The Proposition--A Sexy Billionaire Romance

by JC Harroway

  ‘We’re going to take it for a little test drive.’ He opens my door, and I slide in.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have done that before you made such a rash purchase? What if the wheels fall off?’

  ‘I’ll get it fixed,’ he shrugs. ‘You wouldn’t worry if you’d seen the race yesterday. It hugs the road like a dream, and wait till you hear the soft purr of the engine.’ He winks as if nothing fazes him and a pang of longing shoots through me at his easygoing outlook.

  I watch him stride around the front of the car, wondering anew at how he amassed such wealth at such a young age. I had my trust fund to help me out when I first started my own company. But I take full credit for what I’ve built since. I may not be any good at relationships, I may not have the belief of my father, but money I can make.

  He joins me in the car, and, as if he’s read my mind, starts the conversation. ‘So, what do you do that sees you travelling for work?’ he asks as he guns the engine, pulls away from the M Club and heads towards the harbour, Port Hercule.

  I love the way he drives, the way he handles the wheel with the same masculine self-assuredness with which he handled my pleasure last night, everything about him exciting new areas of my body and mind until I’m aching for him to agree to my proposition. ‘I’m in finance. I’m CEO of an investment multinational.’

  He shoots me an assessing look, something akin to disbelief in his eyes.

  I lift my chin and try not to take it personally.

  ‘So you make money for people?’ he says.

  ‘Yes, lots of money, otherwise I’d have no clients. I’m very good at what I do and it’s true what they say—money makes the world go round.’

  He shakes his head and I wonder what’s upset him about my profession. Most people I meet ask me for investment tips, but Cam looks as though I’ve said I drown puppies for a living.

  ‘What is it? Do you think women can’t be at the top of their field?’

  He shoots me an incredulous look. ‘Of course not—that you would suggest such a ridiculous thing shows how little we know each other. I was merely wondering just how good you are at your job.’

  ‘Come to Zurich with me and we can work on getting to know each other,’ I push, ever the opportunist. ‘I’ll even give you some free pointers—the markets are in flux at the moment, but there are always opportunities if you know where to look.’

  ‘Mmm...’ he says, sounding bored. ‘If you were good at losing money for clients, I might be tempted.’

  I can’t tell if he’s joking—he looks a little annoyed, his jaw thrust forward, lips pressed together. But he can’t be serious. His gambling last night, the large tips, shouting the entire casino a drink...that was one thing. But losing money?

  ‘Why would anyone want to lose money they’d worked hard for?’ I could understand my brother’s casual attitude to the company’s turnover, having stepped into our father’s ready-to-wear shoes, but not even he would willingly risk his affluent lifestyle. I wince at my spiteful thoughts. It’s not my brother’s fault our father has old-fashioned values that make no sense and are completely disloyal.

  ‘They wouldn’t,’ says Cam. ‘Not real hard work—blood, sweat and tears.’ He’s still borderline hostile at this turn of the conversation.

  I should steer clear of anything personal. Clearly my mention of money is some sort of issue for him, perhaps explaining why he didn’t seem to care about his losses at the casino last night.

  ‘What’s the difference between real hard work, as you put it, and what I do?’ His comments skate too close to my own touchy subject. No one works harder than me. ‘Everyone wants to be successful, and putting in the hours is how it happens. Isn’t that how you made your money?’

  His beautiful mouth twists in earnest now, a sneer of disgust. ‘Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that—I apologise if I offended your work ethic earlier. I’ve always worked hard, too, until recently. I...’ He swallows, seeming to battle with something momentous, but then he recovers just as quickly.

  I hold my own breath, waiting.

  ‘Six months ago I came into an obscene inheritance—more money than anyone needs, to be honest.’ He pulls into a parking spot, flashes me his live-for-the-moment smile and kills the engine as if closing down the line of conversation.

  Intrigue sharpens my vision. Easygoing Cam has hidden depths. Demons. He hides them well behind that carefree persona. For some reason, he seems to be doing his best to offload the money he inherited, even lose it. It seems preposterous to someone in my field.

