by Robyn Grady
He used his hands unhurriedly, feathering down her sides to her buttocks, pausing to caress them in a circular motion that made her shiver.
“I know these…” he murmured as his hands slid over the sensitive backs of her thighs, down to her knees and up again, the fabric of the dress slipping and sliding over her smooth skin, higher and higher until it was bunched around her hips.
Her breath came in shallow gasps now as he held her captive in front of him. She ought to feel wanton and ashamed, watching them in the mirror, observing her total submission to his hands, his mouth as he nibbled and licked her neck and the top of her shoulder. This was, after all, what everyone expected of her. A spoiled, rich, man-eating socialite who spent her entire life in the pursuit of pleasure.
She was on her way to perdition and pleased about it, she thought, feeling the scrape of her panties down her legs. When Nick Thorne touched her, she felt beautiful and proud that he wanted her. He was a man of substance, successful and wealthy in his own right, not some flighty playboy. Their relationship may be based on the most primitive of urges, but his desire for her, the passion he evoked from her, made her feel his equal. Love didn’t come into it, but Friday afternoons were the best thing in Jordan’s life and she wouldn’t give them up.
She brought her fingertips down to the dresser to steady herself, just as his thigh wedged between her trembling legs, nudging them apart. His breath skittered up the length of her back, making every downy hair stand to quivering attention. Anticipation backed up in her throat.
“I know this,” he insisted, his fingers lightly probing while she moaned softly, her eyes closing to contain the most sublime pleasure.
He shifted closer. A red-hot streak of sensation ripped through her and she realized it wasn’t his fingers probing and gliding now, sliding in between her legs. The weight of him leaning over her back forced her forward and she pressed her palms down on the dresser, bracing herself.
“Open your eyes, Jordan,” he instructed, sliding one arm around her waist.
Her head lolled heavily back and hit his chest. She pried her eyes open and found his, fierce and compelling, staring back at her through the mirror.
“Does it bother you,” he asked roughly, “this secret of ours? This thing between us?”
Jordan was past reason. She wanted much more of “this thing” between them, and she wanted it now. She stared at him, pushing back into his body, squeezing her thighs together to trap him.
With an effort almost too much to bear, she forced her mouth to open, to speak. “I know the score, Nick,” she told him tightly. “I’m playing the game.”
Sex.
Simple. Sensational. Secret.
It was what she wanted. What she lived for. Her Friday afternoon delight.
Two
“It’s all right for you,” the stooped man with the trembling hands told her belligerently. “You get paid to sit around all day. I had to take the morning off work and now it looks like I won’t get seen at all.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hansen. It’s been very busy this morning.” Jordan tried to warm him up with a sympathetic smile but the man sighed loudly and stomped back to his seat in the crowded waiting room.
She exhaled slowly. Not even lunchtime and already a tension headache throbbed dully in her temples.
It was her turn on the voluntary roster to work two full days in Reception at the Elpis Free Clinic, and just occasionally, uncharitable though it was, she found it a little overwhelming dealing with unwell people. Thinking she was unobserved, she dropped her head down onto her arms for a second.
Behind her, Reverend Russ Parsons put his hand on her shoulder and she jerked up.
“You should have told him that no one gets paid around here. Not the doctors, cleaners, admin staff or our beautiful receptionist.”
Jordan laughed ruefully. “Some receptionist! Some days I just don’t seem to have the knack with people.”
“You’ll never get it right all of the time, but what’s important is that you try so hard.” He took some leaflets from the counter in front of them and handed them to her. “Why don’t you give him some info on our natural healing classes?”
She took them, silently berating herself for not thinking of it.
In addition to the free clinic, the Elpis Foundation she’d set up a year ago helped Russ’s parish to identify at-risk families who were stretched financially. They also provided a raft of self-help courses. Jordan was incredibly proud of the strides they’d made in a short time, but her lack of work experience spoke volumes about how she had chosen to spend her time up until recently.
