by Nicola Marsh
So he was a guy? Sue him.
‘And here’s a heads up. My motivation for kissing you back then is irrelevant. Because all that matters now is I sure as hell want you. Right now, if I had my way.’ He tugged on her hand and she leaned in close. ‘I’d clear this table, hoist you onto it, and have you out of those pants in two seconds flat.’
Her eyes widened, locked on his. Thankfully she’d lost the injured lamb look. He could handle her cool and controlled. He didn’t do her insecure side well. It unnerved him, seeing the woman who’d verbally fended off his barbs and then some all soft and susceptible.
It made him feel stuff he didn’t want to, so he regained control the only way he knew how.
‘I’d spread your legs, start at your right knee and kiss my way upward. Nipping your inner thigh…gentle bites.’
Her sharp intake of breath spurred him on.
‘I’d tease my way along your hip, across your belly to the other side, where I’d kiss you all the way down. Hot, open-mouthed kisses, until you were squirming for me.’ He locked gazes with her. ‘Begging for it.’
She groaned.
He knew the feeling.
‘Keep going,’ she said, squirming in her seat.
‘Then I’d lick my way up your thigh until I could hardly control myself. But I’d taste you, circling you with my tongue, sucking you into my mouth until you came—’
‘Patrick, please…’
He released her hand in her lap and edged over, cupping her mound. She cursed, the word spilling from her lips as much of a turn-on as her reaction to him here in the boardroom.
The fact she was letting him do this to her here, with the risk of anyone walking in, heightened the pleasure.
‘Yeah, I’d love to be doing that to you right now, but this will have to suffice.’
He pushed the heel of his hand into her and she ground against it. It took several small, circular undulations of for her to come, her fingers digging into his thigh while she lifted off the chair slightly.
They never broke eye contact the entire time, so he saw everything. Her need, her passion, her release.
And it humbled him in a way he’d never dreamed possible.
If he’d thought he was in over his head last night, her response to him now made him feel like a drowning man without a chance of being saved.
The door creaked open and they sprang apart. She muttered underneath her breath: he tried to act as if wanting to tear this woman’s clothes off every time he saw her wasn’t all that unusual.
Sex…nothing more, nothing less. Maybe if he mentally recited it often enough he’d believe it.
He shot her a glance but she stared straight ahead, fixed on the models strutting through the room in preliminary designs, the pinkness of her cheeks the only giveaway sign that she wasn’t the same über-cool princess he remembered.
Fine, let them concentrate on business for now, but when they’d wrapped up here they needed to sort out where and when they were going to get this thing out of their system—for he had a feeling he wouldn’t be functioning on any useful level until he did.
Sapphie had learned from a young age to shield her real feelings.
The expectations associated with being the eldest child, the one with highest grades, the responsible one, had pretty much ensured she was under scrutiny as heir apparent to run Seaborns from the time she hit high school.
Maybe even before, considering her mum had spent every Saturday afternoon poring over the company’s finances and making Sapphie sit next to her.
When kids her age had been riding their scooters or playing netball on the weekend, she’d been tagging along on buying expeditions, or scouting the opposition, or hanging around at fancy tea parties, listening to her mum talk shop.
Sure, she’d learned to love Seaborns, and had strived to gain great grades to enter her chosen Economics and Management degree, but over the years it had become ingrained to maintain a calm outer persona. To pretend everything was right with the world. When in fact she’d had bad hair days and hated the school bully and crushed on the football captain.
That persona would serve her well now, when she had to sit next to Patrick during a preview and pretend he hadn’t just rocked her world again.
What he’d done…What she’d let him do…
Her fingers convulsed, digging into her thighs. She’d never been wild or wanton. Maybe that was her problem. When an experienced playboy like Patrick glanced sideways at her she was ready to jump him.
She blamed Ruby and all that talk of getting laid. Sure, it had been a while since she’d been with a guy, but she hadn’t really been interested, what with the fatigue.
Ironic that coming back to work and throwing herself into this campaign was all about physically proving she could handle leading Seaborns, but what if there was a better way to test her endurance? Or at least a more fun way?
For she had little doubt sex with Patrick would involve an aerobic capacity workout to push her to the limit.
As if sensing her wicked, wayward thoughts he cast her a glance, which she deftly deflected by pretending to concentrate on the models strutting into the room.
Thankfully he returned to muttering into his smartphone, dictating changes and minor adjustments on the gowns to follow up later: hem too low here, stray seam there. He was so focussed, so tuned in to his work, she couldn’t help but stare a little.
He’d surprised her. She’d wondered if he could pull off his mega idea for old-world Hollywood glamour, and by the looks of the early designs he’d come through in a big way.
It pained her to admit, even to herself, that she’d doubted him. But she had, and now she was going to have to eat her words.
How could the guy who’d laughed his way through school before absconding to Paris be responsible for these exquisite designs?
