A Week to be Wild

by JC Harroway

  Not frosty, but not friendly either.

  He held out his arm, indicating the exit.

  Unfinished business? Why was he in New York? For her?

  She must have performed some jaw-dropping goldfish impersonation, because Vinnie answered for her.

  ‘She’s just finished for the day. She’d love to.’

  Jet lag, insomnia and stress—a combination disastrous for her usual quick wit and acidic put-downs.

  ‘I...’

  She couldn’t even string a sentence together to reprimand her heavy-handed assistant. All she could do was stare. Alex’s dark eyes were a magnet.

  ‘Please.’

  At last she saw a flicker there—one she’d thought she’d never have a chance to see again.

  Hope shocked her brain back to life. Vinnie had her bag in his hand now and was shoving it towards her and urging her to the exit.

  ‘I’ll finish up here, boss.’ He gave her a wink.

  She’d absolutely have to fire him. Tomorrow.

  She made the short journey outside on seriously wobbly legs. Alex, at her side, kept his hands to himself and Libby wasn’t sure whether to weep or climb over him and remind him how good they were together.

  Then she remembered the way she’d left him. Her fingers flexed. She craved the feel of him, but could she face his rejection? Had she broken their connection permanently?

  On the street, Alex ushered her inside the waiting car, following her inside and taking the seat opposite. The car pulled away from the kerb, entering the stream of evening traffic.

  She looked at him. For the first time free of the shock of seeing him here. The noises of the outside world vanished. Her mind cleared. They stared across the chasm separating them.

  Her eyes drank him in, cataloguing every minute detail of his beloved face. The smudged circles beneath his dark eyes, the day’s worth of stubble covering his jaw, the muscle ticking there. Perhaps he’d had as little sleep as her over the last twenty-four hours.

  His voice, when it came, washed over her, alerting every nerve ending with its low rumble.

  ‘You didn’t say goodbye.’

  His eyes were piercing, pinning her to the leather.

  Shame forced her to glance away. ‘I... I did.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not in person.’

  Her throat closed. ‘No.’

  I love you.

  Why was this so hard? Would he think her mad? He’d only asked to see her again. Why was her mind, currently struggling to think of anything, overthink this?

  ‘Why?’

  Good question. She met his stare again, heat blooming in her belly. ‘I’m a coward.’

  Nothing.

  ‘I’m scared, Alex.’ The words fled in a rush.

  A single nod and then he stayed silent, giving her the space she needed, time to turn the jumble in her head into words.

  ‘I’ve been scared for so long I’ve forgotten how to be anything else.’ Libby focussed on his eyes, their unique beauty a lifeline. Perhaps she could say what she had to say. She needed him to understand why she’d messed up so monumentally.

  ‘I held Callum in my arms that day I lost him. I watched the life drain out of him—watched the vibrant man I loved fade away.’ She stared harder, willing him to comprehend. Willing him to give her another chance. ‘I never want to go through that again.’ Her voice broke.

  He swallowed, his eyes glittering chips of amber. Still silent.

  She reached for his hand, almost sagging to the floor when his fingers squeezed hers. ‘I thought I couldn’t love again. But I can. Because I love you. And it terrifies me.’

  Air gusted out of him, his shoulders sagging. ‘Thank fuck.’

  He reached for her other hand, tugging her to the edge of the seat. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth and his gaze wandered her features as he cupped her face between his palms.

  ‘Because I love you, too, Libby. I followed you to tell you.’ His thumbs swiped at her cheeks. ‘I should have told you in France.’

  He stared with so much heat, so much passion, Libby expected her skin to scorch. It had been there all along, this searing connection. She’d just chosen to ignore it. For her sanity. Had taken the coward’s way out.

  Covering his hand with hers, she pressed his palm to her cheek, turning her head to place a kiss at its centre while her chest inched ever closer to exploding.

  ‘Short of begging you to love me back, I only had one other strategy.’

  She pressed her lips together, holding in a smile at the playful twist of his mouth and lifting her eyebrows. ‘And that was...?’

  He shrugged, a wicked spark flashing in his eyes. ‘Fucking you into submission.’

  A laugh burst from her, her tension dissipating. She went to him. She’d been away from him for too long. Had missed touching him, kissing him. Holding him. He caught her, strong arms banded around her back as she pushed him into the seat and straddled his lap.