“Are we still on for the Working Bee this weekend?” Russ had turned to go but stopped at the door.
Jordan nodded enthusiastically. She had recently purchased an old backpackers hostel in the beautiful Marlborough Sounds at the top of the South Island. The hostel had gone out of business years ago and was rundown and neglected, but with the volunteers from Russ’s parish, she hoped to develop it into a retreat for the families in the program who never got to have a holiday. “How many are coming? I’ll book the ferry tickets.”
“Ten. Is Friday afternoon all right? I’ll have to get the late ferry back on Saturday for services on Sunday.”
Friday afternoon? Jordan’s heart lurched. She shook her head and lowered her eyes, feeling the onset of an embarrassed blush. “Sorry. You guys could go but I won’t be able to until Saturday morning.” Philanthropy was one thing; denying herself Nick Thorne’s body quite another—especially on her birthday. “My parents are putting on a thing for my birthday.”
A “thing” by her father’s standards would probably cost the annual wage of four or five of the people in the waiting room combined. This year, her twentysixth, she had prevailed upon Syrius not to go too over-the-top. “You’re welcome to come,” she added lamely, hoping Russ would decline. Her father didn’t approve of the way she spent her time and money and she was afraid his infamous lack of tact would offend the gentle reverend.
Syrius Lake was a man of unfashionable and inflexible opinions, especially to do with women. They were to be protected and indulged but not to be taken seriously in the workforce. “I didn’t work my fingers to the bone so that my princess would have to,” he was fond of saying.
That made her cringe these days but Jordan had made the most of her privileged upbringing for a long time—way too long—before coming to the realization that being a princess was a fairly boring existence.
“Speaking of invitations,” Russ said as she rounded the reception counter, leaflets in hand and Mr. Hansen in her sights, “this charity ball and auction you’re organizing…shouldn’t we be promoting it? It’s only a couple of weeks away.”
Jordan paused, aware that this project departed somewhat from the more conventional fund-raising activities of the church, but the Elpis Foundation, though closely affiliated, was not a religious organization. “It’s not that sort of auction, Russ. It’s more of—” she searched for the right word. If there was one thing Jordan Lake knew, it was rich people and parties “—an event. It’s invite only and no press.”
She knew how to put on a classy yet original function, and she’d managed this one on the cheap. She would pay the orchestra herself but the ballroom was gratis, courtesy of her mother’s old dancing contacts. Friends in a local venue management company had agreed to take care of the lighting and decorating for nothing. She had plenty of “volunteers” as wait staff since she’d promised an amazing after-party. The champagne hadn’t been confirmed yet but the coup-degras—the catering—was coming together nicely. A truckload of fish and chips would be delivered on the night to astound the ballgown-and-tuxedo-wearing guests, courtesy of an old beau whose family owned a chain of fast-food restaurant outlets. Jordan was notorious enough to be able to pull off such a cheeky gesture. “It’s all in hand,” she assured Russ. “At this stage we have about a hundred people coming, but I have a bit more time.”
Russ
pursed his lips. “I’m sure if we advertise, we can do better than that.”
“Russ, that’s a hundred extremely wealthy people, the movers and shakers of the country. Trust me, the really rich want discretion with their philanthropy.”
He smiled wryly. “Is that why you’re so reluctant to put your name on all the good work you do?”
Jordan shot him a warning look. “No one takes me seriously. The kind of publicity people associate with me is not the kind of publicity I want for the Elpis Foundation. That was the condition of me setting it up. It’s better that way, believe me.”
Famous for being famous…She walked into the waiting room, determined to make Mr. Hansen like her. Forever the focus of the newspapers and TV cameras but for all the wrong reasons, even though she had toned it down over the last year. Reporters didn’t care a jot if most of what they wrote was wrong. Philanthropy was a serious business and she needed to protect the Elpis Foundation. It was her one redeeming feature.
