The Proposition

by JC Harroway

  ‘Yes, better than okay. You?’

  I groan against the side of her neck, placing a tender kiss there where her skin smells fantastic—pure Orla. ‘You have no idea.’

  She presses her mouth to mine, a strange intensity on her face, and she doesn’t stop kissing me until we come, me seconds after her, wondering how in the world I’m ever going to get enough of Orla Hendricks.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Orla

  I LOOK AWAY from the view of the Persian Gulf from my office window in Dubai’s International Financial Centre and try to refocus on the business proposal on the computer screen when all I can see is Cam’s face, his sexy, playful grin and his sparkly eyes, which always seem alight with animation.

  Somewhere between leaving Zurich after our thrilling heli-skiing trip and arriving in Dubai, I’ve experienced a seismic shift—I can’t seem to get Cam off my mind, as my current daydream proves. It’s almost as if my mind is sick of numbers and craves the intrusion. As if he’s there because he belongs. Because I want his presence in more than my bed. But that’s crazy...

  Is it because he finally opened up to me, telling me about his loss and his childhood, which must have been far removed from my own? Is it because seeing his pain, filling in the gaps, makes me desperate to help him overcome the issues holding him back? I’m certain it was his father who left him the inheritance. The timeline fits, and the fact that he doesn’t seem to care if he loses every cent. That money represents more than a life-changing windfall. For him, it’s tainted, tangled up in rejection and pain and resentment. Even when he seems to be enjoying it, living a lifestyle most people would jump at in a heartbeat, deep down I’m certain Cam would be equally happy to return to his life before.

  Cam’s in pain. He’s hurting. The big-spending gambler I first met is far removed from the real Cam North. The real Cam gives a wicked foot massage. The real Cam takes the time to talk and, more importantly, to really listen. The real Cam is a roll-up-your-sleeves kind of man: a man who loves the simple things in life—an ice-cold beer on a sunny day, a view of the sunset, throwing a ball for a delighted dog.

  As fascinating and addictive as he is complex.

  I push away from my desk in self-disgust, admitting my productivity is done for the day, and head to the hotel for a shower. As I turn on the water, tie up my hair and strip off, I berate myself further. It’s one thing to care about the wonderful, thoughtful and capable man I’m sleeping with—after all, I’m not a robot, despite what my ex-husband thinks—but to allow it to interfere with my work?

  I’ve never once struggled with focus before, so why now? And why to this degree? There could be any number of explanations: jet lag, too much of what Cam likes to call playing hard, the pesky burn-out, which seems to be getting stronger, not lessening as I’d hoped.

  But I suspect it’s just Cam. Clearly I underestimated how much of a distraction a man like him could be—stupid, stupid Orla.

  Thinking about him has an inevitable effect on my body and I turn the water to cool to douse the reaction. Perhaps there’s such a thing as too much sex? If we’re not screwing, which is at least a twice-a-day occurrence, we’re teasing each other, whispering, sharing stolen secret glances, a torturous form of foreplay.

  I step under the spray and lather my body with divine-smelling body wash. If only I could wash my confused and intrusive feelings away with the suds. Because they have no place here. This was never for keeps. Thanks to my father, my ex and my own high expectations, I’m just not emotionally built for relationships.

  Why is this so hard, when I’ve never before struggled to compartmentalise sex? I can blame physical exhaustion. Between my own punishing schedule, the inability to keep our hands off each other and always exploring somewhere Cam deems essential, it’s no wonder I can’t think straight.

  The last few days have been a whirlwind. An ice bar on our last night in Zurich, dinner last night on the one hundred and twentieth floor of the Burj Khalifa, the world’s tallest tower, and, as today is opening day at the Meydan racecourse, we’re due to spend an evening at the races.

  Despite my cold-shower distraction technique, waves of anticipation move over my skin—he’ll be here any minute. It’s as if my body has a sixth sense: Cam detection. Perhaps he’ll look for me and join me in the shower. But even as I feel the flutter of excitement low in my belly, I probe my feelings deeper. Yes, the sex is amazing. Yes, he brings out some sort of lust-craved wanton in me—who could resist such virile and enthusiastic attention? But he’s more than that; he puts my life into perspective. When I’m with him I almost forget that I’m Orla Hendricks, CEO. The bitterness I feel towards my father seems irrelevant and trivial. I don’t care about proving myself worthy. I don’t care about being the best. I can simply exist. No need to strive to be anything other than myself.

