by Nicola Marsh
‘I’m sorry for kissing you yesterday,’ I blurted, not sorry at all. ‘It was out of line. Blame it on my jet lag, concern over Remy and your unfailing knack of goading me.’
‘Glad to know it wasn’t my womanly charms,’ she said, her dry response tempered with a smile. ‘Honestly? Don’t worry about it. Forgotten, just like that.’
She snapped her fingers and damned if my ego didn’t take a hit.
Forgotten? That made one of us.
‘Anyway, got to go. Makayla’s taking me clubbing.’ She made it sound like her friend was dragging her for a root canal. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, see you.’ I watched her walk out the door, my gaze riveted to her ass.
She worked those black pants like nothing else and I scowled, snatching up the croissant and jamming it into my mouth.
The buttery goodness melted on my tongue and I wondered if its creator would taste as good.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Abby
I’D ENVISAGED EMBUE being a one-room dive with mirrored walls, strobing lights and ear-splitting techno.
Thankfully, I was wrong.
‘Isn’t this place the coolest?’ Makayla clung to my arm and did a little jive on the spot. ‘I’ve heard rave reviews about it but this surpasses my expectations by a mile.’
Mine too. Everything about the nightclub screamed class, from the polished floorboards and soaring ceilings to the chandelier hanging over the DJ’s console, placed smack-bang in the middle of the dance floor.
The dance floor circled the DJ like a giant shimmering oil slick, with golden velvet lounges in booths surrounding it. Cream and gold were everywhere, from the chiffon-covered walls to the coasters.
The entire effect was upscale elegance rather than downtown disco.
I loved it.
As for the music, I actually recognised the song, an upbeat nineties number that made me sway a little.
I elbowed Makayla. ‘Should I make a confession now that I’ve never been to a nightclub?’
Makayla gripped my arm tighter and swung me around to face her. ‘What the... I could’ve sworn you just said you’d never been to a nightclub?’
I held up my free hand. ‘The truth and nothing but the truth.’
‘What are you, a nun?’ She released my arm, only to slug it. ‘Girlfriend, either you’ve been in a cult or kidnapped by a madman who kept you locked up, because everyone on the planet has been to a nightclub at some point in their lives.’
Being part of the perfect Prendigasts had been like living in a cult, before being virtually kidnapped by Bardley and living in a prison of my own making.
‘I got married at twenty-one.’
Makayla shook her head, a riot of glossy red curls tumbling over her bare shoulders dusted in glitter. ‘But didn’t you ever sneak into a nightclub underage? Go out with your friends from school?’
‘I went to an all-girls private school and no, we didn’t sneak out.’
We didn’t do much of anything bar go on expensive shopping trips and have mani-pedis in the private comfort of our mansions. Not that I could call any of the girls I’d hung out with as friends. They’d been the bitchiest group I’d ever encountered, clones of their mothers whose only ambition was to find a rich, upper-class guy and marry him.
All they’d ever talked about was who had the latest designer bag, who had the most expensive car sitting in the garage for when they turned eighteen and which guys from the elite boys’ schools were the best to shag.
How I’d longed to be part of those groups of girls who hung around together at the local shops, swapping frozen yoghurts and gossip while they waited for the school bus instead of Daddy’s chauffeur.
Those girls had looked genuinely happy, despite their ripped blazers and holey jumpers. My folks had taught me from a young age that money could buy anything. They’d been wrong. I couldn’t buy happiness, the kind I’d seen on those girls’ faces.
‘Sweetie, you need to start living.’ Makayla gave me a gentle nudge towards the dance floor. ‘Starting now.’
I wanted to let loose but I caught sight of myself in a floor-to-ceiling-length mirror and baulked.
Whereas Makayla fit in here with her dramatic make-up, sexily mussed hair, towering stilettos and a strapless figure-hugging purple mini, I looked like a grandma with my blow-dried hair, clear lip gloss and mascara, moderate heels and a staple sleeveless LBD that ended at my knees.