On Friday morning, Jordan passed Nick in the corridor of the High Court. He paused as they drew level, looking straight ahead. Since court was in session, there were few people around.
“See you at three?” he asked in a low voice.
Her pulse skittered as it always did when she looked at him. His presence in the courtroom for most of this week had underlined her desire for him and the forbidden thrill she got from knowing that he wanted her.
But they had to take care. It wasn’t just the stress her father was under. Nick was different. Somehow, she wanted to keep him to herself.
She hadn’t expected the amount of public interest there was in the case—every day she ran the gauntlet of photographers and reporters, all of whom seemed more interested in what she was wearing and how her love life was than the actual semantics of the trial.
“Nick, there are so many reporters,” she whispered back. “Don’t you think we should cool it, just till this trial is over?”
He turned his head and met her eyes and Jordan’s heartbeat went wild. If eyes were the windows to hell, then Nick was on fire—for her. Right now, this moment.
Her knees turned to water.
Nick nudged her toward the stairwell a few steps away. She kept her head down, aware that if anyone looked at her face, they’d know exactly what she was thinking—that she wanted his hands, his mouth on her. Preferably both and now would be good.
He pushed through the door, her hot on his heels, then turned and crowded her against the wall, his arms resting on the wall above her head. The rest of his body did not touch her at all.
The sweep of his eyes over her face, down her body and back again, was a tangible caress. Thankful for the support of the wall at her back, Jordan pressed into it, squirming with a restless heat.
His face was close—not close enough, but close.
“You want to ‘cool it?’” Nick demanded in a hot whisper.
“I don’t want to,” she whispered back. “Your reputation as a steady, conservative banker will suffer a lot more than mine if we’re caught.”
“It’s driving me mad, seeing you in there,” he growled. “So close, not able to touch.”
She reeled with the need to touch him, and with her own panic. Nick had never done anything so reckless before. “Oh, Nick, this is dangerous.”
“I haven’t touched you,” he murmured, his eyes burning. “Yet.”
He knew, as Jordan did, that if he touched her, she’d offer no resistance, despite the fear of discovery.
“Someone is going to walk through that door any minute,” she cautioned him.
His eyes tracked a heated path, lingering on her lips, then in slow, hot increments down her body. “All part of the fun, isn’t it?”
Their eyes met. Clearly, steady and conservative Nick Thorne was as hooked on the danger of the situation as she was.
She shifted again, craving his touch, knowing she shouldn’t. It was torture being this close, seeing him this excited, yet denying her.
His hand landed in her hair, then moved around to cup her chin. Despite her alarm, her lips parted in anticipation.
Nick stared down, his thumb moving softly over her cheek. “You are seriously beautiful.”
Her eyes flew wide. That was new, too. Nick preferred a more earthy flavor to his compliments, more show, don’t tell. The daily exposure in the courtroom must be having an effect on him as well.
Meantime, his gaze moved down to her mouth, stayed, heated. His thumb circled down and laid on her bottom lip. His face bent, inched closer. He was, quite simply, driving her mad. Who cared if anyone saw? She clamped her lips around his thumb, drawing it slowly into her mouth. Nick’s eyes widened, and then some more when she swirled her tongue around the tip. Two could play at that, she thought triumphantly, watching the torture darken his eyes.
But then he slid his thumb slowly out of her mouth. “Cool it? I don’t think so. I’ll see you at three o clock.”
He stepped back and Jordan ducked smartly out from under him. She looked back as she passed through the heavy door. He still leaned on the wall, his head raised, looking after her.
The cooler air of the corridor was a welcome relief. Away from Nick’s potent presence, she pressed her hand on her stomach, aflutter with nerves. Even if he was willing to take the risk, she couldn’t embarrass her father while he was under so much stress.
Still, her mind and body hummed with anticipation. Instinctively, she knew that their afternoon rendezvous would have more bite to it than usual.
