“I guess so. I’m glad you didn’t sell it, though.” Beck nuzzled her neck and Allie leaned back into his touch.
“Me, too,” he said. “We’ve christened every possible inch of this place, I think. We should call it the Sex Lodge.”
Allie laughed. “I like it,” she said. “Is this where we spend every Christmas?”
“I hope so.”
Beck hit a button on the universal remote and the speaker system in the place turned on, playing a familiar Christmas song. Allie turned, eyes bright.
“I thought you hated Christmas carols.”
“I do, but you love them. And anything for the love of my life.” Beck grinned and Allie threw her arms around his neck. “You’ve changed my mind about Christmas, anyway. It might not be so bad, especially if we spend every year celebrating naked.”
She broke the hug and then stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. She meant it as a quick peck, but with Beck there wasn’t any such thing as he tightened his arms around her lower back and deepened the kiss. Allie wondered if the man would always leave her breathless like this, make her heart pound like she’d just run a sprint. It had been a year, and she still couldn’t keep her hands off the man, still thought she was the luckiest woman in Aspen. No...the world. The last year had brought all kinds of amazing surprises, but most of all, the fact that Beck had mastered a complete one-eighty. Once he put his mind to something, it happened, and overnight, the partying and the playing around stopped. She had worried she’d be jealous, of all the women who came before and of all that flirted with him now, but in reality, he showed her every day that he picked her above them all, and made sure she felt that choice all the time. She’d been worried he’d grow bored, but as the days passed, he seemed to fall only deeper in love with her. He was a partner in the truest sense, and she was so, so very glad she hadn’t moved to Denver.
He’d been seeing a counselor, too, to work through his childhood a bit, and the changes had been extraordinary. A year ago, Allie would’ve thought Beck would’ve never opened up to a stranger, a clinician, but the counselor had helped him work through some of his issues with his father and mother, and he’d been processing his anger toward them and his deep-seated fear of rejection that he carried from his childhood. She’d shown him that locking away emotions hurt him and Allie. Honestly, she was so proud of how far they’d come, and she was bursting with hope for the future.
“You’ve got a surprise under the tree,” Beck said, nodding at the small real fir he’d brought into his house. The Christmas decorations were just a little sign of all the progress he’d made.
Allie glanced at the large bright box, wrapped in a bow.
“And so do you,” she said. “I’m prepared this time.” She fetched the silver bag from beneath the tree.
Beck raised his eyebrows in appreciation. “What’s this?” he asked, taking the bag and pretending to weigh it in his hands and then shake it.
“Well, if I tell you, that would spoil the surprise.”
He dug into the bag and pulled out a silver ID bracelet with longitude and latitude measurements. “What’s this?” he asked again.
“It’s the location of this place,” she said. “This place changed everything.”
Beck took the bracelet out and immediately put it on. “It’s beautiful. I love it.” He looked at her and nodded. “Now...you.”
Allie opened up the large box, trying to guess what it could be. The box was light, and she wondered if it might be that cashmere sweater she’d been eyeing in the boutique she loved on Main Street. Except when she opened the box, she found another wrapped one inside. And then another one inside of that, and then she pulled out a box about two inches square. She opened it, too, but inside, she found a brilliant diamond ring, a flat emerald cut, which looked almost completely clear, like glass. Her mouth fell open. And when she looked up, she saw Beck, kneeling before her.
“I love you, Allie. You’ve made me a better person, a better man, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
“You’re proposing?” A million thoughts invaded Allie’s mind at once. Beck—the eternal commitment-phobe, the sex god, the man who’d vowed never to settle down—was settling down? Part of her was surprised, but, even more shocking, part of her wasn’t. She realized, all this time that she’d been so sure of Beck’s love, so sure of his commitment, that the proposal felt...completely natural. The next inevitable step in their relationship.
“Are you going to say yes?” Beck was starting to look nervous. And that was when Allie realized she’d just been staring, mouth open, at the beautiful ring. “Do I have to dare you to marry me? Is that it?”
Allie just laughed and jumped into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting out a monstrous squeal. Allie couldn’t believe this. In no way had she seen this coming. But her heart filled with joy. She wanted nothing more than to live the rest of her days by Beck’s side.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!” She kissed him, and he kissed her back, and Allie felt the whole world grow a little bit brighter. The frequency that ran between them seemed to grow stronger then, louder, and she loved it.
