by Penny Jordan
Home was a beautiful art deco apartment smack bang in the middle of the city. It had been bequeathed to both girls by a maiden aunt on her mother’s side, a woman they’d never met or even known had existed since their mother had done a runner in the months after Chelsea herself was born and never been heard from again.
She’d agreed to check the place out unwillingly, but the second she’d set foot inside she’d fallen in love. The chintz lounges, cream panelled walls and curling antique furniture created a warmth and a history the likes of which she’d not known growing up in string of small cold apartments.
Kensey, who at that stage had had a husband, two kids, three chickens and a turtle, had had no need for a one-bedroom city apartment with no yard, so Chelsea had offered to buy her out, convincing herself that prime city real estate was never a gamble.
She now felt great peace in watering the flowers outside her windows, in polishing to a gleam the dining table she never used, and in allowing piles of books and magazines to teeter in corners of the room. Clutter meant permanence, just as dog-loving meant responsibility. Life could be just that simple if one let it.
She kicked off her shoes at the door and aimed for the shower to wash off the day’s worth of dog spit, cat hair and other unmentionable ooze.
She padded into the large master bedroom, pulled off her jeans and threw them onto the floor. Her decade-old sweater was halfway over her head when the mobile phone vibrated atop her dresser.
Her heart thumped against her ribs as she screened the call but it wasn’t her number looking back at her. It was the offices of Keppler Jones and Morgenstern. It could be important. A message to pass onto Damien in two short hours. Something to fill the conversational void they would no doubt encounter within five minutes of seeing one another again.
She flipped it open. ‘Damien Halliburton’s phone.’
‘Are you still at work?’
Her heart leapt to her throat the instant she heard that sinfully delicious voice.
‘Home.’ She leant back against the end of the bed for leverage as she pulled off her socks one-handed, and so that he didn’t guess she’d come home to change for him she added, ‘I had to feed my neighbour’s cat. She’s away.’
He laughed. ‘Caleb knew there’d be a cat somewhere in the picture.’
She wiggled her toes in the lamplight to find at least half of them needed to be re-pinked. ‘Caleb’s the one who thinks I am a kinky sex-toy purveyor, right?’
‘Right.’
She pulled the phone away from her ear briefly to tug her long-sleeved T-shirt over her head. ‘Are you sure you shouldn’t be finding yourself less troublesome friends?’
‘I’m certain I should be. But I’m too nice a guy. Without me he’d be lost.’
‘You are Sir Galahad himself.’
‘I like to think so.’
Who are you trying to kid? she thought. Conversation with this guy wouldn’t be hard to come by. Every topic touched upon seemed to open up between them like a minefield of verbal possibilities.
After a pause he added, ‘Are you alone?’
Her undressing came to a sudden halt with her T-shirt hanging off her left shoulder. ‘Is that imperative?’
‘Not entirely. It would just help clarify my mental picture.’
‘You’ve formed a mental picture?’ she asked while flicking the shirt from her arm and through the open door onto the en suite floor with the rest of her dirty clothes.
‘Haven’t you?’ he asked.
‘Not so much,’ she lied.
‘Well, just in case you’re waiting for me to go first, here’s mine.’
He paused for effect. And it worked. Chelsea stood in the centre of her large carpeted bedroom now naked bar a pink lace bra that had seen better days and white cotton knickers, and she held her breath.
‘I see an apartment,’ he said. ‘Lamps everywhere, high ceilings, soft couches a person just sinks into until they never want to get up again. And not an animal print in sight. How am I doing so far?’
Chelsea wrapped an arm around her stomach. ‘So far…kind of scary close.’
‘Mmm. I’m moving through now, deeper. An ajar door catches my eye. I press it open to find myself in a bedroom. Your bedroom.’
‘Just like that? With no invitation? That’s pretty forward.’
‘Not only am I forward, I’m also not alone.’
‘If you tell me there’s some snaggle-toothed madman under my bed—’
‘Chelsea,’ he said with enough force to shut her up.