  A woman to his man.

  My sigh is shaky, tinged with fear.

  Oh, no... No, I can’t do this. I can’t feel the things I’m feeling. Not for him, not for anyone. I swallow, forcing myself to be brutally honest. Despite the age gap and my determination to avoid relationships, Cam is exactly the sort of man I could fall for, and that’s bad.

  B.A.D.

  I freeze, the realisation of how dangerous Cam is to my resolve a shock, as if the water had turned instantly icy. Then I laugh aloud, although the sound is hollow and unconvincing. We’re too different. Cam would no more think of me as a relationship candidate than I would think of him, in our normal, everyday lives. He’s twenty-eight years old. I’ll be thirty-seven in a few months.

  It’s ridiculous.

  Even if I wanted a relationship, we’d never work. Deep down he’s a solid, steady, dependable man who says it like it is. I’m a hustler. I always need to be moving, striving, ticking off the next goal.

  I try to visualise introducing Cam to my Sydney girlfriends over brunch, or picture him being content to see his woman once in a blue moon, if the stars align. My washing movements become slow, automatic, as I’m lost to the pictures my imaginings paint, as if they’re tantalising in their reality. I’ve never asked him, but surely Cam wants a wife and a family one day. I’ve long since sworn off such trappings, finding contentment in the one thing I’m good at: my career, making money for my clients and for myself along the way.

  But is that enough any more? Can I go back to my sad, workaholic existence after Cam?

  I slam off the shower spray, my irritation directed at my flights of fancy.

  Of course I can. I’m set in my ways. This is my life, a great life I’ve built—self-sufficient, independent, successful. I’ll move on from my fling with Cam, just as I moved on from my marriage to Mark.

  With my equilibrium restored by my harsh mental pep talk, I dry off and put on the modest green silk dress with buttons down the front that I’ve chosen for the races. I apply light make-up and slip on nude strappy sandals with a low heel.

  When I emerge from the en suite bathroom, Cam is sprawled over the leather sofa near the window. I come to an abrupt halt, my eyes sucking in the sight of him, as if they know time is running out and one day he’ll only be visible in my memory.

  He too is dressed in smart-casual attire for the races—chinos, a shirt and tie, and a blazer. His hair is tamed, slicked back from his handsome face with product, and he’s focused on the screen of his phone, his brows dipped in an act of concentration that should make him look adorable, if he wasn’t too much man for that particular adjective.

  My stomach clenches at the sight of him, sexy, suave and in his prime, the epitome of masculinity. I tug my bottom lip under my teeth and close my eyes for a decadent second, remembering the way he woke me this morning before my alarm. Sleepy, warm and demanding, he’d dragged me close with one strong arm, spooning me from behind. As I nodded and smiled in agreement, his hot mouth had found my nipple and I’d arched against him until he’d seated hims
elf inside me from behind—a perfect position for Cam to toy with my clit until I climaxed and he’d achieved the unforgettable wake-up call he’d wanted.

  For some reason I kept my eyes closed throughout, and we didn’t speak, because it somehow felt different—slow, sensual, reverent—almost as if we were making love.

  I shake the alarming thought from my head and clear my throat to alert Cam to my presence.

  He looks up. A grin stretches over his face, but his eyes are hot, just like every other time he looks at me: full of promise, provocative, and deeply piercing, as if he sees me to my soul.

  I approach, my legs shakier than they should be, given the stern lecture I’d only moments ago administered to myself. Cam stands, the perfect gentleman. I accept his hungry kiss, returning it with my own. It’s as if we’ve been separated for years, not hours, but with his mouth on mine it’s hard to overthink, so I simply surrender to the moment.

  When we part, the exposed, unfocused feeling I’ve experienced for the past few days intensifies, so I reach for his phone to distract myself.