  But this new information certainly explains the chip he seems to have on his shoulder, explains his casual attitude to gambling and extreme acts of generosity—the drinks, the car, replacing my outfit with the best money can buy.

  ‘I’m sensing you don’t want to talk about this any more than I want to drink shots off someone’s stomach aboard this yacht, but is it a problem for you...the inheritance?’ Prying lies outside the terms of my proposition, but I can’t help myself. Perhaps I can help him with some investment advice. Of course, he hasn’t said yes, so the point may be moot. I might never see him again.

  He ignores my question, jumps out of the car and swings open my door. Reaching for my hand, he guides me from the low seat.

  I ignore the sinking feeling in my chest and press on. ‘Most people would embrace such a life-changing gift.’ But I’m quickly coming to understand Cam isn’t like most people, in many respects—his two-fingered gestures at convention, the way he sprang from his seat last night to assist a stranger in need, the fact he’s even entertaining my proposition; most—no, all the men I know are way too rigid and full of their own importance to contemplate what I’m proposing. But with Cam it’s as if normal rules don’t apply, or perhaps it’s just the age difference, or perhaps he’s just exactly what he seems, killing time and enjoying his bender.

  ‘Let’s just say it’s more the origin of the gift that’s a problem, that and the terms...’ He locks the car and heads towards the marina, reaching back to take my hand.

  I try to conceal my flinch, because despite our kiss back at the hotel, despite what we shared last night, my hand in his feels alien in its intimacy.

  Alien, but thrilling every nerve in my body.

  I swallow the surge of lust and longing. ‘Well, I’d be happy to advise you on how to manage your wealth beyond gambling it all away and buying impractical fast cars, if that’s of any interest to you—I have been known to make a savvy investment or two over the years.’ I’m over-talking to cover my reaction to the hand-holding.

  His head snaps in my direction, his smile almost maliciously bright. ‘You think I’m frivolous.’

  ‘No... I didn’t mean—’

  He comes to a halt. ‘Why would you want anything to do with a man who wastes money—is the sex that great?’ He delivers this with a smile, but there’s pain in the tension around his mouth.

  I look down at my feet, stung but also ashamed that he’s spot-on—I have judged him, thinking only of what he can do for me, how he makes me feel, rather than what he might be hiding from, because years of swimming in the corporate shark tank have honed my instincts, so I know it’s something.

  He didn’t get those calloused hands tapping computer keys. He’s hinted that we work in very different worlds. He has an inheritance he doesn’t seem to want. But he’s more than the clichéd playboy I pegged him for on first impressions, just as, despite my age and my hard-won success, there’s a little girl inside me still seeking her daddy’s approval.

  Who is the real Cam? And who left him an obscene amount of money he doesn’t seem to care about?

  I look up, regret that I can’t see into his beautiful eyes, which are hidden behind sunglasses, stealing my breath. ‘I’m sorry—making money is what I do. Pretty much all I’ve done my entire adult life—first for my father’s firm, and the
n for my own. It’s a hard habit to break. I didn’t mean to judge, but you’re right. I don’t know anything about you beyond the fact that, yes, the sex is pretty sensational. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to know more, so why don’t we rectify that? What’s your surname, Cam?’

  He lifts his sunglasses. ‘North. Cameron North.’ He smiles then, a belter of a smile. I release a shudder, appalled at how absurdly we’ve behaved—sharing a night of incredible sex without even knowing each other’s surnames.

  I smile too.

  ‘And you are?’ he asks, his hand outstretched in my direction for the formality of a handshake.

  ‘Orla Hendricks. Nice to meet you.’ We grip each other’s hand, the fresh start unspoken but welcome.

  ‘So, Orla Hendricks,’ he says, guiding me towards a waiting speedboat, which will take us out to the yacht. ‘Let’s go have ourselves some fun, and then we’ll talk about this proposition of yours.’ He jumps ahead of me into the speedboat and then swings me after him, his hands gripping my waist. I want to kiss him again, but now I’m unsure of where we stand, the easy pleasure-seeking vibe we shared last night long gone.

