Pleasured by the Secret Millionaire

by Natalie Anderson

  He stuffed a few casual clothes into a small carryall, paused when his mobile beeped. He checked it. A text from Tim.

  ‘Where the hell r u?’

  Rhys laughed. He’d forgotten about Tim and the others. He’d just gone after Sienna without thought of anything or anyone else. He was supposed to have helped pack the band’s gear away. He was supposed to be at some barbecue Tim was organising for the new crop of interns this afternoon.

  But now he had other plans. Better plans. He was having time out. He pushed at the buttons with his thumb.

  ‘On holiday.’ He sent the message, waited for the confirmation it had gone. And then, with a broad smile, he hit one last button—‘Off’.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TROUSERS were the only option. Together with the obligatory high-necked, long-sleeved top. Hell, Sienna was going to swelter. But she was going to be steaming up anyway—just from being within three feet of Mr Sex God. She took off the note wedged into the straps of her pack. Scanned it.

  ‘We have lots of questions. We want answers. Later!’

  She grinned and grimaced at the same time, then started the rummage through for some suitably unsexy outfit for her ‘date’. She should have said no. She should have been rude. She should have let him think what he liked.

  Impossible.

  Mouth like that, eyes like those. She didn’t want them frowning at her and looking icy. So she’d go. Have lunch. Do as Rhys suggested and play the game in reverse. But there’d be no re-match, pre-match or after-match frills. No resumption of body contact. But maybe she could give him the kiss goodbye she’d forgotten last night.

  She pulled out her quick-dry, billion-pocketed, zip-off-leg, multi-climate, all-terrain, all-purpose pants and stared at them.

  Never in a million years. Even if contact was off the menu she wasn’t going looking like such a frump. They’d be great for trekking at altitude. But for a lunch in a hip Sydney café in the middle of summer? Whether accompanied by off-limits sex god or not, it was definitely a no to the trousers. Had to be a skirt. She’d go denim. It was slightly longer than the quick-dry equivalent of the combat travel pants, and no way could she wear the number from last night. Then it was just a matter of selecting which high-neck slim tee she’d team it with.

  She tried to blow away the helium floating her hopes. But every breath in had them rising higher. So stupid. This was the finale—the bitter-sweet end to a fantasy come true. She sat on the bunk bed and stared into nothing.

  Just go and enjoy the first half of the date that you missed out on last night. Let him see you’re not some scary serial slapper or some desperate-to-get-pregnant wench. Then walk away.

  Who was she kidding? It wasn’t about what he thought. It was about what she wanted—more time in his company. And it wasn’t just that he oozed a raw sexuality that had her hot in the ping of a bra strap. She didn’t just want him, she wanted to get to know him. There was more going on in those greeny-grey eyes that she wanted to explore.

  Exactly midday she left the room and went downstairs, met his gaze across the foyer. He was over by the reception desk watching as she descended the last few steps. He made her feel as if she were supermodel beautiful, as if the eyes of the world were on her—watching, wanting. No one had ever looked that way at her before. Everyone had always known. For once she was centre-stage, not in the wings—actively involved rather than in the audience.

  She walked up to him as with deliberation he looked her up and down and back up again. Ordinarily his mouth held sensual promise; right now, the smile stretching it was utterly carnal. She had no idea if anyone else was around, all she could see was him, all she could sense was the force of his presence, his breadth, the awareness crackling so near the surface. He looked up the length of her legs once more and the desire in his eyes had her wobbling. Deep inside her body was soft and hot and aching with emptiness. But the pounding of her heart reminded her. That look in his eyes would be snuffed out the instant he saw her scar. He might lie, as Neil had, and say it made no difference. But it would make every difference—he wouldn’t treat her as real any more. She broke the eye contact, looked down to the ground, registered the big red chilly bin beside him.

  He finally tore his eyes from her legs and nudged the bin with his foot. ‘Tell me you like seafood.’

  ‘I like seafood.’

  ‘Really?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good. Should have asked earlier.’

