The Millionaire's Proposition

by Avril Tremayne

  ‘Want to borrow my boat in the morning?’ Brodie asked.

  Scott smiled—his all okay here smile. ‘No, I’m good. She’s all yours.’ Oh, God, no! He’d said it again. All yours.

  ‘I think we both know, Scott, that she’s all yours. But if you’ll take my advice you won’t take too long to claim her—because Kate doesn’t strike me as the type to wait forever.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  KATE WOKE ON Sunday with full-blown jitters.

  Because she didn’t have a clue what she was going to offer Scott for Play Time at noon.

  It was almost more than her tired, slightly sunburned body could manage just to get out of bed, let alone plan a fantasy, because yesterday’s sailing lesson had been the most full-on physical three hours she’d ever spent.

  Sailing was as freeing, as exhilarating, as wonderful as she’d always thought it would be—with an excellent side benefit: all that hauling of sheets and dodging of booms, being ordered around and shoved all over the deck by Brodie and his two cohorts, had left her with no time to think about Scott. Or about their upcoming Play Time either.

  The guys had taken her out for a congratulatory drinking session afterwards, because apparently she had what it took, and by the time Kate had got home, she’d been so tired she’d fallen into bed.

  She’d slept for a full three hours before thoughts of Scott had niggled her into wakefulness. And then had come the night-long tossing and turning she was learning to expect.

  Fractured sleep, painful dreams, tortured thoughts. Wondering how Scott had felt, knowing she was on the water with his best friend. Rethinking every look, every word from Friday night. Trying to figure out what was behind the anger Scott refused to unleash—was it the way he felt about her, or residual mistrust from the eight-year-old Chantal/Brodie situation? Hoping he hadn’t—please, please, please—voided their contract by touching another woman.

  After all that it was no wonder she was devoid of ideas.

  Arabian nights, pirate and tavern wench, boss and secretary—all of which she’d considered—just seemed stupid.

  How she wished she’d never thought of writing fantasies into the contract. She hated Play Time. Hated it!

  So much so that in a fit of pique—yes, pique!—she decided to wear her most complicated dress. Buttons and zips and ties, with an exotic fold or two. An origami nightmare of a dress. Because Scott deserved to have to fight his way through to her for a change, rather than have her laying it all out for him to take.

  He’d said the first time they met that for her he could get a little ‘gladiatorial’—so let him prove it by fighting his way past her dress! In fact, she would make it harder. She would blindfold him! And what was more, she would give him a time limit.

  That was a good enough Play Time for her.

  Scott buzzed on the dot of noon—he was nothing if not punctual—and she let him into the building without waiting to hear his voice.

  ‘We only have an hour,’ Kate said, all brisk and businesslike as she opened the door to him, holding two silk scarves at the ready.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing to do with Brodie, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

  ‘I’m not wondering. Are you wondering?’

  ‘About Brodie?’

  He just looked at her.

  ‘Oh, do you mean am I wondering about you and the hens on Friday night?’ she asked, and eked out a tinkling laugh. ‘No. You would have texted me, wouldn’t you, if anything had happened?’ She was forcing the panic back. ‘And anyway…well, pacta sunt servanda, right? Agreements must be kept. And as I recall, that was your sticking point. Fidelity.’

  ‘Pacta sunt servanda,’ he repeated. ‘You do remember how that legal talk turns me on, don’t you?’

  Her breath caught in her throat. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that why you’re doing it?’

  ‘The more turned on you are, the faster we’ll be, right?’

  He didn’t like that—she could tell by the way his whole face tightened. He walked past her and laid a flat parcel on her dining table.

  ‘Stand still while I do this,’ she said, coming up behind him.

  And, although he stiffened, he let her tie the scarf over his eyes.

  ‘Play Time,’ she announced.

  The set of his mouth was grim as she led him carefully into the bedroom, over to the bed. ‘Sit,’ Kate said.

  But Scott did more than sit. He flopped onto his back, lying there as though he didn’t give a damn what she did to him, and Kate hesitated, wondering if he didn’t want her today. If he didn’t want her any more, period.