  ‘What has you so absorbed that you didn’t hear me come in?’ I expect to find a list of statistics for today’s thoroughbreds, but instead I see pictures of a shabby-looking cottage, the paint peeling, the steel roof warped and the veranda partially collapsed where the boards have rotted.

  ‘What’s this?’ I flick through the pictures. The views are enviable, but the house is a mess.

  Cam shrugs, his expression wary. ‘A cottage. I bought it a while ago. Before the money. To renovate.’

  It can’t be larger than a hundred square metres. And the ceilings are low. ‘Do you plan to live here? You’ll be constantly bumping your head.’ He’s already told me he owns a Point Piper penthouse with harbour views back in Sydney.

  At my confused expression, he takes the phone from me and scrolls through the pictures, as if showing off a prized possession. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps. It’s in an amazing location. Look at the views.’

  I nod. He’s right—this cottage commands an enviable spot on Sydney’s North Shore.

  ‘My mother grew up close by. After she moved away, we’d go back to her favourite spots for picnics or to the beach. She always admired this cottage, and when the elderly owner passed away I purchased it. For her.’ His face falls and he tucks the phone into his breast pocket. ‘She died before I could make a dent in the work it needs.’

  My heart clenches, the urge to hold him and chase away the defeat in his eyes intense. ‘But you’re going to finish it anyway? Earn yourself a few splinters and build up a sweat?’

  He grins because I understand him. It’s almost a tribute. My chest burns with empathy. I touch his arm, wanting to do more, but too afraid of the feelings I’ve battled all day.

  ‘Yeah, once I’m back in Sydney. Mum was right—it could be perfect.’

  I take his hand and lead us back to the sofa, where I tug him down at my side. ‘How much work have you done?’

  His enthusiasm falters. ‘Not that much. I bought it before the inheritance with my savings. It made Mum’s last weeks happier to think of me one day living in the cottage she admired from afar.’

  My throat aches for his loss, the desire to be there for him building until I confess something I rarely allow myself to think, let alone say aloud. ‘You know, I often wonder what it would be like to live somewhere like that.’

  Surprise flitters across his face. ‘You do...?’ A small, almost delighted smile kicks up his mouth.

  ‘Yeah. How peaceful it would be to wake up to the sound of the sea every morning. To step outside before the sun is fully up and drink coffee on a quaint old veranda like that, taste the salt in the air. Simple. Everything I need. To be...content, I guess.’

  His silence and the frown that steals his smile and draws his thick eyebrows down over his eyes make me feel self-conscious. He stares, as if seeing me for the first time.

  My face grows hot. I’ve revealed something from deep inside, a place I hardly ever delve. I want to stuff the telling words back inside my mouth. Instead I stand, collect my bag and the wide-brimmed hat that matches my outfit, and breathe my emotions back under control. What is he doing to me? Where did that insane and impractical confession come from? I have a perfectly adequate penthouse in Sydney with its own enviable views. Not that I spend much time there.

  I wait for him to join me near the door, my shoulders tense as if I’m anticipating his next words.

  ‘You know, you could live like that, Orla. There’s nothing to stop you.’ His words are predictable, his tone mild, but the subtext is loaded with the unspoken. If I were that content woman, then perhaps there’d be a chance for us, or perhaps that’s just what I want to hear because maybe the appeal of that cottage, that life, is that it would include Cam.

  But I can’t want that, to be his woman. It’s a dead-end fantasy.

  ‘I know.’ My clipped tone closes down this alarming conversation, but I soften it to say, ‘You should finish the cottage, Cam. I can tell it’s going to be beautiful. Shall we go?’

  He accepts my change of subject, although there’s an undercurrent of unease between us on the journey to the racecourse in another of the sleek sports cars Cam loves. It’s as if we’re both wearing armour on top of our clothes. As if we need protection from each other, when prior to today everything was easy and open.

  We park in the VIP car park and enter the grandstand, which is over a mile long and houses not only the immaculate racetrack, but also a trackside hotel and entertainment venue. I’m relatively well-known among Dubai’s business community, so I introduce Cam to some clients and local dignitaries. I’m deep in conversation with a former client who wants to talk shop when I sense Cam’s edginess. The unfamiliar taste of guilt makes me wince as I try to fight my first reaction to become defensive. I’m not used to having to explain my actions to anyone. But I’m supposed to be off the clock. This is supposed to be a social event.