  We’re taken to the biggest yacht in the harbour, the Abella—sleek, at least seventy metres, her pristine hull gleaming in the sun. I hear the music before I see the throng of people on deck—most of the women bikini-clad and many of the men wearing shorts. I grind my teeth in frustration—I have a swimsuit in my case back on the dock. Why didn’t I think to put it on?

  We disembark the tender and climb aboard the Abella. Cam takes a glass of bubbles from a member of the smartly dressed welcoming crew and hands it to me with a smile. Every inch of the stunning vessel is packed with beautiful people in a full-on party atmosphere. I grip Cam’s hand as we head to the upper deck, which features an infinity pool, a hot tub and the best views of Monaco.

  We wind through the partygoers and head towards the rail. My phone vibrates in my bag, and I pull it out, scanning the message from my assistant but checking the time. Despite Cam’s promise to deliver me to Zurich, I’m aware of every second he delays. Perhaps this was a mistake. I certainly didn’t get to where I am by making many of those.

  Cam spies my phone and I shove the device back into my bag. ‘So, are you thinking of buying this?’ I want to caution him against making such a rash investment, but then, boats like this are more about hedonism and status than sound returns and I don’t want to sound like a killjoy. But really, most people who own one of these spend a few weeks a year actually enjoying the lifestyle. Who has the time to take a year off work?

  People like Cam, I guess, deciding to ask him about his inheritance if he agrees to come to Zurich.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ he says. ‘Who wouldn’t want to own her? You could permanently live on board. She’s fully equipped—a cinema, a gym, a spa. And you should see the stateroom.’

  ‘But?’ We might be here so I can prove I’m not a stick-in-the-mud workaholic, but I can sense that sailing around the Mediterranean in the Abella isn’t his dream, despite her charms.

  He smiles as if I cracked a code no one else has. ‘But I prefer bricks and mortar, preferably something I’ve built myself.’ He holds up his calloused hands in proof.

  I nod, impressed. I want to get to know this side of him more but stop myself, remembering what happened when we steered too close to personal. ‘Blood, sweat and tears?’ I say.

  ‘Bingo,’ he says, his easy smile wider.

  Then I spoil the moment by handing my untouched glass of champagne to a passing waiter.

  ‘You don’t like champagne?’ he asks.

  ‘I have work to do later—I need a clear head. And you’re not drinking.’

  ‘I’m driving you to the airport after this.’ I sense his disappointment, feeling as if I’ve failed the first test.

  At his reminder that I’m on probation, I seize the change of topic to push my agenda. ‘So, will you come to Zurich?’ I want his company. I want the way he makes me feel, what he brings out in me, to be that woman who remembers how to enjoy herself, remembers that it’s allowed, even beneficial.

  ‘You’re very direct, aren’t you, Orla Hendricks? Direct, not afraid to proposition a stranger, and very driven.’

  ‘That’s a fair assessment, given we don’t know each other very well.’

  He tilts his head in acknowledgement. ‘No, we don’t know each other. So, here’s what you need to know about me beyond the fact I’m a sensational lay,’ he says with a wicked grin that tells me he’s teasing me again, so I can’t help smiling along. ‘I’m a decent bloke. I’m not harbouring any sexually transmitted infections, so you can shag me with complete peace of mind, and if you want my company for the next six weeks I have two conditions.’

  My pulse leaps with excitement, warm, syrupy heat forging through my blood as my lips twitch at his forthright declaration. ‘Thanks for the honesty and the practicality. What are these conditions?’ I say, my blood roaring through my ears with anticipation.

  His eyes darken in that sexy way that reminds me of last night’s Cam. ‘One, you name the destinations and leave the rest up to me—I’ll foot the bill, the transport...’ he waves a dismissive had around at our current luxurious location ‘...the off-the-clock itinerary.’ One eyebrow lifts above the rim of his sunglasses in that self-assured way. ‘Even the wardrobe—I have a feeling I might ruin a few more of your outfits now I know what’s hidden underneath. All you have to do is come and come and come...’

