The Proposition

by JC Harroway

  As if he’s already decided to leave and I’m determined to give him something to remember, I lock my arms and push back from the glass, the illicit scandal of what we’re doing in such close proximity to the other club members and the thump of his hips against my backside making me cry out with acute waves of pleasure.

  Cam grips my hips with punishing fingers, clearly battling control himself. ‘Touch yourself, Orla. Touch that greedy little clit that wants to be mine.’

  His words thrill me, because all my body is his. I rush to obey, slipping one hand between my legs to rub myself while he pounds into me from behind.

  It’s carnal, uninhibited and glorious. But it’s also communication. We’ve strayed from the path this evening, and this is a reminder that we can’t do that again, not without sacrificing something more. Something bigger than both of us. Something so good, we’d be fools not to enjoy it for whatever time we have left.

  Just when I think he’s close to finishing, he grunts, pulls out and spins me around. He backs my ass up against the window as he kisses me and hoists me around the waist so my feet leave the floor.

  ‘I want to watch you come. Hold tight.’

  I nod, his puppet, willing to have my strings pulled, because I know this man. I know his values and his desires and he sees what I need.

  He grips my waist in one arm, his other hand pressing our entwined fingers against the window, and I wrap my legs around his hips. With my free hand I guide him back inside, and we groan together, as if it were the first time all over again.

  Cam’s thrusts turn fast and shallow, his fingers pressed hard into the back of my hand as if he never wants to let me go. I grip his shoulder and tunnel my hand into his hair and hold on tight with everything I have. ‘Cam...’

  His eyes lance mine and his thrusts knock the breath from me, but I need to say this. To make things right between us. ‘I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. Sorry for bringing up painful memories.’

  His face twists with emotion. He drops his forehead to mine as he says, ‘Hush...’

  His kiss tells me I’m forgiven, and then I can’t speak another word because he stops holding himself back, his hips powering into mine as he sinks as deep as he can go and we’re finally lost together.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cam

  AS I PULL up outside Orla’s Raffles Place office in Singapore’s financial district a few days later, my phone rings. I slide the car into park and answer on the Bluetooth. It’s Orla.

  ‘Hi. I’m just outside,’ I say, already grinning with anticipation.

  ‘I figured you wouldn’t be far away. I’m on my way down. I just wanted to say I’m ready and I’ve cleared everything on my desk—no interruptions tonight. I promise.’ She’s mildly breathless, as if she’s talking on the move. ‘Perhaps I should even wear one of those glasses and moustache disguises so I don’t get cornered by someone who recognises me.’

  I throw my head back and laugh. ‘There’s no need to go that far. But I appreciate the gesture.’ Since the evening at the races, where we had our first fight—although I’m not sure you can have a fight if you’re not a couple—Orla and I haven’t spoken about my inheritance. In fact, we haven’t spoken about anything that could be considered real, only travel arrangements or her work schedule, or where we’d like to eat that evening. But every time I pay for a meal, tip a waiter or add drinks to my M Club tab, I feel her eyes on me, as if she wants to say more but is holding back.

  I understand the impulse. For days now I’ve been fighting the urge to ask where this is going. Where we’re going, because time is running out. Our trip will soon be over and we’ll be back in Sydney before we know it.

  What then?

  Do we shake hands and walk away without a backward glance? Will we hook up every time she’s home long enough to give me a call? Cam’s dial-an-orgasm? Will we date other people in between? Fuck, of course we will, because we won’t be dating each other—she made that clear from day one. I check my feelings, the roll of my stomach confirming without a doubt that I want more from Orla than a goodbye the minute we touch down in Sydney or an occasional booty call.

  I want everything.

  But what does she want? Probably nothing more than she’s wanted from the start. A good time. But surely we’ve moved past just physical pleasure? Surely she feels the same stirrings to explore this further, back in the real world?

  But whose real world?

  I wince, remembering the woman tying my insides into knots is still on the line. ‘Okay...well, hurry down. I’ve got a surprise.’ Two if you count the box in my pocket.

  I’m taking her to the Singapore Grand Prix, which just happens to be in town this week. She’s spent a gruelling four days working, leaving the hotel suite before I’m awake and returning late in the evening, pale and about to drop. The humidity here is draining and she’s been visiting a technology satellite manufacturing company on one of the islands. It’s all I can do to encourage a few mouthfuls of the delicious room-service menu into her before turning on the shower and tucking her into bed.

  At first I thought her drive, work ethic, and independence made us incompatible, but it’s true what they say—opposites do attract and we slot together well.

  But could we take this chemistry, this astounding connection, and translate it into something real once the travelling and the hedonism stop? On my turf, my real turf, would her enthusiasm dwindle? Would she decide that we just don’t have enough in common after all?

  As to her feelings...

  I swallow bile—I have no clue. I’m only just waking up to my own...

  I grip the steering wheel, hoping to dislodge the lump in my throat threatening to cut off my oxygen. Time is running out. The real test will come back in Sydney, on home ground. I already have plans to throw myself into finishing the cottage renovations, but I still have no definitive solution for my financial woes. Do I return to work at my old construction firm and ignore the money in my account? Will they even have me back? When I said I needed some unpaid leave to get my head around things, they didn’t put up much of a fight. I knew the company was struggling; as with most Sydney-based construction companies, the building slump had taken its toll. But could I simply slot back into my old life as if none of this—the money, meeting Orla—had happened?

