Her Dirty Little Secret

by JC Harroway

Harley’s pulse stuttered back to life as recognition slammed through her. ‘Isabel?’

  ‘Oui, Harley. Enchantée. It’s been so long.’ Isabel pulled Harley into a one-armed embrace, drawing her over the threshold and closing the door. She welcomed her as if she’d been expecting her, as if they’d only seen each other yesterday.

  Isabel waved the sheaf of papers she held in her hand.

  ‘I’m only here to email Jacques some documents he left behind. Trent is travelling with him, so I end up as substitute assistant. On a Sunday.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘So, tell me, how are you? You look great.’ The younger woman spoke in accented, rapid-fire sentences as she led Harley into the great room—hard to follow, but Harley caught the gist, and her insides shrivelled.

  ‘Jack’s not here.’

  Isabel paused, a frown dipping over her huge, hazel eyes. ‘No. He’s in Paris. You didn’t know?’

  Harley shook her head, sinking into the plush, leather sofa as all her adrenaline drained away. Of course. He’d mentioned another trip overseas. She’d been so caught up in rectifying the mess she’d made, dissecting her feelings and preparing for her show tonight, she’d lost track of the days.

  ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’ She’d sent him some tickets for her show, but all she’d received in return was a single line, receipt and thanks reply from Trent. Nothing personal.

  Way beyond too late.

  Isabel joined her on the sofa.

  ‘The day after tomorrow, I believe.’ The younger woman frowned. ‘Would you like coffee?’

  Harley shook her head, eyes scrunched closed, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Why hadn’t she woken up sooner? Recognised the incredible man in her life and what an amazing and rare thing they’d discovered?

  She sniffed, shifting to the edge of the sofa, new resolve straightening her spine.

  ‘I know this sounds a bit stalker-like—’ hysterical laughter rang in her ears as she remembered the first time she’d stalked him here that fateful day he’d re-entered her life ‘—but would you mind giving me Jack’s address in Paris?’

  She’d get through her show tonight and then she’d fly to Paris. Stalk him to his apartment again. Tell him how she felt. Apologise for hurting him. He might not be ready to hear it, but she was done with suppressing her feelings to please others.

  Isabel laughed. ‘Of course.’ She touched Harley’s arm, eyes dancing. ‘You know my brother can be an idiot, right?’ She tilted her head—the way Jack did when he made a point. ‘I mean, I get it. Our parents’ divorce hit him hard and he’s always been a bit hung up on integrity and doing the right thing. I think he’d kind of given up on love bullshit.’ She snorted. ‘How many times have I heard that cynical tirade? I mean, he didn’t have a proper girlfriend until his last year of university and she didn’t last long...’

  Harley’s stomach rolled. She’d played a part in that. She’d hurt him more than she’d known, more than he’d let on.

  ‘But I’m so glad you’re back in his life. He’s much happier now.’

  Was he? His face the last time she’d seen him...surely all she’d done was bring him more pain? Drag up devastating emotions from his past and pour salt on the wound.

  ‘So you have a show tonight? I hope you don’t mind but Jack gave me the tickets you sent him. I loved the sketches he showed me, by the way. He’s right—you’re very talented.’

  Right, her show.

  All she cared about was getting it over with and going to him.

  ‘Of course. You must come. I’ll be backstage most of the night, but I’ll look out for you.’ The hours until she could catch a flight to Paris would drag but she owed it to herself, her years of hard work, to give one hundred per cent to her label.

  She stood, her limbs jittery, restless. ‘Congratulations by the way.’ She forced herself to smile. Forced her mind back into work mode. She’d toiled too hard—her team had too—for her to lose momentum now. But after tonight? All bets were off.

  ‘I’ll text you his address.’ Isabel pulled out her phone and Harley reeled off her number, her brain already racing with plans of what she would say to him and calculations of the time difference between New York and Europe.

