Mac laughed. “Harder by the second, thank you very much. Told you it was a stupid deal. Now stop deflecting and tell me what’s going on? You don’t kiss a woman like that so thoroughly and then walk away without even a backward glance.”
“I’m Lachlan McDermott,” Lachlan snarled. “I can do whatever I like.”
“Whoa, did you say Lachlan McDermott or Roland McDermott, because you sounded a shitload like your father just then.”
Lachlan ground to a halt, swinging to glare at his best friend. “I am not my father, Mackenzie, and you know it. My father submerged himself in gratuitous decadence, not me. My father wasted his life with vacuous models, not me. My father—”
“Is also the father of your half-sister, Lillian. A model. Do I need to remind you of that?”
The wind burst from Lachlan in a sharp hiss and he slumped, scrubbing at his face with his hands. “No, you don’t.” Lifting his head, he let out a ragged sigh. “I’m sorry, Mac. I’m out of sorts tonight.”
Mac blinked. Confused shock flashed across his face. If Lachlan wasn’t so…so…flustered, he would have laughed. Confessions of self-failing from Lachlan McDermott were rare, even around Mac. Almost as rare as confessions of self-doubt.
Mac narrowed his eyes. “The US board meeting was rough, I take it? I told you I should have gone with you.”
Lachlan turned and began walking again. He didn’t look at the stairs. “No. The meeting was fine. Once I assured them the editor of World News would never work for McDermott Media Corp again they calmed down. Seeing a thirty-foot image of my little sister wearing nothing but a coat of paint and a few strategically applied peacock feathers in Time Square wasn’t the highlight of the trip I have to say.”
Mac’s responding snort was darkly disgusted. “The PETA campaign. Shot by the ever-mysterious, reclusive genius Cam. What is it with these pretentious fashion types and one-name monikers? Kole, Cam, Iman, Giselle, Valentino, Scaasi. Don’t they know we have two names for a reason? Lachlan McDermott, Mackenzie Harris. What’s so difficult about that?”
Lachlan stopped and gave his best friend a slanted inspection. “It seems I’m not the only bear here with a sore tooth.
Black thunder passed over Mac’s normally inscrutable poker face. “You know what I think about Lillian modeling.”
“And I’m completely happy with it?” Lachlan started walking again. His half-sister’s party was getting louder. And rowdier. As he walked, he passed Australia’s favourite and most successful Olympic swimmer trying to pass an inflated balloon to the country’s most recently anointed soccer star with only his knees. Both were half-naked.
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Mac hurried to keep up with him. “And stop deflecting. This conversation is about you and the woman on the stairs who is, seeing as I’m the rather chuffed new owner of a Merc SLS AMG, the model Kole.”
Lachlan stopped, swung his stare to Mac and said, “I saw her. I kissed her. I walked away from her. Now drop it, Harris.”
His best friend laughed, the earlier tension in his face at the mention of Lillian’s successful modeling career gone. “Sure. I’ll drop it. If you lighten up a little.”
“I’m light,” Lachlan snarled back, once again making his way through the crowded house. “I’m so light I could almost float away.”
“Okay, Balloon Boy,” Mac slapped him on the shoulder. “Prove it. Play a game.”
Lachlan stopped. Again. Swung his stare to Mac. Again. “I don’t play games.”
“Then tell me about Kole.”
Biting back a curse, Lachlan folded his arms across his chest. “Fine. Which one?”
“The model you were just kissing on the—”
“Which game?”
Mac flashed a grin. “The closest one.”
“Which is?”
His best friend and the country’s highest-paid lawyer scanned the immediate vicinity before grinning more widely. “That one,” he answered with a smirk, pointing over Lachlan’s right shoulder.
Lachlan shot a look at the game Mac had selected, currently being played in the house’s library. “Twister?”
“Twister,” Mac repeated. He placed his hands on Lachlan’s shoulders—one of the few people in this world who could get away with such physical contact—and swung him a complete one-eighty degrees. “Dive in, Balloon Boy.”