  He cupped her waist with one arm, holding her close. ‘Libby...’

  Her mouth touched his and the fire reignited, flaring to life from the smouldering embers they’d left behind in France.

  She kissed him and giggled and spoke at the same time. ‘Well, that sounds fun.’

  She tunnelled her fingers into his hair, twisting them until his head dropped back on the seat behind him, and then she raised herself over him, deepening the kiss when his lips opened to welcome her.

  Then he shook his head, pulling away, his face serious. ‘No. There’ll be no more fucking.’

  Libby shuffled back. His hand gripped her, preventing her retreating completely.

  He gazed up at her, eyes brimming with love. ‘From now on we’ll be making love.’

  He cupped the back of her neck, bringing her close for another kiss.

  She laughed, breaking away to pepper kisses on his forehead, his cheeks and his closed eyes, loving the groan she pulled from him.

  He joined her, punctuating each frantic kiss with words. ‘Hard...’ kiss ‘...greedy...’ kiss ‘...fast or slow...’ kiss. ‘However you want it.’

  She smiled, kissing him back, keen to get started on all that loving. Then she sobered, glancing out of the window.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  She climbed from his lap, settling beside him and holding on tight to his hand in case he disappeared.

  He stared at her as if he couldn’t believe she was real. She knew the feeling. The comfort of his warm hand in hers was the only thing convincing her he was there.

  ‘Well, as you live here I was hoping you’d invite me to your apartment so we can make a start on that lovemaking.’

  He smacked his lips together, eyes glittering as he leaned closer.

  ‘Perhaps we could begin with some good, old-fashioned show and tell?’

  His accent grew haughtier, and the disparity between his cultured tone and the searing look in his eyes was enough to make her hot and achy.

  ‘You know how much I enjoy that. And it’s a particular skill of yours.’ He arched a brow, one finger tracing the top button of her blouse.

  She grinned, remembering the torture she’d inflicted on him that first time. ‘Good plan.’

  Her cheeks twitched, aching with the effort of holding in so much euphoria.

  He nodded, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. ‘Otherwise we could go to the apartment I’ve just bought here.’

  He flopped back into the luxuriant seat, tugging her onto his lap once more.

  ‘You’re joking?’

  She tried to think while his lips explored the base of her throat with nibbling kisses. He lived in England. Why purchase an apartment where he’d only spend a few weeks a year?

  ‘I never joke about business, Ms Noble.’ He tugged on her earlobe with
his lips, his words almost whispered. ‘I’ll be spending considerable time here in New York. I have a new business venture I’m exploring.’

  ‘You do?’

  He pulled back, his stare earnest. He gave a nod.

  ‘And you’re the best deal I’ve ever negotiated.’

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from OFF LIMITS by Clare Connelly.

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  Off Limits

  by Clare Connelly

  Prologue

  The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

  Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

  Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

  For nothing now can ever come to any good.

  —WH Auden

  ‘YOU’VE GOT THE Prime Minister calling in ten minutes.’

  Jack nods, showing not a flicker of response at the prospect of this. Then again, nothing about Jack Grant is what you’d expect. For a self-made billionaire-investor-cum-philanthropist-cum-sex-god, he is wild, disrespectful of authority and the establishment, and rough around the edges. Deliciously so.

  Take this situation: Jack, in his bed, naked as the day he was born, uncaring that he should have been at his desk an hour ago. That I can see most of his beautiful back and backside. That my insides are clenching with hot, steamy lust.

  ‘About...?’

  It’s a lazy drawl as he flips over and pierces me with those intelligent green eyes. His accent is pure Irish brogue. Like Colin Farrell after a night of cigarettes and booze: deep, hoarse and throaty.

  ‘The latest episode of The Great British Bake Off.’

  I roll my eyes. We’ve been negotiating to buy a huge swathe of Crown land for the last six months; it’s at the highest level of negotiation and, given the media interest, the Prime Minister has become involved.

  ‘What do you think?’

  His laugh is a rumble that barrels out of his chest. ‘Well, every man needs a good scone recipe.’

  ‘And you’ve got one?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He grins. It’s a grin that is at once devilish and charming, and I know how easy it must be for him to get women into bed. And that’s before you factor in the body, the money, the power.

  ‘Nine minutes,’ I snap.