  The next thirteen hours couldn’t pass quickly enough.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JACK WINCED, THE volume and throbbing tempo of the music scraping his eardrums raw and echoing around inside his skull. He scanned the audience, the familiar sight of her petite but curvaceous silhouette nowhere to be seen. Fuck. Had she left already? Had he missed his chance? He should never have left without telling her how he felt.

  He curled his hands into fists to stop himself hurling the nearest vacant chair at the wall. Not that there were any. The New York Fashion Week show was packed. Standing room only, which suited him just fine. He wasn’t here for the couture.

  Just for Harley.

  His body tight with frustration, he slammed out of the auditorium and scanned the foyer for a door that would take him backstage.

  With a quick introductory call to Harley’s sister, Hannah, he’d grovelled sufficiently to score himself a VIP backstage pass. He gripped the plastic card hanging around his neck like a life preserver and flashed it at the bouncers manning the doors that led to the warren of behind-the-scenes corridors.

  He followed the noise, his impatient strides ground eating, until he arrived at the scene of utter chaos, so far removed from the glamour parading the runway.

  She had to be here somewhere.

  He wove between the crush of bodies—models in various stages of dress, designers and dressers tweaking outfits and barking orders, and runners with clipboards and bottles of water—stepping over clothes and shoes haphazardly strewn on the floor and skirting garment-laden clothes racks.

  No sign of her.

  He scrubbed his face with both hands, cursing his stupidity. For a fully grown, intelligent man, his short-sightedness astounded him. How could he have been so blinkered, so pig-headed?

  Somewhere between guarding himself from further pain and losing himself in their game, he’d fallen for Harley. Hard. As far as a man could fall. But he’d messed up, banging on about her lack of trust in him, when he’d been too scared to trust his own feelings.

  Like an idiot he’d tried to control what they had, telling himself it was simply amazing sex, but it had long ago surpassed casual. He’d just been too terrified to admit it.

  His chest pinched as he cast around the frenetic room, searching her out.

  He spotted her.

  The air slammed from his lungs with a whoosh.

  Every nerve ending buzzed to life as he took in her flushed, excited face as she laughed with the model she dressed. They battled with an enormous headpiece that complemented the scanty lingerie the model wore.

  But his eyes were solely for Harley. He muscled his way through the crowds. Time to tell her how he felt. Yes, his timing sucked, but he couldn’t wait a second longer. Perhaps, even now, he was too late.

  She didn’t see him. Tweaking the outfit of the model in front of her, she looked slightly frazzled but achingly beautiful. And then she looked up, straight at him.

  The visceral blow knocked him back on his heels.

  Her face fell slightly, eyes wary.

  Another blow.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’ His throat was so tight his voice emerged way too gruff.

  She stared, the models around her disappearing to join the line waiting to walk on stage. Her eyes flicked over his shoulder, brows pinched together, and he stepped in front of her.

  ‘Please.’

  She swallowed. ‘What are you doing here? How did you find me?’

  His lips twitched, memories of the first day she’d literally stumbled back into his life crushing his chest.

  ‘I looked you up, and I
tipped the doorman.’ He waved the VIP pass at her, his grin widening when she pressed her lips together as if she held in a smile. He had one or two stalker skills, too.

  But his apology so far sucked, because she wasn’t in his arms where he wanted her. Sucking in a deep breath, he scraped the bottom of the patience barrel. She was working. He’d wait for her—as long as it took.

  ‘I’ll wait for you. After the show.’ His muscles twitched with the urge to reach for her. But this was her moment, and he’d always support all of her passions.

  She nodded once and moved past him.

  His whole body sagged as he spun to watch her walk away. And then she was back, leaping into his arms and pressing her mouth to his, her kiss filling him to bursting point, but all too fleeting.

  ‘Wish me luck.’ She pushed at his arms and he reluctantly loosened his grip around her waist, letting her slide down his body to the floor.

  ‘Good luck.’ He snatched another kiss, uncaring that he now likely wore more of her lip-gloss than she did. ‘But why do you need it?’