With an ungentle shove, he pushed Lachlan forward until both men passed through the opened French doors into the expansive room, chuckling as he did so.
The group of partygoers witnessing the game fell silent. As one, all looked at Lachlan.
He looked back and straightened his shoulders. By the expressions on the faces of those standing around the Twister mat, and the two on the mat—both half-dressed for some God-known reason—his presence was a surprise. Why the hell that was the case he didn’t know. It was his fucking house, wasn’t it?
They’re shocked because Lachlan McDermott is standing on the sidelines of a game that he didn’t even play when he was a kid, let alone a man.
He had a reputation. He knew that. Taciturn. Serious. Arrogant. Ruthless. None of those qualities lent themselves to playing what appeared to be strip Twister.
What the hell was he doing?
Go back and find Kole. Take her upstairs to your room, throw her on your bed and—
Mac walked up beside him and slapped him on the shoulder. “Anyone got a problem if McDermott plays next? Think the bloke needs to blow off a little steam.”
The Twister crowd gaped.
It was enough to make Lachlan grind his teeth. Anyone would think he didn’t know how to have fun.
When was the last time you did?
Someone coughed to Lachlan’s right and said, “Go for it”. A soft thwacking sound filled the silence, followed by the faint whirring sound of a pointer spinning around. A man to his left cleared his throat and said, “Right foot, yellow.”
All eyes swung back to the couple on the floor. Both moved as one, bodies sliding over each other, limbs stretching, and then, with a muttered “fuck”, one of the Twister participants—Australia’s most loved television host—dropped flat to the floor.
Someone in the crowd laughed, a nervous titter. Someone else said, “Watch out, mate, McDermott will fire you for throwing the game.”
Someone else said, “Fuck that, he’ll cancel your whole show.”
Everyone jerked their stare to Lachlan. Watched him. Waited.
The couple on the floor didn’t move. The TV host stretched out on his side, his playing partner—a recent winner of Australia’s Got Talent—hovering above him on two skewed legs and one hand. Her right foot, Lachlan couldn’t help but notice, was in a yellow circle.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I think you won.”
As one, the crowd let out a cheer. The songbird giggled, cheeks going red as she squirmed back onto her feet and gave him a shy smile.
“Your turn, McDermott,” Mac said beside him.
“Gotta pay to play, Mr. McDermott,” the referee said on his right. The man stepped forward from the crowd and Lachlan bit back a snort, recognizing the weather reporter from one of McDermott Media Corp’s breakfast television programs.
“Pay?”
Mr. Weather’s Fine and Sunny cleared his throat. “Piece of clothing, please.” He held out a hand, palm up, and Lachlan had to admire the man’s courage. It wasn’t everyday one found themselves asking for an item of clothing from the very person ultimately in charge of one’s career. The person who could destroy said career with just a word.
But you won’t. Because you aren’t a prick with a God complex. You aren’t your father, despite the lust you’re feeling for a model. You do know how to have fun, you just don’t. And this type of silly, harmless fun is exactly what you need to get your mind off her.
At the thought of the damned supermodel somewhere in his home, Lachlan toed off his boots and shot his best friend a quick look. “I’m going to make you regret this, Harris.
”
Mac laughed. “Can’t be anything worse than the last meal you cooked.”
With a chuckled growl, Lachlan hooked his fingers under the waistline of his polo shirt and, in one single move, yanked it up over his head. The cool air flowed over his bare chest, pinching his nipples into hard points. He heard a few appreciative oohs, a wolf whistle and then Mac snatched the shirt from his hands before Lachlan could finish withdrawing his arms from the sleeves.
His best friend laughed. “That’s my ruthless Media Mogul Balloon Boy.”
The gathering horde let out another cheer, louder this time.
The Twister referee cleared his throat again and turned back to the masses. “So, who’s game to take on the Lachlan McDermott in a game of Twister. One piece of clothing is all it—”
“I’m game.”
