The Deal

‘That probably accounts for seventy-five per cent of our female membership.’

He scowls at me. It shouldn’t be hot but it is.

‘We exchanged messages. She’s deleted them, and disappeared off the forums.’

I can’t tell him the truth. But that doesn’t stop me from asking, ‘Why do you want to find her?’

He stares at me for several long seconds, a muscle twisting in the base of his jaw. ‘It’s personal.’

I dip my head forward, trying to slow my breathing, hoping my cheeks won’t be too pink. ‘So is the member’s information. If you want me to look into our records and find out who she is, then I’ll need more to go on.’

His eyes stick to me for a long time and I want to rip off my glasses so I can look him right in the eyes. I want to rip his clothes off. I want to fuck him right here.

Oh, my God.

What’s happening to me? I’ve been single for four years and it never bothered me, but now I can’t be in the same room with a man without wanting to leap into bed. Not bed. Desk. Floor. Window. And not a man. This man.

‘Fine,’ he grunts. ‘We spent time together in the Intimate Rooms.’

There’s a part of me that deeply appreciates his discretion, even though he doesn’t know I’m Miss Anonymous. I’m glad he’s not going into all the sordid details of what we shared. I appreciate that he’s respecting our privacy.

‘That’s what the rooms are for.’

‘I’d like to see her again.’

The room is suddenly a void, as if a black hole has opened up and swallowed us. The atmosphere grows thick, the air is heavy in my chest. Everything’s different.

‘Why?’

His eyes explode with strength. ‘That is also personal.’

I swallow, desire unfurling in my gut like a slow-slithering snake. I want him. I want him so badly. But that’s crazy. I don’t do relationships, and I particularly don’t do relationships with men like this. Entitled, wealthy, spoiled, arrogant.

Even when they’re savant-like in bed.

I clench my hand into a fist to ball up my own temptations.

I have to get rid of him before I do something really stupid. Like giving in to this.

One night. That was all it was meant to be.

‘If she’s deleted her profile, it suggests she doesn’t want to be found, Mr Rothsmore.’ His name in my mouth is so sexy. I want to kiss it against his skin.

I watched him get dressed on Saturday night. I lay in bed sated and so full of pleasure, and I watched as he pulled on his shorts, his trousers, donning the tuxedo he’d had on earlier. Even after sleeping together, that simple act of voyeurism felt strangely intimate.

‘Perhaps.’ His eyes narrow.

‘In which case, I can’t help you.’

‘For a million dollars, you’re not willing to discover who she is?’

I wait a moment.

He pulls a card from his pocket. It’s jet black, matte, thick, with gold writing across the front. As he brings it closer I make out his name and, beneath it, a series of numbers.

‘I’ll tell you what, Imogen. You find her and ask her to call me. Whether she does or doesn’t, the million dollars is yours regardless.’

I stare at the card, the trap he’s unknowingly set one I refuse to enter. Because it’s dishonest. I can’t take his money under these circumstances. I mean, the woman he’s looking for is standing right in front of him.