Who knew little black dresses had gone out of fashion around the same time I’d gone out of circulation?
‘You’re dancing. Now.’ Makayla shoved me again and this time I let myself be propelled onto the dance floor, joining the throngs of writhing bodies moving in time to an old pop song about spinning around.
I liked music and always had the latest stuff on a playlist while I baked. But bopping around a kitchen and moving my body in front of a bunch of strangers were worlds apart.
Thankfully, nobody gave a flying fig as I started to shuffle my feet. Allowed my shoulders to relax and my hips to sway to the music.
‘There you go. You’re dancing and the ceiling hasn’t caved in.’ Makayla put her hand over her mouth in mock horror. ‘Wow, you may even start having fun.’
‘Bite me,’ I yelled above the music, moving my body faster and adding a shimmy for good measure.
Makayla laughed and flung her arms in the air, her body sensual and sinuous as she executed moves I could never dream of pulling off.
After the first song, I lost track of how many we danced to. Daggy songs from the eighties mingled with the latest techno beats as I danced my ass off. Wiggling my hips. Shimmying my shoulders. Not caring that I jiggled in places I hadn’t jiggled in a long time.
I enjoyed it. Until an old boyfriend of Makayla’s slunk up to us and I quickly realised that three was a crowd.
I tapped her on the arm and gestured towards the bar. ‘I’ll leave you two alone.’
‘You don’t have to go.’ Makayla’s gaze swung between the guy and me and I could tell she was torn.
‘Seriously, I’m zonked anyway. I’ll just have a drink, then take a taxi home.’
‘You sure?’
I nodded. ‘Absolutely.’ I leaned in and pecked her on the cheek. ‘Go have fun.’
Still Makayla wavered. ‘But tonight was supposed to be about you and finding some hot guy to end your drought.’
‘Another time,’ I said, giving her a gentle nudge in the direction of the guy waiting patiently for us to finish our conversation. ‘Go. Be naughty enough for the both of us.’
A wicked gleam lit her eyes. ‘I think I can manage that.’
I laughed and headed off the dance floor. I’d barely made it onto the polished boards before the guy had swept Makayla into his arms and they were doing some weird ritualistic dance that almost looked obscene.
Makayla was a lovely girl, I liked her a lot, and for one fleeting moment I wished I had half the va-va-voom factor she did.
With a sigh, I turned.
And ran smack-bang into Tanner.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tanner
DOING THE ROUNDS of my clubs after putting in two long days at the patisserie wasn’t my idea of fun, but I’d been away for almost a year and I wanted to do a stealth visit to see how the managers and staff were coping.
I needn’t have worried. I only hired the best and the four clubs I’d visited so far were operating with precision. Embue was the last on my list and, like the rest, the managers were on top of things and the place was packed.
I’d planned on spending thirty minutes mingling, chatting with staff, getting a general feel where I could liven things up.
That plan shot to shit when I spied Abby. Writhing on the dance floor, arms flung wide, hips swaying, out of time with the music but dancing to some imagina
ry rhythm in her head.
Damned if it wasn’t the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.
So I watched. My cock throbbing in time with some crap techno beat. Wanting her.
I saw some guy sleaze up to Makayla and they started chatting like long-lost lovers, all over each other. Leaving Abby a third wheel and about to leave.
She strode off the dance floor and twenty guys in the vicinity swivelled their heads to watch.
Not that she wore anything revealing. In fact, her modest black dress was practically outlandish in a sea of scantily clad women. But it was the way she carried herself. The set of her shoulders. The tilt of her head. The way her hips moved.
She exuded class. And every horndog in the place wanted to see if they could get behind that cool exterior and see how far she could be pushed to get off.
When one guy put down his drink and walked towards her, I made a move, cutting him off. ‘Sorry, buddy, she’s mine.’