  My current underwear goes up in flames at the very idea of him being impatient enough to get to me that he goes all caveman. He’s sufficiently evolved that he sought my consent first. I hold in a smile and offer a droll, ‘I get the picture.’

  I’m woman enough, secure enough, to concede a little control to this man. After all, I hold the advantage in terms of age and life experience, and it’s not as if we’re entering into a relationship—this is about pleasure, and he’s proved he can deliver. And, while I’m not used to relinquishing control over my life—it’s why I’m successful—do I really care if he wants to pick up the travel tab?

  ‘Okay, but I want it known I’m happy with more...frugal methods of transportation than supercars and private jets.’ It’s not as if I need his money or run any risk of becoming a kept woman—I almost splutter a laugh at the absurdity of that thought. My days of trying to play wife ended in disaster.

  He shakes his head. ‘Noted, but it’s my call. You can be frugal on your own time.’ He winks and I capitulate. For his own reasons, reasons he’s already hinted at, his generosity and extravagance are motivated by more than altruism, but is his request any more outlandish than my proposition?

  ‘And two?’

  ‘Two—you won’t like this one.’ He pauses.

  My pulse hammers in my neck.

  ‘You have to loosen up a bit more. If this is about us having a good time, I’m going to want to see a whole lot more of last night’s Orla.’

  My jaw drops. ‘What do you mean? It’s eleven a.m. I’m at a superyacht party. How loose do I have to be?’

  His head drops back and he looks at the sky as if seeking inspiration. ‘Ah, Orla, you have so much to learn...’ He smiles, perfectly pleasant, his tone teasing. But then he turns serious. ‘You’re at a party, checking your phone and thinking about work, probably biding your time until you can get back to it.’

  My shoulders tense in defence. I heard similar criticism a hundred times from my ex.

  ‘Actually, I was checking the time. I have other places I need to be, so let’s wrap this up. Are you joining me in Zurich or not?’ My patience is stretched to the limit.

  Instead of answering, he sidles up close to my side and stretches his arm along the rail at my back. He leans in close, his mouth inches from mine, and my irritation evaporates in anticipation of being kissed.

  ‘No need to get de
fensive,’ he says, his voice low, seductive. ‘Last night was fun. Fun that could have continued into this morning.’

  I watch his lips move, reminded that I had the best sex of my life.

  His hand slides between my shoulder blades and he urges me closer. ‘Instead I woke up in an empty bed to find you working in the dark.’

  My head spins, confused by the contradiction in the way he’s looking at me, the way he’s touching me, and the censure of his words. ‘I’m not going to apologise for working—’

  ‘Of course not, but when you’re not working hard, where’s the harm in playing hard?’ He looks over his shoulder to where the most enthusiastic partygoers are climbing from the pool or hot tub and diving into the sea from a diving platform. ‘Now, they look like they’re really letting loose, wouldn’t you say?’

  I hear his subtext loud and clear, even as my body sways closer to his. He thinks I’m too straitlaced to let down my hair to that degree. He thinks because I work long hours, I don’t know how to enjoy myself. Adrenaline floods my blood, my pulse leaping with defiance.

  He turns back to face me and I touch my lips to his in a barely-there caress as I say, ‘You’re right, that does look fun.’ I’m not wearing a bikini, but what better way to show Cam that not only can I be as outgoing as the next person, but also that I’m up for any challenge—in or out of the bedroom?

  I hold his stare for one beat, two, my belly tight with anticipation, but I don’t kiss him as I want. Instead I step away and slip off my sandals.

  His eyes grow wide and then wider still as I slide my Capri pants over my hips. I’m wearing a black cotton thong and a strapless bra—no more revealing than half the bikinis here.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Excitement and awe war in Cam’s eyes and I roll my shoulders back, the fact that I can impress him spurring me on to exhibit my best assets.

  I scoop up my pants and drape them over his arm and then add my camisole top.

  ‘I’m letting loose.’ I press a kiss to his startled mouth, ignore the stares I’m attracting, stride to the swimming deck slowly and confidently and dive into the cool Mediterranean.