Beck plucked the ring from the box and slipped it over her finger. “Well, that was the most stressful game of double dare you I’ve ever played,” he said, putting his hand over his heart and pretending to be winded.
“What are you? Scared of a little game? Scared of a dare?”
“I’ll dare you to do something, all right. Come over here,” he growled and pulled her into his arms.
“I dare you to love me,” Allie said, looking up at him.
“I dare you to love me forever.”
“Double dare?” Allie asked.
“Double dare you,” he said and grabbed her by the waist, pulled her into his arms and kissed the life out of her. Allie knew in that moment in Beck’s arms, she was exactly where she was meant to be.
* * *
If you liked Double Dare You, why not try
The Proposition by JC Harroway
Her Intern by Anne Marsh
Her Every Fantasy by Zara Cox
Available now from Harlequin DARE!
Also by Cara Lockwood
No Strings
Look at Me
First Class Sin
Hot Mistake
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Proposition by JC Harroway.
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The Proposition
by JC Harroway
CHAPTER ONE
Orla
I TAKE THE first delicious and well-earned sip of my drink with a sigh, my lip curling with satisfaction as the decadent flavour of the Macallan Scotch glides over my tongue. Not because I drink a lot of the spirit, or alcohol in general, but because it’s a Scottish single malt, and therefore considered inferior by my Irish-born father. Even at the age of thirty-six, I feel the need to break free from his expectations.
The oppressive feeling that’s followed me since I arrived in Monaco to pursue my latest client, Jensen’s, weighs down on me once more, as if the air itself is too heavy. My intel that Jensen’s are shopping around, sniffing at my father’s door, adds to the pressure. Perhaps I’m burning out, pushing myself too hard to be the best, to outmanoeuvre the man who considered me unworthy to take the helm of our family business. But this deal has too much riding on it for me to blow it now; better to back off, to let the prospective client feel as if they’ve been wooed, but not cornered.
My fingers toy with my glass, slowly spinning it on the sleek and shiny bar. I look around the dimly lit intimacy of the casino, trying to shake off any thought of work, more determined than ever to embrace a change of pace for the evening. That’s why I’m here, dressed to the nines, pretending to enjoy myself at Monaco’s most glamorous club; why I left my sumptuous suite in the hotel upstairs despite its stunning views of Port Hercule in the dusk, a million lights dancing on the gently bobbing Mediterranean Sea. To let off a little long-overdue steam after a day of meetings, of waiting for the email that will tell me I’ve won Jensen’s’ business from under my father’s nose.
I clink the ice in my glass, smirking at my pathetic efforts to cut loose from working, which is pretty much my entire life—a single-drink party for one.
Wow, Orla. You really know how to let your hair down...
Ignoring my snarkier side, and to distract me from ruminating on the high stakes of the Jensen’s deal, I slide my stare around the casino, scanning the tables beyond the bar while I contemplate a tame gamble to liven up my rare night off. A small bet won’t hurt, even if it goes against every cell of my venture capitalist’s brain to risk money on a whim of chance. But it’s exactly what I need—a release valve, a way to break free from my own head, my own high expectations, my endless desire to succeed.
A distraction.
I sigh, disgusted with myself. It’s been ten years since I was passed over for my younger and less qualified brother. Ten years of hard work, one successful global investment firm and one marriage casualty later and I’m still trying to prove him wrong. My father, that is.
My roaming attention is drawn to the group of excited onlookers around one of the roulette tables. Someone must be about to either lose or double a significant chunk of his net worth on a single spin of the wheel for the game to attract such interest. We’re all members of the M Club here, all wealthy enough for an invitation-only membership and therefore used to top-shelf hedonistic pursuits, so this big roller must be something else.
I click my tongue against my teeth at such reckless behaviour. To me money is sacrosanct—a means to live on my own terms and a marker of success beyond being from one of Sydney’s most affluent families. My entire livelihood is based on how much wealth I can generate for my clients, who trust me with their investments.
I crane my neck despite myself, curiosity winning over the distaste of witnessing someone about to gamble with daredevil abandon, if the crowd of onlookers is any indication, catching only a glimpse of the back of a blond head. His hair is a little long for the usual immaculate clientele of the M Club, but whoever it is who’s providing this evening’s entertainment, at least he’s enjoying himself and thrilling the crowd. At least he’s not moping at the bar with a barely touched drink, thinking about work. At least he knows how to have fun outside of endlessly striving to prove something to a father who happily overlooked his daughter in favour of having a son at the helm.