The throaty call came from behind Lachlan a second before a long, slender arm extended over his shoulder, equally long, slender fingers loosely holding something black and skimpy and bra-like. Except no bra Lachlan had ever seen was made with so little fabric. Or made his balls rise so quickly and his dick harden so painfully.
Fuck.
Kole stepped out from behind him. Her body heat caressed his bare chest as she slid past him, her unhindered breasts brushed his arm. Her stare held his for a fraction of a second before, with a curl of her lips, she crossed to Lachlan’s award-winning weatherman and handed over her bra. “I’ve paid,” she said with a seductive smile, and he couldn’t help but notice her nipples pressed against the flimsy silver strip of fabric she wore as a shirt. Her light blue eyes met his across the Twister mat as she slipped first one stiletto-heeled sandal and then the other from her feet. “Now, Mr. McDermott, let’s play, shall we?”
Cameron wasn’t stalking Lachlan McDermott. She knew what it was like to be stalked and this wasn’t it. She wasn’t stalking him, she just couldn’t not follow him. Not after the way he’d kissed her. Not after the way her body had reacted to that kiss. She’d been kissed by many a man—and a few women—in her life. Sultans, princes, Oscar winners, Grammy winners, Nobel Prize winners, bad boys, good boys, hell, even a bad boy who turned out to be a bad girl but none left her feeling so…so…damn it, so shaken. Damn it, she was thirty six, but by the way her body was behaving after that one kiss anyone would think she was a teenage girl. Her palms were sweaty, her breath was shaky, her sex was fluttering. Fluttering. When was the last time her sex fluttered?
And now here she was, handing over underwear to not just follow him but torment him? Because that’s exactly what she was doing. Tormenting him. He may have kissed her like no one ever had, but she had no doubt whatsoever he wanted to be as far away from her as possible.
She wasn’t prepared for that.
She wasn’t prepared for any of it.
She’d come to Lil’s party to meet Lachlan McDermott and lust—that wholly unsettling emotion—was now turning her into a tormenting tease. Turning her back into Kole.
Why? Because one man wanted who she used to be? Or had she never stopped being Kole? Had she spent all these years deluding herself?
A room full of stares crawled over her body.
Oh God, what was she doing? She had to get away. While she still could. She wasn’t Kole anymore. Even if Lachlan brought the model out in Cameron, she’d long since left Kole behind.
She fought the urge to fidget. She’d stepped out of the limelight for a reason—anonymity was a safe place. Playing Twister with Australia’s most influential, powerful bachelor at a party filled to the brim with the country’s movers and shakers, starlets, celebrities and sport heroes all in possession of smartphones with cameras and net access hardly constituted laying low. Playing Twister braless with one of the most influential men on the planet was the kind of thing Kole did, not her. Not who she was now, and she liked who she was now. She liked the private woman who didn’t care about manicures and make-up and who had no problems getting her fingernails filthy as she rebuilt a car engine.
She knew who she was now. At least, she thought she had. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
Around her, a low murmuring started. Despite Kole being absent from the public eye for sixteen years, people were beginning to recognize her. Really, apart from the fact her black hair had once been a thick straight curtain brushing her backside, she didn’t look that different. Especially in the ludicrous outfit she was wearing. She had no doubt what the next day’s paper headline would read. Reclusive model and media mogul playing dirty at exclusive private party.
Years of sheltering herself destroyed for one chance at tormenting Lachlan McDermott? Years of privacy shattered for the opportunity to feel his tall, lean, hard body move against hers? Years of denying the part of her that ached for such contact? Of submitting to the part that feared it?
Was she really doing this?
She felt Lachlan’s stare on her face and drew in a slow, steady breath, knowing the action lifted her breasts.
No, Kole drew the breath. Kole, not Cameron, and Kole was very much a woman who did exactly what needed to be done to get what she wanted. A sexy, seductive woman who wanted Lachlan McDermott…even if it was only in a game of Twister.
“Okay,” a male voice rose over the room’s din, “let’s play.”
Cameron barely suppressed the urge to flinch. She slid her gaze to the weatherman, watching him flick the Twister spinner. The little black pointer blurred into a black circle as it spun around the game controller before coming to a halt. “Left hand, red.”