  His grin unfurls like a ribbon on his face. My heart kerthunks. I ignore it. Stupid heart.

  ‘Did you book Sydney?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He arches a brow at my impatient tone and, as if to contradict it, stretches in the bed, his arms high over his head, his body gloriously on display for me.

  ‘And, Amber?’

  I don’t mean to sigh but when the Prime Minister’s office is calling I feel there should be some air of responsiveness. Jack, apparently, doesn’t agree.

  ‘All arranged.’

  Lucy’s sister is taking a year’s sabbatical from her job as an executive at a bank to manage the foundation’s start-up year. She’s insanely qualified and personally motivated.

  ‘Salary agreed; she’ll be based out of Edinburgh, as we discussed.’

  He nods, but makes no effort to move.

  ‘Seriously, Jack. Eight minutes. Get the hell up, already.’

  ‘Ouch. Did you get out of the wrong side of bed this morning?’

  He runs his fingers down his chest, drawing my attention to the ridges of his abdomen, the flesh so perfectly smooth and sculpted. My mouth is bone-dry.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re even crosser than usual,’ he teases, and my lips tighten impatiently.

  As it happens, he’s right. I got The Invitation this morning. The one that arrives every year, beckoning me to come and pay homage to my parents’ marriage.

  Ugh.

  It’s my least favourite social event—and the one time I’m forced to remember who I really am. The one time a year my parents recall me to the mother ship, reminding me that no matter what I do, professionally or personally, I’ll always be Gemma Picton. Lady Gemma Picton.

  Ugh.

  ‘Sit down. Tell me all about it.’

  He pats the bed beside him and I roll my eyes again, hoping he won’t know how sorely I’m tempted. Just once I imagine giving in to this—the electrical current that is arcing between us. I never would...never could. He is as off-limits as hell is hot—the stuff of fantasies and nightmares.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Personal stuff,’ I say, and he shrugs.

  But there’s curiosity in his eyes. A curiosity I have to ignore. Along with desire. Lust. Want. Need.

  We have our boundaries and we definitely know better than to cross them.

  Jack pushes the sheet off, exposing the tattoo that curls across his lower back and snakes around his hips to the tops of his legs. It must have hurt like hell to get it done—especially on the skin of his thighs, right near his cock.

  I asked him once why he’d got it. His answer? ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  He doesn’t care that I see him naked. It’s not the first time and undoubtedly won’t be the last. Sometimes I wonder if he’s goading me, waiting for me to react. After all, it’s classic workplace
sexual harassment.

  Except it isn’t. Because I’m not harassed.

  I’m amused. And more than a little turned on.

  In the two years since I started working for Jack I’ve probably seen him naked on average once per week. That’s over a hundred stare-fests and he is totally worth staring at. I don’t think he used to be like this. Before this there was her.

  Lucy.

  His wife.

  But she got sick and died, and two months later I came to work for him and he was like this. Dark and brooding and desirable and sexy and messed up and mourning and fascinating.

  This sleeping with anything in a skirt is post-Lucy. Same as the copious Scotch-drinking afterwards. It’s sensual self-flagellation but he won’t see it that way.

  So, no matter how much I want to stare at his naked arse, I know he’s for looking at—not touching. Like when Grandma used to take me shopping at her favourite Portmeirion boutique and I was allowed to stare at the intricate floral and botanical artwork for hours on end, but never, ever to touch.

  Because touching might lead to breaking—and, yes, touching Jack would, I fear, break me.

  ‘See something you like?’

  Another drawl—he’s so good at that. He lets words slide out of his mouth like liquid chocolate.

  ‘Nope.’ My smile is saccharine. ‘Seven minutes.’

  I spin on my heel and leave, a smile playing around my lips as desire pools between my legs.

  * * *

  Gemma is staring at me, and the mood I’m in I feel about two steps away from going all ‘Me Tarzan, You Jane’ on her. I want to grab her round the waist and pull her down on my length. No foreplay. No teasing. Just her...taking me deep.

  In my fantasy she’s not wearing panties and she’s left her brain at the door—because real-life Gemma would quote me a thousand reasons not to have sex even as she was moaning in my arms.

  Last night was fun. At least, it started off as fun. But the woman I brought here...Rebecca? Rowena?...talked too much.

  She’d wanted to be romanced.