A possessive statement I had no right making but no way in hell would I stand by and watch Abby have to fend off a bunch of horny pricks.
I reached out to tap her on the shoulder when she spun around and smacked into me.
‘Whoa.’ My arms shot out to grab her, her look of abject horror at finding me here making me want to tease the hell out of her. ‘You’ve got to stop throwing yourself at me like this.’
She recovered her wits and her balance but I didn’t release her. I liked having her this close, her nipples grazing my chest, her palpable heat warming my body, the sweat-slicked sheen to her skin.
She looked radiant.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I own the place.’ I shrugged, like it meant little, when in fact every club I owned was testament to how far I’d come—and how far I’d proved Dad wrong. ‘Haven’t been here in a year so after I locked up at the patisserie, I’ve done the rounds of my clubs, checking up on things.’
To my surprise, she hadn’t moved. In fact, now that she’d recovered from the shock, she seemed perfectly relaxed having me hold her arms like I wouldn’t let go.
‘The diligent boss, huh?’
‘Something like that.’
We ran out of conversation, our gazes locked in some kind of invisible heated battle, as I wondered what it was about this woman that rattled my cage.
I wanted her with a fierceness I hadn’t felt for a long time. If ever. I dated. I screwed. I didn’t do commitment. It worked well for me. Sex as exercise. Sex for fun. Sex with women who knew the score and didn’t have any expectations.
Women nothing like Abby.
Abby would be a hearts and flowers kind of girl. She’d told me about her bastard ex and the emotional abuse, but who knew what kind of expectations she’d put on the guy? Maybe he hadn’t lived up to her high standards? Maybe he’d lashed out verbally when he couldn’t handle it?
The moment I thought it, I felt guilty. Just because I wanted Abby and knew that having her would be a screw-up of monstrous proportions, I was trying to find excuses and maligning her in the process. Not cool.
‘I should go.’ She tried to back away, and the smart thing to do would be to release her.
I tightened my hold. ‘Would you like a tour? You can have a drink and relax in the VIP room, then I’ll get you a taxi.’
A refusal hovered on her lips. I saw them tremble with it before she clamped them tight and nodded.
Mentally calling myself everything from putz to dickhead, with a long list of obscenities in between, I led her to a shimmering gold curtain in the back corner and pulled it aside.
‘After you.’
She hesitated, as if unsure of my intentions. Smart girl.
‘What’s wrong?’
She glanced sideways at me and, rather than see trepidation in her eyes, I glimpsed excitement. ‘I’ve danced for about two hours nonstop and I’m about to faint if I don’t get a drink. Could we skip the long tour and head straight to the bar?’
I smiled, her honesty refreshing. ‘Sure, this way.’
We passed through the VIP room, filled with the usual crowd of elite sportsmen, WAGs, models and a visiting rap star from the US. Abby ogled a little but I had a feeling it was more about the way the women were draped all over the men than in any recognition for the VIPs.
For a woman in her early twenties, she was strangely naïve. Like she hadn’t really lived. Rich girls like her would’ve gone to the best private school and been privy to parties from a young age. Sure, she might have married young but she’d been single for a year. She must’ve let loose over the last twelve months. So why the air of innocence that hovered over her like a cloud?
‘Through here.’ I slid a card over a digital lock and waited for the beep before pushing the door open.
Though no one used this room but me and I hadn’t been in here for a year, I knew it would be immaculate and well stocked. My staff were nothing but professionals and word would’ve travelled fast from the other clubs that I’d probably drop by tonight.
‘What would you like to drink?’
The door slid soundlessly shut behind us and I saw her glance at it, hesitate, before squaring her shoulders like she’d come to a decision.
She probably didn’t trust me. I understood. But she had nothing to fear. I wouldn’t mess with the status quo, no matter how much I wanted to ruffle that cool façade. Remy was too important to me, and I’d already screwed up enough in my lifetime to add yet another thing to feel guilty for.