She returned her attention to Lachlan. Found him regarding her with unreadable, unwavering focus. The library’s soft muted light fell over his bare torso, turning his skin a warm golden brown, highlighting the sinewy strength of his muscled form. Cameron’s pulse quickened and her pussy—already too aware of the erotic possibilities of the situation—fluttered some more. God, was she insane?
No. She just had to play the role. She just had to be Kole. Just for this game.
She let her gaze roam that bare chest, let it linger on the dark trail of hair disappearing behind the low waistline of his jeans, before sliding back up to his face.
He stared at her, nostrils flaring.
With a slow curl of her lips—and without breaking eye contact—Cameron bent forward and placed her left hand in the middle of the closest red circle on the playing mat.
Her breasts, uncontained by her minuscule bra, swung gently in the loose strip of metallic-silver satin laughably called a shirt draped around her neck. Her nipples brushed inside the designer garment. It sent a shivery ripple over her body and she swallowed a soft gasp.
Lachlan’s stare fell to her chest a second before returning to her upturned face. Nostrils flaring, jaw tight, he bent at the waist and, exerting an amazing level of physical control over his muscles, slowly placed his left hand on the red circle before him. They faced each other, legs splayed, one hand anchoring them to the floor, their stares holding each other. Around them, their fellow party attendees watched, still and curious.
The sound of the spinner’s arrow whizzing around, followed by the referee clearing his throat, filled the surreal silence.
“Right hand, green.”
Both she and Lachlan moved at once, lowering their torsos until their right hands pressed flat to the green circle. Her skirt rode high on her backside, the supple black leather sliding up the backs of her thighs until she felt the room’s air-conditioned air tease the crotch of her knickers. Someone behind her uttered a whispered, “Fuck that’s a gorgeous arse”.
Lachlan’s stare moved to the unseen speaker, steady and unwavering. There was the sound of feet shuffling, someone cleared their throat and then Lachlan was looking at Cameron again.
A ripple of tight heat shot through her. For a split second, the guarded expression was gone from his face. For a split second raw hunger and molten desire replaced it. For only a split second.
The buzz of the Twister spinner sawed the tense silence.
Camer
on’s heart thumped harder in her chest.
“Right foot, yellow.”
She drew a steadying breath. The move would draw her and Lachlan but one row of circles apart, but whereas her limbs were splayed and her body straight, Lachlan would need to twist his to achieve the position.
“C’mon, McDermott,” a man to the left of the Twister mat called. “I’ve seen you in trickier positions than this.”
“Shut up, Harris,” Lachlan called back, although Cameron didn’t think the tone malicious. Just focused. Determined. He continued to stare at her, his dark eyes intense before, with one fluid move, he contorted his body into what should have been an awkward U shape and placed his right foot on a yellow circle.
“I just had a thought,” the same man who had called out—Harris?—suddenly spoke. “What’s the winner of the game get?”
“The loser,” someone behind Cameron answered.
A nervous laugh hiccupped around the room.
Lachlan’s nostril’s flared. “I never lose.”
Cameron’s pussy constricted. “So I’ve heard.”
“Which means when I win—”
“You get me.”
“Lucky fucking bastard,” the same man who’d complimented her arse groaned loud enough for the whole room to hear.
“I don’t want you.”
Cameron smiled slowly, even as her pulse thumped like an insane moth in her neck. Even as her mouth went dry and her belly knotted. “Liar.”
Lachlan’s nostrils flared and Cameron knew by that slight reaction she was telling the truth. He wanted her. Now she just had to win the game. Win the game and stop being Kole.
But what did she do if she lost?
A deep shiver ran through her body at the notion of being in Lachlan McDermott’s control, turning her nipples to aching points. God, what would that be like? To surrender to the man’s every whim, a man known universally for his utter dominance of anything he set his mind to?
What would it be like, and why did she, Cameron, want to find out?
Twister: Party Games, Book 3 Page 3