  More importantly, could a woman like Orla—so driven, so intent on making her business the best—be happy to come back down to earth with me? Live that simple life in a cottage by the sea?

  I try to picture her there, both in its current state of disrepair and once finished. I’m so used to seeing her in glamorous, decadent surroundings that the image doesn’t quite gel.

  There’s a tap at the window. I look up to find her beautiful, lit-up face smiling down at me and I’m struck with the force of a baseball bat to the skull that I want that reality. Me, Orla, simple moments in a cottage by the sea.

  Fuck, I’m falling for her. Actually falling.

  I clamber from the car, my heart pounding.

  I scoop one arm around her waist and pull her in for a kiss. Our first of the day and all the sweeter because I’ve had to wait and because each kiss we share is better and better.

  ‘Hi,’ I say after she releases me.

  She laughs. ‘Hi, yourself. So where are we going? I’m excited.’

  My chest grows tight with nervous energy, the box in my pocket burning a hole through the denim of my jeans. I wanted to wait, to give her the gift at a suitably romantic moment, but I can’t help myself. In view of my lightning-bolt revelation, I’m impatient to start.

  ‘I have something for you first—a gift.’ I tug at the box, which is snagged on my pocket.

  ‘Cam. No more gifts.’ She covers my hand, the hand struggling to release the box. ‘I know you don’t want to hear it, but I can give you a list right now of a hundred sound investme
nts to absorb your disposable income.’

  ‘Investing is the last thing I want to do.’ She’s only trying to help, I see that, but perhaps because I’ve already had similar thoughts myself, my stance on the money I neither wanted nor asked for softening, I dig in my heels.

  ‘Enjoying myself at my old man’s expense is one thing, but touching that money in any meaningful way feels too close to forgiveness, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.’

  ‘I understand what you mean about forgiveness. I’ve struggled with that myself. But I’m not talking about making money,’ she says, and my ribs pinch because she sees me, understands my struggles and, as much as I don’t want to hear it, she’s right. I need to find a way to come to terms with my new life. To build a new future for myself, because even if I want to return to the old life, it can never be the same.

  ‘There are lots of ways to invest thoughtfully and with a social conscience. You’re already doing it in a small way. But I can help you get around the restrictions in the will, too. Why don’t you let me put together some proposals?’

  I want to say so much in that second that I can’t speak at all. Would she want to help if she didn’t care about me? About us? And I’ll take any future contact with her I can get, even if I have to sit through a million financial proposals.

  ‘I do have something I’d like your advice on.’ Since thinking about my old construction company, an idea has taken shape. She may not know anything about the building industry, but I’m certain she can advise me, let me know if my plan is feasible. But I don’t want to have this conversation now.

  ‘But right now I want to give you my gift.’ I kiss away her pout and tug the box free. ‘This gift is different.’ I hold her stare so she understands my meaning. I know technically all my money is my money, but some of it I earned. ‘I bought it with my own money. My savings before the inheritance.’ Part of my cottage renovation fund, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  Her eyes widen. ‘Oh, well...thank you.’ She presses a kiss to my mouth, and I know she gets me. She understands the distinction and what it means to me.

  I hold the box up at eye level, flat on my palm.

  I know she wants to berate me for my extravagance, but she takes the box without further comment. Inside is an intricate pair of traditional Singapore gold earrings, their beauty and delicacy reminding me of her.

  ‘I notice you always wear these,’ I touch one diamond stud, ‘and I thought you might like a change, so...’

  Why am I so tongue-tied? It’s a gift. I’ve given her hundreds of gifts over the past few weeks. Perhaps it’s because I want to say more, to tell her that I want to see her beyond the six weeks we agreed, but I clamp my jaw shut, because I’m not sure she’s ready to hear that yet.

  ‘They’re beautiful, Cam, exactly what I would choose myself.’ Her mouth is back on mine, and her arms scoop around my neck so I hear when she snaps the box closed.

  I guess she’s not going to wear them tonight. I swallow down my disappointment. It’s no big deal. ‘Let’s go. It’s not far, so I thought we could walk.’

  She tucks the earrings inside her bag and loops her arm through mine. It’s a short walk to the premier grandstand, which has the best views of the street circuit’s more challenging turns and spectacular views of Marina Bay, the focus of the post-race fireworks.

  I take Orla’s hand. ‘Do you like Grand Prix?’

  ‘Yes. It’s so exciting. Is that where we’re going?’ She smiles her dazzling smile, and I nod, no longer interested in the motor racing. I want to take her back to the hotel and strip her naked, save for the earrings I bought. I want to drag a confession from her of how she truly feels about me. If she wants to see me once we’re back in Sydney.

  ‘Not long until we’re home. It’s going to be a struggle after all this adventure,’ I hedge, testing the water.

  ‘Yes. I’m sort of dreading it, to be honest. I’ll have to see my father and he’s going to be pissed about Jensen’s.’