‘Yes, Damien.’
‘Did I say you get to talk in my imaginings?’
She shook her head no.
‘That’s better. Now, I’m not alone in your bedroom because you are there with me. Happy?’
She nodded. And imagined he had just entered, fully dressed in his beautiful suit, one hand in his trouser pocket, pulling his white shirt across his broad chest. His dreamy blue eyes dark in the low light of her muted art deco lamp. She placed the back of her spare hand to her suddenly hot cheek.
‘Now, to tell you the truth,’ he said, ‘I have not one clue what your bedroom looks like. It could be wall-to-wall shag-pile carpeting. It could have bunk beds and beanbags. It could have a disco ball and mirrored ceilings.’
‘How disappointing your imagination only stretches so far.’
‘Don’t be disappointed. All I see right now is you.’
She thanked her lucky stars her bed was there to catch her as she swayed. Permanence and responsibility be damned. She wanted him. With a power and a need that ought to have had her hanging up the phone and ordering in. Instead she allowed herself to luxuriate in his smooth, rich, decadent voice.
‘What am I wearing?’ Chelsea asked, this time dead centre in the middle of his imaginings.
She could all but hear the stretching of his cheeks as his face broke into a sexy smile. ‘You tell me.’
Her toes dug into the carpet in order to keep the rest of her upright. Because she knew that this was not just another phone call. This time he had a purpose.
Seduction.
The idea seeped beneath her skin and warmed her cold, tired bones better than the best hot shower in town could ever hope to.
She closed her eyes and reached around behind her to unhook her bra. As it slid over her arms, scraping along her highly sensitised skin, she said, ‘I’m naked. Well, not quite.’
His voice was almost unrecognisable when he finally came back with, ‘How not quite?’
‘Underpants.’
‘What kind?’
‘Bikini brief.’
‘Colour?’
White cotton didn’t exactly ring exciting, so she took liberties. ‘Burgundy with gold lace.’
Her quivering knees belied her true nerves. She finally gave in and sat on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs to quell the heat already slicing through her centre. ‘So what are you wearing?’
‘I’d love to say I was standing outside your apartment right now wearing nothing bar a bunch of roses and a smile, but unfortunately, unlike you, I am still at work.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘As far as I know,’ he said.
‘So-o-o…’
‘So?’
‘So it’s only fair that if I’m freezing my butt off in nothing bar a tiny sliver of rather flimsy translucent lace that barely covers half my butt cheeks that you do some undressing too.’
The pause was significant as he took the time to add her latest descriptions to his vision. ‘But I’m imagining you in your natural environment. Snug in your lovely warm home. Curtains drawn. Locks bolted. Alarm system activated. Killer cat next door to protect you from prying eyes.’
She pumped a coin-sized blob of moisturiser from her bedside table into her palm and began running it up and down her legs, ankle to thigh. The stretch felt good. But it did little to nothing to ease the sexual tension radiating through her. Making her feel wanton. Uncharacteristically rec
kless.
‘Damien,’ she purred.
‘Yes, Chelsea.’
‘I don’t think we’re playing the same game here.’
‘We’re not?’
She shook her head, the feel of her hair tumbling down her naked back unbelievably erotic. It was as though every nerve ending were suddenly alight. Every sensation heightened.
She turned and lay down on her stomach, her knees bent, feet in the air rubbing one another. ‘My hair is down. My bedroom lights are low and I am naked bar tiny triangles of fabric. And the only way I am getting any more of my kit off is if you do too.’
‘Is this really how this is going to go?’
‘Things have changed somewhat since Dean Martin ran with a pack. We have equality of the sexes. Or at least wherever we can get it. And two places I insist on it are in the workplace and in the bedroom.’
‘How convenient.’ This time his pause was momentous. ‘You really want me to strip?’
‘I really do. Perhaps my imagination isn’t quite as good as yours.’