  ‘We’re having a picnic?’

  ‘That OK? I thought it was such a great day…’ He trailed off, attention back on her legs.

  She clamped her upper thighs together, halting the warm urge to swing them open, and managed a cool friendly smile. ‘That’s great.’

  She took the blanket that rested on top of the container. Hugged it in a protective hold. He took the chilly. They crossed the road and wandered down to the beach. Hunted out a nice spot to park their burdens and themselves.

  She was glad of the crowds. Glad of the broadness of the daylight—because she seriously needed to get a grip. When he was with her she had the crazy feeling that anything was possible. And it wasn’t. He didn’t know about her. And when he did, everything would change. Better for him never to know so she didn’t have to witness that change. Better to end it before it began. He’d been right—this was just the beginning, but of a fantasy. She would have to finish it so she could treasure it for ever—before it turned into a nightmare.

  He set up the umbrella that had been strapped to the side of the chilly.

  ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble in a short time.’

  He grinned. ‘Not at all. The umbrella is from the hostel. I bought the chilly bin from the store down the road and the food is from a great seafood market I found. They packed everything.’

  She spread the blanket for them to sit. She was glad she’d gone with the skirt option. Even though the umbrella shaded them, the temperature was still hitting hot—her internal heat going way higher.

  ‘Drink?’ He’d unscrewed the lid off a bottle of sauvignon blanc, deftly holding two glasses in one hand while pouring the wine into them.

  She glanced at him, catching his eyes for the first time since leaving the hostel, read the challenge.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Her fingers touched his as he gave her the glass. With more luck than skill, she managed not to drop it. All that raced through her head was the memory of those fingers brushing across her back.

  Sensible speech was impossible. So she asked a few meaningless, ice-breaker questions. Barely heard his meaningless, ice-breaker answers. Relief came as he unwrapped the food—a fabulous platter of deep-sea delicacies. He piled a few chunks of French bread on a plate, added a swipe of butter to each.

  Cool, tasty, satisfying. The succulent seafood slipped down her throat—mussels, prawns, shredded lobster. He handed her an oyster, artfully sitting in its half shell. He winked.

  A spurt of mirth bubbled in her. ‘Are you trying to feed me aphrodisiacs?’

  He laughed aloud. ‘I’m doing everything in my power to seduce you.’

  He’d already done that. And she’d succumb again this minute if there were any way to maintain the level of excitement and enjoyment evident in his eyes. He was out for a little holiday fun—that was obvious. And if only she was truly able to escape her history, she’d do the same.

  They ate, talked a little more, looked a lot more—he was so handsome, she couldn’t help but stare, until she could no longer take the need slicing through her. She concentrated instead on the beach volleyball game a few yards away, amazed the women actually managed to stay decent in the teensy, eensy, weensy minuscule strips of Lycra that they passed off as their bikinis. They must use tape. Had to.

  He was watching her, amusement apparent. ‘You want to play?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I’m not good with ball games.’ Never played. Never allowed. Always on the sidelines whil
e her overprotective mother and brother told her she couldn’t and shouldn’t. Consequently she was hopeless and not about to show him and a beach full of others how bad she was at catching a ball.

  His amusement had increased—he wasn’t in on her teen angst.

  ‘Really?’ His mind seemed to have gone in another direction entirely. ‘You know, if you want, I can give you some help with that.’

  She looked at him.

  His grin was wicked. ‘Ball skills.’

  She cleared her throat, narrowed her eyes at him but ducked the challenge. ‘I didn’t do team sports as a kid.’

  ‘No?’ He let it slide. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I was in the orchestra—percussion.’

  ‘You were the girl clanging the cymbal, huh?’

  She giggled. ‘Yeah, waiting the entire length of the piece for my one moment of glory.’

  Much like now. And the satisfaction couldn’t be repeated.

  ‘So no team sports. Were you a runner or something? Track and field?’

  She laughed aloud. Her mirth rather more than the question merited.