Spending every morning in court was impacting his work, so Nick sighed when the intercom buzzed and his personal assistant’s voice informed him that his brother was here. The door opened and Adam appeared, looking relaxed in jeans and a leather jacket. He turned side-on to Nick’s desk and approximated a smooth golf swing. “It’s a beautiful day, big brother. What say you play hooky for the afternoon and we hit the golf course for a quick nine?”
Nick shook his head. In little under an hour, he would be at the hotel, relieving a certain heiress of her clothes. And for that reward, he didn’t care if he had to work all weekend to catch up. “I have an appointment.”
Adam frowned and flopped down in a chair facing Nick. “Cancel it.”
“If I get this backlog cleared tonight, I might be free tomorrow,” Nick said with a pointed look at the stack of papers in front of him.
Jasmine, his personal assistant, appeared at the door. “Would you like coffee?”
Adam spun around in his chair. “I would, thank you, Jasmina.”
The beautiful brunette blushed and turned away.
Nick frowned. Adam had a hide like a rhino. No way could he have missed Nick’s “I’m busy” hint.And the last thing he needed was his Casanova brother upsetting his workplace. “Stop flirting with my personal assistant.”
Adam turned back to him. “Why? Something going on with you two?”
“Adam, she works for me.”
“So? If she worked for me, I’d add to her job description.”
Nick sighed and made a show of checking his watch.
“I thought you should know,” Adam began, “Dad’s been ear-bashing me over lunch again about staying on and giving you a hand.”
The real reason for his visit…“I don’t need a hand,” Nick said in a long-suffering tone.
“I know that, Nick. You have more than earned your place at the helm of this ship. I have no intention of muscling in on your territory.”
Nick’s jaw tightened. “There’s the rub. It isn’t my territory, is it?”
It was Randall Thorne’s greatest wish that both sons run his empire after he retired. No matter how often Adam resisted, his father never stopped trying to lure him back from London. The disbursement of their mother’s will last year had shocked the brothers and delighted their father. Instead of a sizeable chunk of the company shares going to Nick, as everyone expected, he got baubles and a beach house and Adam got the shares. Whether his mother intended it or not,
she had handed his father a lofty weapon to pit brother against brother. To delay, yet again, announcing his retirement and naming Nick as his successor.
“Dad was nearly resigned to the fact that you didn’t want it,” Nick said moodily. “But now—he’ll do anything to have both of us on board.”
“The will stated that I can’t sell my shares to you, but I can vote with you, Nick. Tell me how you want to play it. And remember, the old man can’t put off retiring forever—he’s seventy next month.”
“Since Mom died, there is no reining him in.” Nick scowled at the newspaper on his desk. “Her past friendship with Elanor Lake was the only thing that stopped him from going after Syrius years ago. He’s using the court case as another tactic to postpone announcing his retirement.” He reached out and turned the paper toward Adam. A good portion of the front page covered the court case—and Jordan Lake’s wardrobe. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.” His mother’s illness and subsequent death, Adam’s presence or absence—his father threw excuse after excuse into the pot to put off the inevitable.
Adam nodded thoughtfully. “I’m pretty sure he’s got something else up his sleeve to get at Syrius. He was being very cagey at lunch, always a sign that he’s plotting something.”
Nick tugged on his earlobe, a wry grin on his face. “I’ve tried telling him that once he’s retired, he can spend twenty-three hours a day going after Syrius Lake if he wants to, but he’s adamant he wants to bury him before he retires.”
Nick wasn’t alone in thinking his father would win the defamation case, but had a nasty feeling that the small victory wouldn’t appease him for long.
Adam cast an interested eye over the newspaper. There was a footnote to the court case: Jordan Lake’s birthday bash tonight, organized by her father. The paper called it an “ostentatious display of wealth.” He tapped the paper idly. “I told you. The best way to stop this stupid feud is to get Jordan Lake to fall for you. That man cannot, it seems, deny his little girl anything.”