‘Sparkling water if you’ve got it, please.’
‘For you, babe, anything.’ I flashed her a quick grin, surprised when she smiled back. Maybe all that dancing had loosened up her reservations? ‘Take a seat.’
But she didn’t. Instead, she strolled around the room, inspecting it. ‘What is this place?’
‘My hideout.’ I grabbed a bottle of mineral water out of the bar fridge, unscrewed the cap and poured it into a long glass, adding a sliver of lemon. ‘When hosting a bunch of selfish, spoiled brats in the VIP room, I need a place to escape, and this is it.’
‘It’s nice,’ she said, trailing her hand over the butter-soft black leather sofas, the small glass-topped desk in the corner, the display cabinet where I kept my awards. ‘These all yours?’
‘No, I mug every sportsman who comes in here and stash the loot in here,’ I deadpanned, handing her the drink.
‘Thanks.’ She took the glass and downed the mineral water in several gulps as I stared at the almost convulsive movement of her throat and desperately tried not to imagine her doing something similar to me.
When she finished, she handed me the glass with a sheepish smile. ‘I was parched.’
‘Want a top-up?’
‘Please.’ She turned back to the awards as I poured her another glass. ‘You’ve won a lot of stuff in the hospitality industry.’
‘Awards are ego-strokers.’ I handed her the glass, forcing myself to look away this time. I couldn’t be any harder if I tried, grateful that I’d installed a bathroom in here too so the minute I put her in a cab I could take a cold shower. ‘I prefer to see results in profit margins.’
She stilled, sadness creeping across her face. ‘My father used to say that a lot. Always about the profit margins.’
‘That’s what matters most to savvy businessmen. That and a healthy portfolio.’
She screwed up her nose and damned if it wasn’t the cutest thing I’d ever seen. ‘Is that what you’re all about? Because those tattoos speak more about rebelling against convention than caring about portfolios.’
‘What’s with you and my tats?’ I shrugged out of my jacket, flung it on a sofa and rolled up my sleeves. ‘Here. Look your fill. Then judge me some more.’
I had no idea where my outburst came from but I felt like a jackass the moment she blushed in mortification.
‘I didn’t mean to judge—I mean, I just haven’t seen tattoos up close and—’
‘And you still haven’t,’ I muttered, hating that she’d touched a sore spot without knowing it and I’d reacted accordingly.
My tats were more than art.
They defined me.
At a time in my life when I hadn’t been comfortable in my own skin, I took on a new one.
And having a woman like Abby judge me as just another deadhead rebel because of my tats really pissed me off.
‘This would be looking at them up close,’ I growled, trying to tamp down my anger and failing as I unbuttoned my shirt and shrugged it off. ‘Here. Take a good look. See if you can figure me out.’
I stood in front of her, hands on hips, defiant and oddly vulnerable. I shouldn’t care what she thought of me. After Remy was back on his feet, I’d be outta here and back on the road, heading to Bangkok or Ibiza or Munich, creating successful clubs that would define me more than my tats.
But I did care. And that was what pissed me off the most.
I shouldn’t give a flying fuck what Abby thought of me.
Yet I did.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her apology soft and uncertain, her gaze riveted to my chest. ‘I’ve offended you.’
My anger dimmed a little as she scanned my chest as if studying for an art exam. Her hungry gaze gobbling me up and coming back for seconds. She couldn’t look away.
I’d never been studied so closely, her scrutiny disconcerting. It felt like she could see through the tats to the real me beneath, the scared little boy I’d once been, desperate for approval.
‘You’re beautiful,’ she said, taking a step closer to study me, gnawing on her bottom lip a little, the innocuous action making me want to throw her down on the sofa and take her.
Not ‘the tats are beautiful’, but ‘you’re beautiful’, her simple statement deflating what was left of my resentment.
Had it been a slip of the tongue or had she meant it? Because no one saw past my tats and a few moments ago she’d been like the rest, judging me for them.