  ‘I’m guessing no, then. But you’re fit. You’re very fit.’

  She nodded. She liked feeling strong. She’d taken years to get strong. ‘Yoga.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. And Pilates, Thai Chi. All sorts, really. Anything good for strength and flexibility.’

  ‘Flexibility?’ He drew in an audible breath. ‘Interesting.’

  She paused, aware of the extra charge in the already electric air. He was looking at her legs again. She could almost see into his mind. See the mental movie he was playing there.

  The atmosphere was so humid and heavy not even a scimitar sword would slice it. Breathing utterly impossible. With great deliberation, and sheer force of will, she turned and stared at the volleyball players some more.

  This had been a terrible idea. How had she thought she could seriously sit and lunch with the sexiest guy ever to walk the earth and rein in temptation? Especially when he was making it more than clear that he wanted to tempt.

  But he started chatting again. Asking idle questions that had her answering, soft laughter ensuing, relaxing. God, she needed to find a reason not to like him. And fast. But he was making it impossible with his warm eyes, attentive, listening close. Quite some time passed before she realised she wasn’t getting to know anything much about him—other than that he looked fantastic in long shorts. He was all questions, all ears, not offering up a lot of himself in return. Usually she was the listener, the one steering the conversation with questions and open-ended comments. She liked it, liked learning about other people, what made them tick, what made them the way they were. She decided to ask a few questions of her own.

  ‘What are you doing on holiday here?’

  He shrugged. ‘I needed a complete change.’

  ‘Catching up with old friends?’

  He looked confused for a moment. ‘Oh, Tim. Yeah. A mate from school.’

  The book titled Rhys was closed again. Still not much info to process. She looked at him, trying to read more from his expression. But, although friendly, he was guarded. There were secrets in there. Well, OK, she had a few too, but this was simply the conclusion to a wonderful night—she wasn’t asking for his deepest thoughts or fears. Couldn’t he be a little more forthcoming?

  And then he smiled. She couldn’t help but notice his mouth again. He had such an advantage. That smile, those lips. The green in his eyes sharpened. She ran a light hand over her forehead, tried to remember what she’d been going to ask him.

  He leant towards her. ‘Feeling the heat?’

  Just a tad.

  ‘Want to go for a swim?’

  Yeah, right. Splashing with him in the waves? Visions of them lying in the surf at the shore, limbs entwined like in some old Hollywood movie, rolled in her head. But there was a huge crowd at the beach now. And sand itched. And she’d have to reveal the very thing she wanted to conceal.

  ‘I don’t have my swimsuit on.’

  ‘Damn, I was hoping to get you in your bikini.’

  Definitely not going there. ‘I don’t wear a bikini. Don’t want to get too much sun.’

  He looked at her tanned legs, brows slightly raised.

  Doh. She blandly stared him out.

  Finally he shrugged. ‘Well, as it can’t be a swim, I’m going to go get us an ice cream.’

  He rose, long limbs lazily moving with innate grace. She watched him walk towards the vendor over on the footpath, then lay back on the blanket, absurdly at ease in spite of the insane awareness. She enjoyed the faint scent of him left in the air, glanced down at the dent in the sand where his legs had rested. The warmth of the sun, the satisfaction from that delicious lunch, had a soporific effect. The sleeplessness of the night before had its after-effect now. Drowsy, she closed her eyes. Relaxed. She thought of him, of what could have been if things were different. Dreamed dangerously pleasant dreams.

  ‘Hey, sleepy.’

  He’d returned. She smiled. Kept her eyes closed. Wanting to extend the fantasy for a few more moments. She heard the scrunch of sand as he sat. She felt something cold touch her mouth. She licked her lips, tasted the creamy ice.

  ‘Nice?’ His voice sounded very near, very low, very husky.

  ‘Yes.’ Her tongue traversed her lower lip again.

  ‘More?’ Even lower, even huskier.

  ‘Yes.’

  His warm finger daubed cold ice on her mouth.