She glanced at the models, poised in a holding pattern on a makeshift runway, stunned anew by the colours and gowns before her eyes.
A riot of rich hues: deep crimson, emerald, peacock-blue. Lush satins, shimmering silks. Strapless evening gowns. Timeless cocktail frocks. Curves and class. Absolutely stunning.
Patrick might not have personally drawn the designs, but he’d come up with the concept, had supervised the designers night and day to get them to this point.
Not only did the guy have a sound business head, he had creativity to burn.
And not just for this fashion show.
She resisted the urge to squirm in her seat—and tried to ignore the occasional brush of his shoulder against hers or the touch of his thigh pressing close as he leaned over to point out a minor detail. Perfectly innocuous actions that shouldn’t have made her burn but she did. For him. With an unrelenting heat that sparked every time he touched her and shot off at tangents throughout her body, zapping and scalding and corroding her resistance slowly but surely.
This wasn’t good.
Their bathroom interlude should have taken the edge off her sudden interest in seeing him naked.
Instead it had put her on some heightened awareness where having him near sent her pheromones into overdrive.
The preview concluded way too quickly. Serge departed and the models filed out after him, leaving her rueing the approaching time where she’d have to do some fast thinking, fast talking, or both.
She’d had an orgasm.
In Fourde Fashion’s boardroom.
With an unlocked door.
Seconds before people had come traipsing in.
It had been phenomenal, but the fact she was becoming like him—reckless, live in the moment—was not good.
That might have been one of her goals after leaving Tenang—to make the most of every second and not dwell on things she couldn’t change—but now she had Patrick urging her, how far would she go to test her newfound strength?
Pushing it physically was one thing, but seeing how far she could push with Patrick…
Danger with a capital D.
For
sex with a guy like him could become addictive, and she had no intention of getting hooked.
‘Thoughts?’
He really didn’t want to know.
By the amused glint in his eyes, maybe he did.
She took a deep breath and pushed her notepad towards him. ‘On what you’ve done? Amazing. Here are a few things I jotted down to capitalise on the theme you’re going for.’
He sped read her dot-point list, nodding thoughtfully, pen tapping against the pad, so absorbed in business that she wondered if she’d dreamt the whole dirty-talk orgasm incident.
‘Great pick-ups. I’ll get onto Serge right away to get the designers to incorporate.’
He glanced up and her heart leapt.
‘Sure Ruby’s the only creative genius in your family?’ He pointed at the list. ‘These are insightful suggestions.’
Chuffed by his praise, she shrugged. ‘This coming from the guy who has single-handedly come up with an amazing concept and is seeing it through to the most glorious designs I’ve ever seen.’
He winked. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’
That was what she was afraid of.
Now was the time she had to lay down the law about mixing business with pleasure, about setting boundaries. But with her body still humming and her mind still reeling at how sexual he made her feel, maybe now wasn’t the best time.
He touched her arm, the barest brush of his fingertips against her skin, and she jumped.
‘Your reaction just answered my next question.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That until we get this thing out of our systems are we going to be useless working together?’
She should disagree. Should give him a spiel about her ability to remain professional and focussed at all times.
Totally hypocritical, considering she’d almost screamed his name less than thirty minutes ago.
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Damned if I know.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. It did little to clear the frown above it. ‘We have three weeks left ’til Fashion Week, so the next seven days are crucial in finalising the designs and incorporating changes.’
No argument there.
‘That means we both need to work our butts off without interruptions.’ He sent her a pointed glare. ‘Or distractions.’
‘Hey, I’m not the one going around…’ She trailed off, unwilling to articulate exactly what he’d been doing to her. ‘So you’re saying we work apart?’
Was that even feasible with the workload they had?
He nodded, and while her head said this was the perfect solution, her body wailed a loud, resounding nooooo!
‘We talk on the phone, e-mail, Skype. But this?’ He gestured to the limited space between them. ‘Too distracting when I can’t keep my hands off you.’
His declaration soothed her wailing body somewhat.
‘But some time in the future, when the campaign is done…’ He snagged a tendril curling around her ear and wound it slowly around his finger, caressing the top of her ear, tracing its shape, sending a shiver of longing vibrating downwards. ‘We play.’
How two words could hold so much promise she’d never know.
‘Define play.’
His mouth eased into a breath-stealing grin. ‘You and me. “Do not Disturb” sign. And that box I promised you. Maybe two.’
Her body gave a betraying howl of longing.
‘Your stamina’s that good?’
‘You bet.’ He leaned close, his lips grazing her cheek, and she clamped down on the urge to turn her head a fraction and ram her mouth against his. ‘And I can’t wait to prove it.’
Oh, boy.
‘Sound doable?’
She—it—was extremely doable.
‘Sure.’ She nodded, her insides trembling with need, as she gathered up her work paraphernalia.
‘Sapphire?’
She couldn’t stop, for if she did she’d never make it out of here without flinging herself at him.