  Pulse jittering, she looked at his body, laid out on the bed for her, wondering how she would be able to bear that…and saw that he was hard. She hadn’t even touched him and he was aroused—whether he wanted to be or not.

  It took the edge off her sudden panic to know that whatever his I give up attitude was about, it wasn’t a lack of desire. She could work with that. She would make this so good for him he wouldn’t be able to pretend he didn’t want her.

  ‘I’m going to blindfold myself now,’ she told him, knowing how disorientating it must be for a control freak like Scott not to know what was happening. ‘No peeking today—by either of us. And no speaking either.’

  ‘No—?’ Short, tense pause. ‘No speaking, Kate?’

  ‘No. Just…feeling…’

  Scott’s lips tightened but he said nothing.

  And then Kate tied her own scarf and felt her way onto the bed. She lay next to him, turned to him, kissed him. A long, lush moan of a kiss. Not being able to see, she was even more conscious than usual of the uncompromising firmness of his mouth as he stayed stock-still for her to explore. The warmth of it, the taste, the way it fitted so perfectly against her own.

  Slowly the tension left him, and at last he kissed her back, his tongue sliding into her mouth, and then he was taking over, reaching everywhere. Thank God.

  A moment later his hands were wandering over her fully clothed body. Traversing the cotton of her dress. Pausing, testing, assessing the fastenings, the barriers.

  Kate’s task was easier. She slid her hands under his T-shirt, smoothing them over his chest. She loved his chest. The breadth and strength of it, the texture of his warm skin, the spread of hair. The picture of him, flat on his back on her bed, was so strong in her mind…but the fact she couldn’t see it with her eyes somehow made the drug of touching him more potent. As if she could reach right through his chest and into his heart with nothing but the pads of her exploring fingers.

  A push, a nudge, and his T-shirt was up, over his head, off. She checked quickly that the scarf was still secure around his eyes, and then her hands moved to his jeans. Unbuttoning, unzipping as his breathing turned harsh and laboured. She loved the way his breaths came like that when he was excited, almost past bearing but trying to control it—control himself, control everything.

  She straddled him, facing his feet—which might have felt weird if they hadn’t both been masked, but now felt perfect. Her core was on his warm skin, just above the band of his boxer briefs. Just that was enough for her to long to have him inside her. She started pushing his jeans down his legs, hands stroking as she leaned further forward with each push. She loved his legs. Long, hard, strong, the perfect amount of hair. Down, down, down. And then—stop.

  She’d forgotten about his sneakers. Well, blindfolded or not, she could undo a shoe. She fumbled with the laces, wrenched the sneakers off, threw them. They landed on the floor with a soft thud. Next she pushed his jeans off, threw them too. Started to turn around.

  But Scott kept her exactly where she was with a hand on her back. She got the message and stopped, on her knees, one either side of his hips. Stayed…waited. What was he going to do?

  And then the hand on her back was gone and both Scott’s hands were under her dress, reaching between her spread thighs, snagging against the French knickers she’d put on today b
efore she’d come up with a plan that meant he wouldn’t actually see the frothy pink lace.

  He didn’t seem to care about the lace, because his fingers were impatient, almost rough, as he yanked the knickers aside, his fingers sliding into her drenching wetness, in and out, until her breaths were nothing more than rasps and she was trembling. She felt so hot, so lush, aching as those fingers continued to dip in and out of her while the fingers of his other hand joined the action, circling her clitoris, precise, constant, inexorable.

  She hadn’t removed his underwear, but that didn’t stop him thrusting hard against her bottom as he circled and slipped and probed every millimetre of her sex until she was coming in a luscious roll.

  She didn’t know how it had happened, but a moment later she found herself flipped onto her back. She waited, breathless, for what Scott would do—regretting the damned dress, deciding she would help with her own unwrapping.

  But before she could lift a finger to even one zipper, Scott had gripped the cotton at her neck and torn the dress right down the front, spreading the two halves wide…

  ‘Scott.’ she whispered, shocked.