I finger the two-carat diamond stud in my ear, my mind dragged from the audacious stranger. The earrings were a twenty-fifth birthday gift from my father—a gift I consider a consolation prize. A gift I wear every day as a talisman, a reminder that what I’ve achieved in the ten years since, I’ve done alone and in spite of my archaic, misogynist father. A fresh layer of impotence settles over my skin, a familiar layer of prickly heat, one that drives me to be better, to aim higher, to prove him wrong...
The second sip of my Scotch fails to deliver the escape I crave. Now all I need to complete my misery is to ruminate on my failed marriage to Mark...
I release a sigh. For fuck’s sake, can’t I spend one evening having fun?
I glance back at the roulette table, more in need of a distraction than ever now that my thoughts have turned maudlin and focused on my greatest failure in life. The crowd around the man who seems to be causing the casino security team to sweat inside their pristine white collars parts, gifting me a full, uninterrupted view of the high-stakes gambler.
In the same heartbeat he looks up from the table, the chip he’s twirling between his fingers stalling as our eyes collide for a split second.
My breath catches. I slide my parched tongue over my lips, seeking the remnants of the sip of Scotch to steady my pulse at the violent jolt of attraction. This place is crammed to the gills with wealthy, beautiful and successful people, but this guy...
Harshly masculine, from the cut of his square, stubble-covered jaw to his body’s uninterested lounge in the chair, he’s hotter than Hades, explaining at least half—the female half—of the attention he’s assembled. But he’s younger than I assumed—mid-to-late twenties—young, in fact, to be a member of the M Club, which is exclusively for billionaires.
Too young for me. But I did ask for a distraction, and they don’t come more eye-catching than a gorgeous man in his prime.
My finger traces the rim of my glass as I watch. He’s focused once more on the spin of the wheel, and yet I can’t drag my greedy eyes away, even though I’ve seen this kind of display before, met his type before. Playing hard and fast, they never last long as M Club members, no doubt blowing money they have no idea how to master, allowing it to own them until they lose every cent and their membership is delicately, but adamantly, rescinded.
But despite his flagrant display, my body warms, the delicious stirring of interest kicking up my pulse as I watch the latest easy-on-the-eye hotshot from my vantage point at the bar. From his appearance, the way he’s flouting the strict dress code of tuxedos for men and evening wear for women with his absence of a bow tie and his unbuttoned shirt collar, I’m surprised he was even admitted to the casino. Somehow, and for reasons I can’t fathom, his devil-may-care attitude adds to his appeal. My existence must be particularly dull at the moment for me to be impressed by someone who, on the surface, seems to be intent on making himself considerably poorer. After all, I, and most of the people in this casino, are in the money-making, no
t money-losing, business.
The rebel lifts a glass of amber liquid to his mouth and I’m caught off guard anew by his hands: the manly size of them—serious, capable hands that look more accustomed to manual labour than they do to running an empire from a smartphone as do most of the M Club’s members.
Teasing fingers of intrigue dance down my spine. What would those hands feel like holding my face as we kissed? Rough or smooth? Hesitant or demanding?
In unison the crowd around him sighs, snapping me from lusty fantasies about a younger stranger and informing me that his winning streak has dried up. But not a flicker of emotion crosses his handsome face. With less interest than if he’d tossed away a soiled napkin, he slides a stack of chips forward, placing another bet seemingly at random.
Then our eyes collide again.
I freeze, too startled to look away, although I should in case my intrigue is written all over my face, but I’m too fascinated by his expression of both boredom and challenge to do anything other than gape.
His eyes—I can’t tell from this distance whether they’re blue or grey—travel my face, dip lower and then bounce back up. In that second I know he’s appraising me as I am him, and by appraising I mean assessing availability clues, scanning for a wedding ring and generally lusting.
And why shouldn’t I lust? My sexy side is long overdue an outing; in fact, she’s probably desperate to break free, she’s been so neglected recently. This guy certainly looks as if he could bring a nun out of her shell...
I smooth a hand over my sleek chignon, adjusting a hairpin that’s slipped a fraction in a largely unconscious gesture.
The stranger’s expression shifts again, his lip curling with mild derision, telling me that he, with his overly long hair and his disregard for the club dress code, very much sees that I’m exactly the type of member the M Club was created for—wealthy, demanding, with an appreciation for the finer things in life. But rather than my membership earning his respect, I can tell he’s somehow judging, as if he thinks he has me all figured out.
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