by Penny Jordan
‘Welcome to the club.’
‘So why won’t you come over here and do something about it that will satisfy the both of us?’
If it’s to be a one-night stand, she thought, then let it be that.
‘Because that’s not all I want from you.’
It wasn’t?
‘What else can you possibly want?’ she asked, her voice weak as a kitten.
‘I want dinner. I want conversation. I want to watch you over the top of a stubby candle, a couple of wineglasses and a half-finished steak.’
‘Can’t you use that renowned imagination of yours to imagine that part instead?’
He laughed, the sound warming the various minuscule bits of her that weren’t already burning hot. ‘Are you trying to make my unusually gentlemanly behaviour even more difficult?’
‘Well, yes, actually.’
He laughed again. And since her skin was saturated with sensation, this time she felt it deeper inside. Just behind her ribs and a little to the left. She pressed her hand to the spot as though needing to check it was really real.
‘You, Chelsea London, are some woman.’
‘I’ve always thought so.’
‘Which is why I am putting my clothes back on right now, and hanging up and not calling you again before nine regardless of how much I might want to. Unless…’
‘Unless I let you seduce me over the phone line.’
‘Mmm.’
His murmur was almost enough to put her over the edge into acquiescence. But not quite. She knew in her heart of hearts it would be far more sensible to talk to him face to face over the top of a stubby candle before she let him into her bed, or any deeper under her skin.
Chelsea grabbed an angora throw rug from the end of the bed and wrapped it around herself as though it would somehow make her seem more demure, less like the raging sexpot she had been a minute before. ‘So nine o’clock?’
‘Outside Amelie’s,’ he said. ‘I’ll be the one with the rose in my lapel.’
‘I thought we’d already agreed that was the mark of a date.’
‘So we did.’
‘So this is a date?’
Again the pause, and again she wished she could see the look in his eyes to know what it meant.
‘So it seems,’ he finally said. ‘See you soon, Chelsea.’
‘Bye.’ She hung up. Slowly. And let the warm phone rest against her lips for a few moments as her heart rate slowed, and her nerve endings stopped overreacting to every sound, thought and movement.
She glanced at the other side of the bed. Empty, pillow long since undisturbed by a friendly head. And her heart twisted.
‘Careful,’ she warned herself out loud.
Damien hung up the mobile phone and slowly pulled his clothes back on realising he had actually turned Chelsea down.
The second she’d offered he should have been over there in a flash. God knew he’d be kicking himself ten ways from Sunday as he railed against peak-hour traffic while driving back to Caleb’s.
He’d convinced himself it was all he wanted. But as it turned out he could wait. He was a sophisticated man, not some creature controlled by nothing but his basest needs. He wasn’t Caleb.
As he fixed the knot of his tie he stared at the sleek black and silver contraption lying, oh, so innocently on his large desk. ‘Hold me. Use me,’ it called to his subconscious.
But some other part of him spoke louder. His instincts told him that ravaging Chelsea senseless might well give him some relief, but he had no idea how it would affect her. And after how effortlessly he’d hurt Bonnie he had to keep that in mind if he was ever to look himself in the mirror again.
He could back up a step. He could sit down to dinner with Chelsea. And in doing so he could test the waters more thoroughly to see if a wild night wrapped in her lean limbs was still on the cards.
The very thought had him jerk his tie knot until it almost strangled him. He eased it back, then shut down his computer and, seeing his reflection in the dark blank screen, said, ‘Just be careful.’
At nine that evening Chelsea stood outside Amelie’s, her gloved hands holding her old pink tartan coat tighter about her body.
The footpath was bustling as the weather was as good as could be expected for a Melbourne autumn night: breezy cool, starlit, yet giving people ideas about getting indoors and getting warm however they could.
An extra several layers beneath instead of her chocolate crossover wool dress would have been more sensible. But at least it didn’t smell of mothballs, and it was the most date-worthy thing she owned.
She rubbed her arms as she scoured the crowd while trying not to look as eager as she felt.
Damien stood at the end of the block, hands deep in his trouser pockets. His eyes were zeroed in on the slender caramel-blonde struggling with her coat, her fly-away hair, and the jostling crowd outside Amelie’s.
Again she was like a burst of sunshine amidst the river of Melbourne black. And again she infused him with as much energy as though she’d hit him with a stun gun.
A gust of wind whipped down the street, ruffling his hair. It whipped her glittery gold scarf from around her neck, sending it fluttering to the ground with the grace of an autumn leaf. She forgot her coat, which split open as she leant over to pick up her scarf revealing a glimpse of lean honey-golden leg curving in and out in all the right places and feminine curves poured into some stretchy brown fabric that hid just enough and hinted at everything.
Her dress tipped forward and Damien saw a hint of bra. Pale pink. Half cup. He could barely suppress his groan.
She stood, wrapped herself up tight and looked at her watch and he took it as a sign that he’d better get a move on. He cleared his throat, ran a quick hand through his hair, checked his breath on his palm and headed down the street towards the hopeful release of a month’s worth of holding back from what no man should rightfully have to forfeit if he could possibly help it.