  She smiled, eyes alight, stealing his air.

  ‘I’m walking. It’s my label, right?’ She stepped back, smoothing her hands down her immaculate outfit, a goddess. ‘I’m proud of it. No more apologising for who I am.’ And with a wink that boiled his blood, she hurried after her models, the sway of her sensational ass smacking him between the eyes.

  * * *

  He stripped her, his touch reverent, relearning every exquisite inch he exposed, pausing often to reconnect through searing kisses, as vital as air. Words he’d almost waited too long to say spilled from him, French words she wouldn’t understand, but he hoped she’d glean their meaning from his face and his actions.

  Her hands weren’t idle, exposing him piece by piece until they stood before each other naked, with nowhere to hide. He cupped her face, peering into her soul as his fingers worked into her hair, his grip firm and possessive.

  ‘Je t’aime. I’m sorry it took me so long to see it.’ How had he ever believed he could walk away? How had he fooled himself for so long that this was just about their astounding physical connection? That it was enough?

  ‘I love you too. I’m sorry I hurt you.’

  He shook his head, the past slotted where it belonged. He wasn’t his father any more than she was hers. All that mattered was them. Together.

  He’d show her, every minute of every day, what she meant to him. They’d work the rest out between them. Their own way.

  She tugged his neck and his mouth covered hers as his hands cupped her breasts, tearing away from their kiss with a grunt to take one tight, perfect nipple into his mouth. She arched towards him, clinging to his shoulders as his lips tugged and her knees weakened.

  Fuck, he loved her. Perfect, as if handmade for him.

  Through frantic kisses and roving hands, they made it to the bed, where Jack covered her body with his, their legs slotted together, her breasts crushed to his chest until her scent, the tickle of her wild hair and her breathy moans completely surrounded him.

  Bringing him home.

  He poured himself into kissing her, his hands tangled in her hair, until her lips swelled, rosy red. When his control stretched paper-thin, he slipped his hand between her thighs, finding her soaked and ready for him.

  He groaned, breaking away to quickly fish a condom from the nightstand. She took the foil packet from him, stroked the length of him and rolled the latex over his erection.

  He took her hands, slotting his fingers between hers as he pushed inside her, her warmth clasping him inch by scorching inch, and his stare locked on hers.

  His chest seized. She was everything he hadn’t known he needed, the intensity of the rightness vaporising the air in his lungs. Who needed oxygen?

  Jack moved above her, gauging her every reaction, as in sync as their matched heartbeats. His thrusts first slow and long grew faster as he pounded her into the mattress. She clung to him with her thighs and her feet and her eyes, riding with him on tumultuous waves of pleasure.

  They crested together, she crying out his name as the climax struck and he with a guttural yell and his mouth slamming back over hers, stealing her air for himself. He wrung the last spasms from her, the jerks of his hips subsiding as he groaned and she panted.

  Time passed. He grew soft and slipped from her body, shifting to remove the condom and toss it onto the floor before collapsing back on top of her.

  They lay in the dark for what seemed like hours. Silently tracing every inch of each other with lazy, indulgent touch. Jack pressed his lips to her stomach and she tangled her fingers in his hair, stroking the strands back from his face.

  ‘Thanks for coming to my show.’

  He grunted, too comfortable, too satiated to move.

  ‘You were amazing. I’m honoured to know the woman you’ve become.’ She wriggled from under him, holding his face between her palms.

  ‘And you’re an incredible man, one I can look up to, without fear of ever being diminished.’

  ‘Harley...’ He rasped out her name, and then he kissed her again.

  When he let her up for air, his length already hard against her thigh, her eyes sparkled, flooding his body with renewed lust.

  Fuck, would he ever get enough of her?

  ‘So what about our game?’ She slid one foot up the back of his leg and he sank deeper into the cradle of her hips. His lust-fogged mind struggled with her meaning as her soft lips caressed his earlobe while she whispered, ‘Our better and better game?’