  ‘No talking,’ he said, and reached for her bra straps, accurate despite the blindfold.

  He yanked them down her arms until her breasts were bared. Unerringly, his mouth found her nipples, sucking, licking, building the pressure from barely there to strong and demanding, unrelenting as his cotton-clad erection strained against her.

  She reached down to try to push his underwear off him, clumsy because of her bra straps, but he knocked her hands aside and kept up the suckling. Next moment he was scooting down her body, between her legs. The French knickers were shoved down and his mouth was there, licking fast and frantically, and she was coming again with a loud cry.

  He kept his mouth there through the last undulation of her hips and then he came back up her body, kissing her almost brutally. He fumbled with the scarf over her eyes, ripping it away. Rising up over her, on his knees, he tore off his own blindfold. Stared down at her for a scorching moment.

  Before Kate could reach for him he was off the bed, throwing his clothes on helter-skelter.

  ‘But— But— What about you?’

  ‘Owe me,’ he said, zipping up his jeans.

  ‘I can do it now.’

  ‘You should have grabbed a condom before the blindfolds went on. Because now I’ve ripped the masks off, Play Time’s over. We’re seeing…we’re talking. And that’s not in the rules for today, is it? You don’t want to talk to me today. You don’t want to see me today. I’d say you didn’t even really want me to touch you, or you wouldn’t have worn that chastity belt of a dress. You wanted it over with quickly today.’

  He grabbed his sneakers, shoved his feet inside them, yanked on the laces.

  ‘Well, you’re done—all sorted, all serviced with time to spare—and now I’m going.’

  ‘Scott…’

  But he was out of the room, and her curse was floating behind him.

  ‘Scott—wait,’ she said as she got off the bed, impatiently shedding her ruined dress, wrenching up her bra.

  The door slammed before she was even out of the bedroom.

  He was gone.

  Eyes swimming, she walked over to the dining table, picked up the parcel he’d left there. Opened the brown paper. Removed a…a plaque? Yes, a simple metal plaque. Black type on dull silver. Two words: Castle Cleary.

  Her swimming eyes overflowed.

  To hell with Play Time, Scott thought savagely as he got into his car. And to hell with being made to feel like a male prostitute with an allocated time slot.

  Not that the whole blindfold experience hadn’t been intense. He’d been insane with need by the end of it. So needy it had made no sense to run out when he did. She would have serviced him even without the blindfolds.

  Serviced him.

  And didn’t that say it all?

  She would have serviced him. The way he’d serviced her.

  Scott Knight, Escort Service, at your beck and call.

  So what? his sane self asked.

  It was perfect, wasn’t it? Exactly what he’d wanted? A sex contract. Month to month. No strings. No emotions. Complete control. No pretending they were forever. No need to call her unless it was to schedule a hot bout of sex. No deep and meaningful conversations. No conversations at all, lately—not with Lorelei, not with Officer Cleary. And not with Kate.

  And today not only no speaking, but no looking either!

  Just feeling—which was a good enough euphemism for just sex.

  Just sex.

  Perfect.

  And he was a freaking idiot not to just take that and run with it.

  Scott pulled out his phone. Stabbed the buttons.

  Play Time, my house, Tuesday, 7 p.m.

  Half a minute later, back came a reply.

  Fine.

  ‘Right,’ he said out loud to his face in the rearview mirror.

  But something about his face wasn’t normal. He looked like a freaking psycho killer!

  Well, to hell with that too! He was not going to see that every time he glanced in the rearview mirror on the drive home. He’d have a crash if he had to see that.

  He had to calm the hell down.

  Cursing, he banged out of the car, strode across to the marina, focused on the boats.

  Which made him feel even crazier. And just miserable again.

  Kate had had her first sailing lesson yesterday. With Brodie. How had it gone? What had they talked about? Fireside chats aplenty with Brodie, for sure. Because Brodie was easy to talk to—easier than Scott. Easier, kinder. Better all round.