Chelsea watched as the fiftieth dark suit in eight minutes rounded the corner.
But this one was a half-head taller. A couple of inches broader. Dark hair gleamed under the lamplight. And the length of his strides meant that people simply got out of his way. She wasn’t sure it was Damien, but at the same time she just knew that it was.
He neared. He was even more beautiful than she remembered. More blessed by the gods of all things extraordinary. Through the noisy crowd their eyes caught and held. Pacific-blue, she thought with an internal sigh, like the ocean at night.
‘Hi, Damien,’ she said.
‘Chelsea,’ he said as he stopped in front of her.
She must have swayed towards him, or maybe it was an optical illusion, but he suddenly felt closer. And then he was leaning in towards her. She instinctively lifted her cheek for a friendly peck, but instead his lips landed square upon hers. She blinked in shock for a good second or two before his mouth began to move over hers.
As her eyes flittered closed her hand fluttered up to land gently upon his chest. His arm slunk around her back to pull her closer. And right there, in front of a street full of bustling pedestrians, everything floated away, leaving only the taste of him, the scent of him, the feel of his heavenly lips. Her hand curled into his shirt, and she hoped against hope that would be enough to keep her from collapsing in a puddle at his feet.
When the kiss broke her eyes opened. A small smile lit his, creases fanning out from the edges.
‘Well, what do you know?’ he said, his voice low, rumbling, pure sensuality.
Needing to catch her breath and regather her scattered senses, she slid her hand away and put a metre of space between them. Then she pulled his phone out of her clutch purse and held it out for him on an upturned palm.
‘Right,’ he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head as though he’d completely forgotten why they were really there. He opened his jacket, once again revealing a broad mass of starched white shirt and enveloping her in a wave of his light but wholly
masculine scent. She breathed deep.
He found her phone and held it out to her. Her left palm tickled as he slid his gently from her grasp, while her right hand immediately soaked in the warmth still remaining in the phone she now had back.
‘So,’ Damien said. ‘Now that the formalities are out of the way, shall we?’
Formalities? Kissing her to the point of melting her knees from the inside out was to him a formality? Boy, oh, boy. What was she letting herself in for?
He held out an elbow. She tugged her hand into a tight ball to get the feeling back before placing it in the crook of his arm. He tucked her tight against him, drawing her close enough so that the heavy pedestrian traffic could not break their hold, and so that she could again smell the scent of autumn clinging to his clothes.
During the day the restaurant had been bright and bustling, all flashy money and flashier people checking to see who was walking through the front doors.
But at night it was as if they had walked into a cave. It was warm and dark, the ceiling lights recessed so that the whole place seemed lit only by discreetly scattered candles bathing it in a dark red light. It was so romantic. More than romantic. Decadent. As if an orgy could break out at any second.
Damien pressed a gentle hand to Chelsea’s back and she jumped. She could feel the heat of his palm searing through the heavy coat and straight to her skin. He leaned forward to whisper against her ear. ‘I think she wants our phones.’
Her gaze shot to the hostess. Tall, skinny, brunette hair to her waist and staring at Damien with a small smile and her hand outstretched as though she’d take from him whatever he chose to give her.
Chelsea glanced back at Damien to find herself so close to him she could see just how close he’d shaved before coming to meet her tonight. It somehow gave her a jolt of confidence.
‘Do you think we should revolt?’ she asked as she slid her coat and scarf from her back.
‘I haven’t eaten since lunch,’ he growled. ‘I’m starving.’
She glanced back again to find his gaze had been inexorably drawn to the neckline of her dress. To the barely there hint of cleavage deep within the V. His eyes slid up to hers, connected. Actually, it was more as if they clashed, sending little sparks of heat all over her body.
Chelsea handed over her phone and coat and said, ‘I give in.’
‘That’s my girl,’ Damien said, and handed his phone to the hostess. ‘In the same compartment, if you please. These two have a way of causing trouble if left on their own.’
The woman’s smile faltered as she realised she was beaten before she’d even had the chance to play.
And while Chelsea watched the phones with an eagle eye, she sensed that Damien didn’t once take his eyes off her as he waited for the numbered ticket to be placed into his outstretched hand. He slid the ticket inside his jacket pocket, and she realised that she wouldn’t be leaving the restaurant without him unless she wanted to leave her phone behind too.
‘Where would you be comfortable sitting?’ the waitress asked as she picked up a couple of menus.
‘I think it’s far too late for all that,’ Damien said beneath his breath, but Chelsea heard him loud and clear.
She’d had crushes before, but for the first time in her whole life she was absolutely in lust. He created in her urgency that beat down every other wholly sensible qualm. She hung on to her clutch purse with both hands to stop herself from taking him by the hand and dragging him to the nearest dark alley. Hard bodies, slick, sweaty limbs, and nothing left the next morning bar the lingering scent of day-old aftershave.
Damien breathed out hard before turning back to the brunette and Chelsea thankfully felt the hook through her chest melt away.
‘A nice private corner would suit us well,’ Damien said. He smiled, the low light doing things to his eyes that made her stomach turn to liquid.
‘No problem,’ the hostess said. ‘Follow me.’