Which was rubbish. She was well and truly in the middle of a great big fantasy about finding a man who craved her so deeply he was willing to get naked, physically and emotionally. And who made her able to feel the same way.
But even now as her feet tingled as they rubbed against one another, as her bare breasts pressed into the quilted comforter, as she kept a man of Damien’s calibre on tenterhooks with not much more than a few sharp one-liners, that thread of doubt and mistrust that kept her company on countless lonely nights seeped in beneath the pleasure.
If her upbringing had taught her anything it was that big dreams never really came true. They lingered, they tempted, they dangled just out of reach. What if he was merely setting her up for a one-night stand as he did with every girl whose phone he stole? Normally she’d be able to handle it, but this guy felt…different. He made her feel different. She barely knew him and already she wanted more.
But then Damien Halliburton of the broad shoulders and deep bass voice said, ‘Fine,’ followed by the sound of his phone hitting wood with a thunk.
She pressed her phone to her ear to better hear a rustle of cotton, the slide of satin lining, and the distinct whir of a zipper, and felt as though everything she’d ever believed about men like Damien, who’d so obviously had advantages and experiences she could never dream of, was slowly but surely turning on its head.
‘Right,’ he said a few moments later, his voice a tad breathless. ‘I’m down to my jocks.’
A bubble of laughter gurgled up into her throat and out her mouth.
‘Are you laughing at me now?’ he asked.
‘No. Not really. I…’ By now the bubble had burst and she was really laughing, lying back on her bed with her legs dangling over the side, holding her stomach. ‘I’m just picturing you in some great hulking swanky up-town office with the city sprawled out dark and twinkly behind you, and you in Y-fronts, brown socks and black shoes.’
His pause spoke volumes. As did the clunk, clunk, that accompanied his shoes as he kicked them off.
‘My socks are black, thank you very much.’
‘Well, then, either you have a very involved mother or a woman organises your sock drawer.’
His voice was dry as he said, ‘I haven’t worn brown socks since grade school.’
‘Meaning no interfering mother or girlfriend to speak of?’ she asked, then she bit her lip and scrunched up her eyes.
‘My mother is too busy interfering in my father’s life to worry about mine,’ he said. ‘And no. No girlfriend.’
She let out a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding.
‘You?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No mother. No girlfriend.’
‘Funny. I’ve found myself a funny girl. Tell me there is no man in your life whose sock drawer you organise on a regular basis.’
His demand was so serious the tension coursing through her slid away until she rolled over and let her spare arm flail sideways. Loose. Warm. Limber.
‘No man,’ she said. ‘Not a single one.’
‘Good to know.’
This was getting ridiculous. She was practically naked, and lolling about on her bed as if she were a teenager, hoping the boy she had a crush on might like her back. But this was no boy. This was a grown man with the knowledge and confidence that came with being an honest to goodness walking aphrodisiac.
‘So are you wearing Y-fronts?’ Her voice was little higher than a vibration.
‘Boxers.’
‘Cotton?’
‘Silk.’
‘Colour?’
‘Black.’ Then after a pause, ‘With little pictures of ducks all over them.’
Chelsea laughed again, amazed that he was being truly honest. Amazed and a little taken aback. While she was in the middle of a ‘close your eyes and think of goose-down pillows, king-sized sheets, and the first touch of a beautiful stranger’ fantasy, everything he had said and done so far pointed to the fact that he was utterly present.
She rolled over and sat up, crossing her legs and biting at her fingernail. Unless…
‘Take a photo,’ she demanded.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I don’t believe you’re not sitting there in your big plush office unzipping pencil cases and tapping pencils on your desk to sound like buttons popping.’
‘Now what have I done to make it so hard for you to trust me so quickly?’
‘Don’t take it personally. I don’t trust anybody. I want proof.’
‘Fine. Ditto,’ he shot back.
Okay, so that had backfired. ‘I’m not sending you a picture of me half naked!’