  He’s right; I never stop. I’m never off the clock. My stomach twists, a strange mix of resentment for the life I chose and longing for something more. I shoot him an apologetic look and wrap up my consultation as politely as I can, reassuring the sheikh I’ll see him before I leave Dubai.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say when I’ve escaped. ‘He’s a very good customer and he prefers to work with the top dog, not the very competent minions.’

  Cam’s expression is free of judgement, but I hear the censure from inside my own head. Don’t you want more than work?

  ‘I’m not surprised. She’s beautiful and talented—it’s almost a shame there’s only one of her...’ He smiles, and I slip into the comfort of his arms, because I’m less sure of my life plan than I was yesterday.

  We head to our private suite with a terrace overlooking the racetrack. It’s a perfect day for the races, although I’m glad for the air-conditioning of our suite. As it’s the first race of the season, the grandstand is packed with spectators. We can’t bet, but our waiter informs us there are several competitions running for correctly guessing the place-getters. I choose the three horses with names that appeal the most—Desert Haze, Buyer Beware and Human Condition—knowing nothing about their pedigrees, owners or trainers, but Cam seems more interested in the pre-race action at the edge of the track.

  ‘There he is.’ He hands me a pair of binoculars and points in the general direction of the milling jockeys and horses.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My horse—number seven.’ He slips his arm around my waist and tugs me close, his enthusiasm a distraction I need.

  I focus in on the thoroughbred—a magnificent chestnut stallion—the jockey bedecked in red and gold. ‘Did you place an offshore bet?’ Of course Cam would find a way to offload some cash in a country where gambling is illegal.

  ‘No.’ He sounds so pleased with himself, I take a good hard look at his face, which
is wreathed in smug excitement. ‘I bought him. He’s mine. Contempt of Court—isn’t he perfect?’

  Unease dries my mouth as I take another look at Cam’s latest purchase. It doesn’t matter. I should let it go. I don’t want to spoil our evening, but really? A racehorse?

  ‘How long have you owned him?’ I hedge, hoping to discover it’s a lifelong dream of his or a regular hobby. But the hair rising at the back of my neck tells me I’m unlikely to be comforted by his answer.

  ‘A week. When I knew Dubai was on your itinerary, I put out some feelers. He was already registered for the race, the name is perfect, so I offered the owner a number he couldn’t refuse.’ He takes two glasses of champagne from our waiter and hands me one, clinking his glass to mine with a grin.

  I stare, a shudder passing through me at how much a thoroughbred already registered for one of the world’s richest races must have cost. It’s none of my business, he’s hardly bankrupting himself, and I’ll damage the fragile mood between us, but I can’t stay silent. On the surface he’s enjoying his inheritance, yes, but deep down it’s because he doesn’t care about the money, which makes sense if it’s from his father.

  ‘So you bought an expensive racehorse just for his name?’

  He sees the disapproval I’m trying, and clearly failing, to hide. ‘I bought him because I could—the name was an added bonus. And I knew you wouldn’t approve.’

  ‘You’re right, I’m...cautious with my money, but it’s not that I don’t approve.’

  ‘What, then? We’re here to enjoy the races. Having a horse in the race will add to my enjoyment. I’m just making the most of this moment in a way I can afford.’

  The unspoken is there again, hanging in the air between us like a swarm of irritable wasps. A dig, a rejoinder, aimed my way. What’s the point of having it all if you don’t take the time to enjoy it?

  ‘So what will you do with him? He’s not a homeless dog. Do you plan on shipping him back to Australia too, like the car?’ I can imagine why he’s struggling with his father’s legacy, since the money came from a man who abandoned him, but can’t he see that the excesses won’t help him deal with his anger and resentment? I can no longer ignore the two sides of Cam’s personality and the inconsistencies that tell me he’s hurting, despite his live-for-the-moment attitude and his hedonistic pursuits.