  I squeeze her hand in solidarity. ‘Tell him to stick it. You did nothing wrong apart from being the best.’

  She nods, but her eyes appear far away. ‘You know, he bought me these earrings for my twenty-fifth birthday.’ She touches one of the diamond studs she always wears. ‘At first I was incredibly touched. We weren’t that close while I was growing up—I always felt second best because I didn’t have a Y chromosome. But after he’d given me a second to open his gift and thank him, he chose that moment to tell me I wouldn’t be the next CEO, but Liam would.’

  I stare, because I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know how to feel. ‘I’m sorry he treated you that way.’ What does it mean that she wears them every day without fail? I try to recall if I’ve ever seen her without them, instinctively knowing the answer is no.

  ‘It’s silly, I guess, but I wear them every day to remind myself that I don’t need him or his company. That I’m perfectly capable of running my own firm. That I can be just as successful as him and Liam.’

  ‘Probably more successful, if you think about Jensen’s,’ I say, and she nods. The idea she still wants to prove something to the man after all these years depresses me. I hide the heavy feeling dragging at my feet with an unconvincing smile. ‘A two-fingered gesture, eh? I get it.’

  Her nod is hesitant, as if she’s remembering our fight over Contempt of Court, but four-carat diamond earrings...a racehorse... They may as well be the same. She squeezes my hand, because now she knows I’ve made enough of my own two-fingered gestures while we’ve known each other. ‘My father never gave me anything—not a birthday card, or a pat on the back, or even a phone call. Trust me, you know I understand the impulse.’

  She looks down and then tucks herself closer to my side as we walk. ‘I’m not bringing that up again. I just wanted you to understand why I wear these.’ She touches a stud, which may as well be a padlock to the cage she’s constructed around herself.

  A daily reminder. There every time she looks in the mirror. A reminder she has something to prove.

  I’ve never met her father, but I already know the guy is an asshole. She’s worth ten of him, except somehow, despite all her success, all the billions, she still feels she needs to prove to him that she’s worthy.

  I tug her to a standstill, the exotic scents of Singapore around us reminding me we are far from home. But we’re together, and I want to be there for her. ‘You know you don’t need to prove anything to me, right?’

  Her eyes dart. ‘Of course.’ She lifts her chin, the way she does when she’s cornered and comes out fighting. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t care if you don’t wear my earrings, but isn’t it time you took these off?’ I touch the stud with one cautious fingertip. ‘You’re the most driven and successful woman I’ve ever met. You’ve already bested him, made it on your own, won a major client from him. You have nothing to prove.’ I hadn’t planned the serious turn in the conversation, but as I see it, we both need to face our fears, to conquer our demons and move on. How else can we focus on what’s really important in life? How can we focus on any sort of a relationship?

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Do you? Really? Because from what I’ve seen you’ll never stop. Ten billion, twenty, thirty. When is enough enough, Orla?’

  ‘That’s different—I...don’t do it for the money. You know how frugal I am. I love my job. I’m good at it. I’m happy.’

  Her statements feel like blows. I want to dismiss them, to call her a liar. But part of me is scared that if she’s right, if she has everything she needs, life all figured out, completely self-sufficient, is there any room for an ordinary guy like me?

  ‘Would you ask that question if I were a successful man?’ she says, her guard now fully up.

  I grip the back of my neck in frustration. ‘I’m not some sexist idiot. It’s got nothing to do with your
gender.’

  ‘So despite saying I have nothing to prove, you’re trying to change me. Is that it?’

  ‘No.’ I cup her face. ‘I wouldn’t change a thing. I just... I care about you. I see how hard you work, how hard you push yourself, and I’m just worried that you feel you have something to prove, which you absolutely do not.’

  Some of the anger in her deflates. She places her hand over mine, pressing it closer to her cheek. ‘I care about you too, Cam. That’s what I tried to say in Dubai. That’s why I’m offering to help you invest, to help you see that perhaps your father had no other choice, no other way of apologising than to leave you that money, the money he abandoned you and your mum for.’

  The tables turning knocks the wind from me. ‘You’re talking about forgiveness again.’ I tug my hand away and shove both in my pockets.

  ‘Perhaps it might help.’ She crosses her arms over her chest.

  How did we get here? And why can’t she see that she’s enough, just the way she is? Enough for me, at least.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m ready for that. What about you?’

  My question, my challenge, falls on deaf ears. We complete the walk in silence, but it turns out that race cars and fireworks aren’t as thrilling when you’ve glimpsed the finishing line but find yourself somehow right back at the start.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Orla

  CAM’S PENTHOUSE IS the crowning jewel of Sydney Harbour’s Darling Point. Even I’m impressed with the spectacular bridge views. I park at the top of a long, steep driveway and let myself inside with Cam’s security code.

  Tonight is the club’s Masquerade Gala and, as we’re going together, I prefer to arrive together, so I’ve had my outfit delivered here. Not that the tension between us is completely resolved, but since our exchange in Singapore we’ve called a truce, as if we’re both aware time is ticking and there’s no point wasting the days and hours we have left fighting.