  He grinned, grinding his hips into hers. ‘I’m happy to continue playing, if that’s what you want.’ His lips captured her nipple, and she squirmed, wriggling free, but not out of reach.

  She pressed her lips together as if stifling a smile.

  ‘But surely it’s over. Nothing could be better than that last one.’ Her fingers traced a torturous path across his chest and down his abs until her hand circled him, slowly pumping.

  With a speed that made her gasp, he slid her back under him, pinned her wrists to the bed and parted her thighs with his own. ‘Oh, man, I love a challenge.’

  She laughed, the sound trailing off to soft moans as his open mouth travelled her neck and chest. He paused to lap at each nipple in turn and then he released her hands and sank beneath the sheets.

  Employing his best effort, he channelled all his energy into rendering her speechless for a while, unless it was to cry his name and confirm he’d succeeded.

  Better and better.

  EPILOGUE

  One month later

  ‘OH, JACK, IT’S going to be amazing.’ Harley bounced on her heels, her wide stare scanning the reconfigured space, which was still shrouded with dustsheets, the ceiling dotted with disembowelled cables.

  Light spilled in, filtering through the dust, which covered everything, even the toes of her dove-grey suede boots. But she didn’t care. From the building site before her, her school appeared in her mind’s eye, her vision come to life.

  When Jack had suggested lunch, she’d jumped at the idea. She’d hardly seen him over the past week, another trip to London taking him away. But then they’d crossed the river and she’d guessed he was taking her to see the progress on the Morris Street School.

  ‘So this will be your reception area.’ Jack, dressed just how she liked him in one of his immaculate suits, stretched out his arms, spinning to highlight the spaces she’d only seen depicted on plans.

  ‘Disabled bathrooms there, sick bay further back and these doors open out to the courtyard.’ He took her hand and together they picked their way over cables and around abandoned tools as they made their way to a wide set of French doors, which were still covered in a film of protective plastic and, like everything else, draped in dustsheets.

  ‘I love it.’ She tugged him to a stop. ‘I love you. Thank
you for helping me make this happen.’

  He shrugged, his lip curling. So French. And so fucking sexy.

  ‘You’d have done it without me. But I’m honoured I’m here.’

  Her belly flopped and heat bloomed in her chest. She leaned close, eyes closed, her mouth finding his. She wound her fingers into his hair, tilting his head to get a better grip on him and a deeper angle for her kiss. With a growl, he grew against her stomach.

  She slipped her hands inside his jacket, casting her mind around for a suitably clean, dust-free surface so she could take this to the next level. But then pulled back, frustrated.

  The whole place was one, big, hazardous death trap. Hardly romantic. But her hormones couldn’t care less.

  ‘Do we really need to eat? We could do something else with our lunch break?’ She cupped his firm ass, which flexed under her palm as he tilted his hips and rubbed himself between them.

  His lips traced her neck, whisper soft. ‘So you want something better than what I have planned, chérie?’

  Harley tilted her head to one side. ‘I always want you.’

  He kissed her forehead, taking the heat down a level in his gentle way.

  ‘Let me show you the courtyard first. The landscapers finished yesterday.’ He softened the blow by fondling her ass. ‘Then I promise to fuck you and feed you in that order, agreed?’

  She nodded, all smiles. Was there any better way to spend an afternoon?

  Jack grappled with the door, shoving the billowing plastic sheet aside. She followed him outside. As she crossed the threshold, her heel caught on the dustsheet and she stumbled with a cry.

  The fall never came. Jack’s arms caught her, gripping her to his firm chest and hauling her up so she was once more pressed to him from shoulders to thighs.

  They laughed at the replay and then he sobered. His lips slid over hers, taking advantage of the position, not that Harley had a single complaint, too mesmerised by the man she loved to much care about the finished landscaping.

  He pulled back.

  ‘I wanted to tell you something.’ His face turned serious and her shoulders tensed. She nodded, bracing her hands on his biceps. But he clung tighter, refusing to release her.