  He muttered. ‘You mind sharing?’

  She didn’t get the chance to reply. Only to sigh faintly as his tongue flicked the sweetness from her. She sent her tongue out to meet his. She couldn’t resist his kiss. Just a little more of a man who wanted her in a way she’d never been wanted before. His fingers went to her jaw, turning her face towards his. She opened her mouth. Let him in. Their tongues met and mated and a tempting touch became total turn-on. Deep, hungry kisses that felt divine and promised even greater pleasure could come. She didn’t want him ever to stop kissing her, didn’t want to stop kissing him. The sensual caresses drove everything from her mind. Only this, only him. She lifted her hand, combing fingers into his hair, holding him so she could kiss him back as fiercely as he was kissing her.

  Her curves melted into his hard planes, her body instinctively recognising his muscles. The way they felt around her, their strength at holding her. Making her his prisoner and his keeper. His hot body lay close; he threw his knee across hers. Teasingly heavy. She wanted the rest of his weight over her. She couldn’t prevent the parting of her legs, couldn’t stop the arch of her pelvis towards him. She moaned into his mouth.

  She wanted. Wanted, wanted, wanted…

  His hand came to rest on her lower belly, pressing on her, the weight a tiny taste of the delight of having his whole body over hers. His fingers spread on the flat of her stomach. Smoothing upwards. Skin on…skin.

  She pulled back sharply. Flashed open her eyes. Stared up at him in horror as she saw him looking down the length of her body. No, no and no again.

  She wrenched out of his hold, sitting up and scooting away. His surprise was total.

  ‘Sienna?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m really sorry.’ Her heart thudded. Her eyes threatened to spill tears of apology and frustration. ‘I really am sorry.’

  Rhys watched her run across the sand and swore sharply enough for the family group several feet away to turn around and frown at him. He felt a vague flush, slid back under the shade of the umbrella and strove for control. Anger, frustration and plain shock hit him. She’d done it again. Run out on him. Hell, was she some kind of warped tease?

  Instinct told him no. She’d felt genuine desire, genuine regret. Well, damn if she didn’t owe him an explanation—again. He packed away the remnants of the picnic with precise movements, then headed for the hostel.

  He walked straight into the dorm room he now knew to be hers. There seemed to be a
mass of women hanging there. They turned and stared at him as if he were an invading Martian. But Rhys was well used to walking into a room full of women—at the nurses’ stations, or the new interns. Addressing a bunch of women who were sending a variety of looks from under their lashes wasn’t something that intimidated or really even interested him. What interested him was that one woman.

  ‘Is Sienna here?’ He addressed them collectively.

  ‘Sure is.’ He recognised the speaker as one of the friends at the bar the night before.

  It was like the parting of the Red Sea. He looked where they separated and to where she sat on a bottom bunk, quiet and red-faced. Her annoyance and embarrassment were obvious and, yes, her upset. What was she afraid of? Surely not him?

  She stood. ‘Rhys, you can’t come in here.’

  ‘Bet you want to, though, don’t you?’ The South African again. Caustic delivery.

  Rhys ignored the stifled giggles. Time to turn on the charm. He was a Maitland—had the genes, the upbringing. He might loathe it but public speaking was a skill he could call on.

  ‘I’m sorry to butt in on you ladies, but I need to explain something to my friend here.’ He didn’t take his eyes off Sienna, but sensed the slight hostility in the room. It was as clear to them as it was to him that she was feeling edgy and that he was the cause. He needed to claim back some points—penitent man would be a good start. ‘You see—’ he gave a small shrug ‘—I owe her an apology.’ He didn’t know what for yet but they didn’t need to know that.

  All seven heads swivelled to Sienna. He felt the atmosphere soften.

  ‘You want to say sorry?’

  ‘Yeah. I’d say it all right now but I need some time with her to explain things properly. Alone.’

  He swallowed his smile at her obvious discomfort. Her big blues were fixed on him and the incredulity warring with anger was unbelievably amusing.