‘No trust. So sad. Yet you desperately want a naked picture of me. Interesting.’
‘Not interesting, I just don’t want a photo of me to end up on some Internet porn site where my sister’s kids can find it.’
‘They are allowed to browse porn sites? That’s some forward-thinking sister you have there. Maybe I want her phone number instead.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘And she’s married. Happily. And pregnant.’
And would die laughing if she knew her intractable little sister was on the verge of engaging in phone sex with the hottest man on the planet, yet finding myriad modes of sabotaging it every step of the way.
‘But you know how kids are.’
‘Actually, I don’t.’
‘No nieces or nephews?’
‘Nope. One sister, Ava. Perennial student. Studying at Harvard this year. Not the lay-down-your-hat kind at all. Therefore no kids.’
‘That’s a pity. They’re a riot.’
‘And sneaky, so it seems.’
It hit her then that somehow she’d found out more about this guy in one phone call than she had about her last three dates collectively. She wondered just how much she’d inadvertently given away in turn.
‘Now, tell me,’ he said, ‘did you turn the conversation because you are trying to avoid me seeing you half naked? Or is there something else you’re trying to avoid?’
How did he know? ‘Maybe I’m just not in the mood any more.’
‘Meaning you were?’
‘Meaning…I’m not sure.’
‘About what exactly?’
‘This.’
‘And what is this?’
‘I don’t know. You rang me. You tell me what this is.’
Again the pause. Which was the one thing she hated about having spent so much time on the phone with the guy while she found herself getting deeper and deeper into some potent, totally crazy, out-of-control attraction towards him: she never got to see his expression, the look in his eyes, to know the nuances of his voice. If she’d read him wrong from the beginning…
But then he once again pulled the perfect words from thin air, saying, ‘This was meant to be me finding a way to be with you again as soon as I possibly could.’
‘You’ll see me in two hours.’
That one deserved a gulp. If he was straining that badly at the bit she was kind of terrified about what might happen when they did meet; terrified that the sparks would make them both combust on the spot and equally afraid they wouldn’t.
She’d never been this messed up about seeing a man before. But he made her feel as if the world were rushing so fast beneath her feet it was passing by in a blur. She needed to get her feet on solid ground again.
‘Damien—’ she began.
‘Chelsea,’ he warned, cutting her off. ‘I want you to know that I’m normally extremely content with the headlong daily routine that makes up my life. But from the moment you landed in my arms…’ He took a breath that could have come from her own over-taut lungs. ‘Let’s say I’ve ended up standing still in my office in my boxer shorts and I’m beginning to notice there is a draught.’
‘So get dressed,’ was the only thing she could think to say.
‘I plan to. But I also need for you to make me one small promise.’
She dug her hand into a fist, biting into the back of her thigh. ‘Okay…’
‘I’ll get dressed if you promise me you won’t.’
‘Ever?’
He laughed. She liquefied.
‘Not for the next hour,’ he said.
‘So your imagination doesn’t stretch as far as you thought it did.’
‘My imagination stretches plenty far, and I want you to slide off that bikini brief, throw it over your shoulder with no care as to where it lands, then I want you to lie back on that large soft bed of yours and let me show you just how far my imagination can take you.’
CHAPTER SIX
‘LIE back,’ Damien insisted.
‘Come over,’ Chelsea said, rashness searing her veins and making all sense flee. ‘Let’s forget Amelie’s.’
‘Ain’t gonna happen.’
Hot, then cold. He was driving her crazy. Making her reckless. Making her want to try harder, gamble more, do whatever it took to get what she wanted, which was to release this agonising pressure that had her pinned, half naked, to her bed.
‘Now do as you’re told, and lie back. Make yourself comfortable.’
She wanted to. More than almost anything she could remember wanting in her life she wanted to give in to the firmness in his deep voice. But the yearning to have him there beside her, to watch his eyes turn dark with pleasure, pulsed through her like a drug. An addiction. ‘You are driving me crazy, Damien.’