  Everything inside Scott clenched—including the growl that he wouldn’t let loose from his chest.

  And then he put his face in his hands—because the sight of the boats was suddenly unbearable.

  Chapter Seventeen

  KATE WAS PREPARED for the Monday morning What the hell was that kiss about? calls from Willa and Amy. She offered up a perfectly nuanced laugh as she blamed the lethal combination of Scott’s beer and her Manhattans, positioning it as a Dirty Martini Barnaby moment gone a step too far. And if the girls didn’t sound exactly convinced, at least they let the subject drop.

  She was less prepared for Deb’s darting, anxious eyes as she kept a steady flow of peppermint tea—her favourite stress remedy—pouring into Kate’s office—while very carefully not asking about ‘that nice Scott Knight’. Not that Deb had to ask; Kate was convinced she had psychic powers.

  And she was not at all prepared for her mother’s visit on Tuesday morning.

  Madeline Cleary swept into Kate’s office the way she swept through life: grandly, wearing a caftan, hot-pink lipstick and high heels.

  She took a seat, fixing Kate with one of her don’t mess with me stares. ‘Okay, Kate, what’s this Deb’s been telling me?’

  Deb! Psychic and traitor!

  ‘“This”?’ Kate asked, closing the door sharply—knowing it would drive Deb crazy not being able to listen in, which served her right.

  ‘Scott Knight,’ her mother said.

  ‘He’s an architect.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that lovely? Much more interesting than a barrister. But not really the pertinent fact at the moment, is it, Kate? Don’t bother with any of your legal obfuscation. Just tell me what’s happening.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, then bring him to dinner on Sunday and I’ll ask him instead.’

  ‘That won’t be happening. It’s not like that with us. I mean the…the family thing. It’s just…just…’ The words trailed off and she shrugged.

  Her mother looked at her—very long, very hard. ‘It’s just that he’s the one, perhaps?’

  Kate tried—failed—to laugh. ‘Nothing that romantic.’

  ‘So make it romantic.’

  ‘You can’t make these things happen.’

  ‘Not if you’re pussy-hearted. Which, of course, is not the way I raised my da
ughters. I raised lionesses.’ She leaned forward. ‘Kate, remember when I tried to dissuade you from going into family law?’

  Eye-roll. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not because I don’t like lawyers—’

  Another eye-roll. ‘Although you don’t!’

  ‘But because you’re so tender-hearted. I knew you’d be running yourself ragged, fighting for the downtrodden and then bleeding all over the place when you lost a case.’ She sat back again. ‘And do you remember what you told me to do?’

  Kate smiled—it blossomed despite her hideous mood. ‘I told you to shove it.’

  Her mother beamed at her. ‘And I was so proud of you.’

  Kate ran her hands over her face, laughing helplessly. ‘You’re a weirdo, Mum.’

  ‘It’s an artistic thing. So what?’

  ‘So I love you.’

  ‘And I love you. And I think you deserve a reward for all the crap you put up with day after day. And if he’s the reward you want, then you’re going to have him.’

  ‘He doesn’t want…that. The whole forever thing.’

  ‘From what I hear, he’s had plenty of what he wants.’

  Arrgghh. Going to kill Deb. Boil her in a vat of peppermint tea.

  ‘So, Kate, it’s time for what you want. Which just might turn out to be what he wants too.’

  ‘He doesn’t.’

  ‘How do you know? Have you asked him?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Why “of course not”? Because he’s a boy and they have to ask first? Don’t make me slap you. Just ask him.’

  Silence.

  ‘Kate, the reason I was so proud of you that day when you told me so eloquently to shove it was because you threw it all at me. How you felt, why you felt it, what it meant to you. You said you would move heaven and hell to do it. And that if it all came to nothing, or you couldn’t hack it, at least you’d have no regrets about not trying. And, really, Kate? If it’s you asking for something, fighting for something…’ She smiled—a smile so completely proud and understanding and just so family Kate wanted to cry. ‘Well, Kate, who would ever say no to you?’