Damien held out an arm to encourage Chelsea to go first. What he really wanted to do was continue where they’d left off outside, to lean in, slide his hand around her waist, and kiss the point where her neck met her shoulder, but instead he placed a gentlemanly hand in the small of her back and followed.
Beneath the soft fabric of her dress her skin was warm. Tugging left then right with each swaying step. He closed his eyes for a second and begged heaven to help him make it through dinner without giving in to the desire swarming over him.
They reached the private booth in a far dark corner of the room. Before the hostess had the chance he pulled the table away from the wall so that Chelsea had to slide past him to get to her seat.
He was breathing perfectly normally up until that point. Until he swallowed a mouthful of her scent. Sweet, airy, gentle; the complete antithesis of the sensual vision before him.
The woman was a walking dichotomy. It only made him want her more yet in the same breath made him fear she was exactly the wrong girl for the job.
‘Much appreciated,’ Chelsea said, smiling up at him from beneath her lashes.
Damien slid behind the table at a right angle to her, and allowed the hostess to lock them into place, glad to have a table hiding his lap.
‘Any drinks for starters?’ the brunette asked.
‘God, yes,’ Chelsea shot out at the same time that Damien said,
‘I asked for a bottle of Mount Mary Pinot Noir 1993 to be placed on hold under Halliburton.’
‘Oh,’ the brunette said, her eyes widening. Then she collected herself, nodded, and sent Damien one last lingering look that should have made him puff out his chest even though he was in the company of another woman. But she left him completely unaffected.
Then he and Chelsea were alone, hidden from view of the rest of the restaurant by the angle of their table, a large potted Ficus and the clever lighting. Their booth was cramped. But intimate. Low candlelight flickering from an alcove on the rendered wall above shot waves of gold through Chelsea’s hair, and created shadows beneath her lashes, her nose, and full lower lip.
Simply looking at her, he felt anything but unaffected.
A waiter with an eyebrow ring and three more through his nose came back with their wine. Damien did the whole sniff, sip, thumbs up before they were each poured a healthy glass and the bottle was left in an icebox nearby.
Chelsea fussed with her dress, her hair, the placement of the napkin in front of her and said, ‘There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’
Damien leant his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm. ‘This should be good.’
Her hands fluttered to her lap, but she gave him direct eye contact. All golden light and sunshine and radiant energy. He could have snuffed out the candle and his senses would have told him exactly where she sat.
She asked, ‘Whatever did happen to Keppler-Jones and Whosiwhatsit?’
The laughter that burst from Damien’s chest was so sudden he almost pulled a muscle. He leant back in his chair and rubbed the strange spot of discomfort beneath his left pec. ‘Meaning did I knock them off in order to get a corner office?’
She took a sip of her wine, smiling at him from over the glass. ‘Your words, not mine.’
He leaned forward again. ‘You have to promise me that this will go no further.’
‘Cross my heart,’ she said, and the action tugged his gaze to her chest where the stretch fabric clung to her curves.
He licked his lips before dragging his eyes north and saying, ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’
Her eyes gleamed. ‘Isn’t it always?’
‘The company had been around since long before the heydays of the eighties. Jones was a family friend of my godfather and I worked for them part-time while studying business/law at university and stayed on afterward. Once I’d risen as far in the firm as a non-partner could I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.’
‘And the dark and stormy night?’
‘Was the retirement party. One to go down in t
he history books. I’m certain it took five years off each of their lives. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Now tell me about the animal-print dog-collar connection before I go any further into imagining what kind of job would make you some kind of expert fit for Chic magazine.’
She grinned up at him. He could practically feel the blood in his veins revving itself up to explode through his system the second talking finally turned to touching. And before the end of this night there would be touching.
‘I own and run a pet-grooming salon in Fitzroy. Disappointed?’
‘Infinitely,’ he said with an answering smile. ‘So what was it about clipping dog toenails that drew you to the cause?’
She shook her hair off her shoulders and sat back in her chair, into deeper shadow, her face in richer relief. ‘There’s a tad more to what I do than clipping dog toenails.’
‘Surprise me.’
‘We see up to sixty clients a day. Their treatments can include brushing, dematting, therapeutic baths, fluff or towel dry, nail-clipping, haircuts and shave-downs. They leave us looking brand-new. Feeling brand-new.’
‘And don’t we all need to feel that way every now and then?’ he said.
Her glorious eyes shone with a fire that was pure dynamite. He couldn’t remember feeling lit by such an inner blaze. It had him wondering if his life was far too comfortable. Maybe it could do with a little spicing up.
‘Come on down one day,’ she said, ‘and I’ll give you the works. I’ll guarantee you’d leave the place unrecognisable. And flea-free.’
Damien laughed, though truth be told his mind hadn’t gone much further than the works. Imagining those small hands giving him a therapeutic bath and a towel dry was almost his undoing.
‘It’s some kind of thrill, don’t you think?’ he asked.
Her right eyebrow rose in question.
‘Working for oneself. Balancing the kind of satisfaction, control and wealth you can only gain if you own the business against the daily possibility of losing everything. I like to think of it as a masochistic gamble rather than anything as mundane as a job.’