?” I snap at him unthinkingly, and he slowly raises an eyebrow.