‘Yeah?’ she mumbled, trying to stuff her laptop into her bag with limited success—until she realised she was trying to force it into her handbag.
‘You know time apart will feed my hunger for you?’
She gulped.
If they were this turned on now, imagine what time apart would do?
‘And while we focus on business this next week it doesn’t rule out phone sex.’
A ripple of pleasure spread through her at the thought.
‘I’ve never done phone sex,’ she said, sounding like an inexperienced neophyte but not caring. She had a feeling this guy would be teaching her a plethora of unspoken delights.
‘Then this is going to be fun.’
He brushed a kiss across her lips and she let him, lingering a few seconds longer than necessary, aware it would be their last physical contact for a long seven days.
When the need to linger became a driving need to straddle him, she yanked away and grabbed her stuff.
She strode for the door, desperate to put some distance between them. With her hand on the handle and a safe space between them, she said, ‘Patrick?’
‘Yeah?’
Her only consolation was that he looked half as dazed as she was.
‘Better make that three boxes.’
CHAPTER SIX
SAPPHIE LASTED A whole three days without succumbing to the temptation of seeing Patrick’s face.
Then he sent her a text, citing an urgent Skype meeting, and she caved.
Purely business, of course. And the fact she spent ten minutes primping in front of a mirror? It was the usual routine she’d do before any work meeting.
The part where her palms grew clammy as she swiped on mascara and scrubbed off her lippy twice before settling on the perfect shade was pure feminine preening.
She had four more days before he made good on his promise. Just the two of them and a decadent weekend. With boxes.
She’d been a smart-ass, taunting him at the conclusion of their last face-to-face meeting, but deep down she was a quivering mess of confusion and nerves and lust. The kind of lust she’d never experienced. The kind of lust guaranteed to turn her into a fool.
She didn’t suffer fools lightly, and respected hard work and dedication in comparison with deceitful women who faked helplessness in order to score points with men. The type of women Patrick usually hung out with if the internet was anything to go by.
It had been a stupid, spur-of-the moment decision to check out his more recent past, spurred by two glasses of Chardon-nay and a rampant curiosity.
It had been the end of a long eighteen-hour day—the day after she’d seen him; a day in which she’d determinedly buried herself in work to erase the lingering memory of his touch, and her response.
The wine had helped her wind down but it hadn’t taken the edge off her curiosity and she’d succumbed to temptation.
The internet had been enlightening, to say the least, and had provided her with a plethora of images and articles. Usu-ally depicting Patrick with a stunning supermodel on his arm, laughing into the camera, with a different country landscape in the background. From Santorini to Monte Carlo, Nice to Barcelona, Patrick was there, partying his way through Eu-rope.
She’d given up after the tenth page. The endless hits had been rather depressing.
He’d lived such an exciting life amid glamorous people while she’d spent the last ten years devoting hers to Seaborns.
She didn’t regret a single moment—discounting the last year when she’d been an idiot in shouldering the burden alone—and still experienced a thrill when she walked into their amazing showroom. But seeing pictorial evidence of Patrick’s lifestyle reinforced what she’d always felt around him: gauche, prim, floundering a little.
And envious. She’d always been a tad envious of his ability to charm people, his ease to cruise through life without a care in the world, his natural exuberance that made everyone around him smile.
If anything, those images had reinforced what she already knew deep down: that Patrick was way different and always had been. Back in high school he’d annoyed her, so what had changed now? He was still brash and cocky and charming, and had waltzed into this new Fourde Fashion with the ease of a practised CEO.
As far as she could tell from her research he’d been a minion in Paris, so this position was a massive boost up the corporate ladder for him. From what she’d been able to find of his professional life, that was. There’d been a glut of social stuff and pics, and nada on his work. She’d found it odd but had been too depressed by the gorgeous glamazons on his arm in every photo to worry about it.
And that exacerbated her annoyance—the fact he’d probably been handed this job on a silver platter and would rock it because he had the backing of his family name.
The irony wasn’t lost on her: people would say the same about her and Seaborns. But there was a difference. She’d been groomed from a young age to take over, had acted in accordance because of it. Had made sacrifices, had never lost sight of the end goal, had strived to be the best leader this jewellery company had ever seen.
Could Patrick say the same? Doubtful.
For a guy who’d spent his final year doodling and folding origami figures with his study notes he’d come a long way.
And judging by this current show he was nailing it too.
Admiration tempered her annoyance at his glib, charmed life. The guy might have skived off during that final year at high school but he was putting in the hard yards now.
And she admired hard work. She understood it. What she didn’t understand was her undeniable, clamouring attraction to him.
She felt good around him, in a way she hadn’t in a long time. Her skin tingled, her blood pounded and she felt alive.
Proving she could physically handle her role as Seaborns’ boss was one thing, but handling whatever Patrick dished out took her recovery to a whole other level.
Matching him sexually would push her out of her comfort zone, and it would take the edge off this insane lust she had for him.