The Deal

And I miss sex. I don’t want a relationship, though God knows there are times when I wish I had someone I could talk to, someone I could bounce ideas off. But I don’t have the headspace for a boyfriend. Where would I even fit a relationship into my life? And what would that do to Chance?

One day, maybe. When the charity is big enough to run without me, when we’re fully established—and not just in America, around the world—maybe then I’ll open myself up to something more. But I’m a long way from that, and I’m not going to do anything that might risk what I’ve spent my life building. I owe it to Abbey to keep my focus, to make this a true success.

The quietest noise sounds, but it might as well have been the tolling of a bell. I’m hyperaware of everything in that moment and I sit up, then push to standing, the stilettos I kicked off by the bed waiting for me. I slip them on and catch my reflection in the mirror across the room.

Holy crap.

I look…like sex on legs. I look like someone who does this all the time. The corset is firm at my back and pushes my breasts up, like two pale orbs, and my legs are curvy and slim. The wig completes the look and the mask adds an element of decadence that is just perfect for The Billionaires’ Club.

‘Knock, knock.’ His cultured British tone would be haughty if it weren’t for the permanent husk that thickens his words. ‘Is there a Miss Anonymous in there?’ My tummy squeezes at his sexy, teasing voice.

‘Yeah.’ My own voice comes out high-pitched. I suck in a deep breath, cross the plush carpet to the door and grip the handle. It’s cold beneath my touch. I count to ten slowly, a trick I learned in school, when my nerves used to get away from me.

Slowly, I draw the door inward, my heart unbearably loud and urgent now.

And at the sight of him, it skids to a stop.

A bead of anxiety runs through me. We planned this secretly on the forum, and my only condition was anonymity. He isn’t to know who I am—in fact, I went out of my way to create the impression that I’m some bored housewife just looking to get my rocks off. Naturally, he had no objections to that—if I know one thing for certain about Nicholas it’s that he doesn’t do commitment or serious.

Which makes him perfect for this. For tonight.

‘Come in,’ I invite, waving my hand towards the room. These Intimate Rooms were designed with seduction in mind and they have everything a couple could need for a sensual encounter. The bed is bigger than a king, laid with thousand-thread-count sheets. There’s a fridge stocked with the finest French champagne money can’t buy, a luxurious en suite bathroom with a spa bath and fragrant oils, and members are invited to request a bespoke ‘toy chest’ if their tastes run in that direction.

Nicholas requested handcuffs and seeing that on the booking sheet two days earlier made my body break out in a sweat. A good sweat. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.

He swaggers into the room, his navy-blue suit slim-fitting and flattering to his trim and toned frame. His eyes take in the room, though I’m sure he’s been here before. He crosses to the window—the thick black velvet blinds are drawn for privacy. He flicks the blinds open a little, showing a slice of Sydney Harbour, the unique Opera House right outside the window.

I’m nervous.

Beyond nervous.

I’m full of doubts and desire in equal measure.

I have literally never done anything like this in my entire life.

My tummy loops into a billion knots.

‘So.’ He turns to face me, his lips flicking in the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen. My insides burst a little. ‘What shall I call you?’

‘Miss Anonymous is fine.’ My voice sounds so prudish and disapproving. I force a smile.

‘Anon for short?’ he quips, moving to the fridge as he discards his jacket over the back of the black velvet armchair.

I nod quickly. ‘Whatever.’ My name doesn’t matter.

‘You seem nervous.’

Crap. So much for seeming cool and in control. My lips curve into a small smile; his eyes drop to them. My throat goes dry. ‘I am, a little.’ When all else is lost, go for honesty.

‘Why?’

He lifts the top off the champagne expertly and pours two generous glasses. He turns to me, his eyes dragging down from the tip of my head and performing the slowest, most sensual inspection I can imagine. As his eyes shift over my body, I feel as though he’s touching me even when he’s on the other side of the room.

Slowly, so slowly, he lingers on the generous curves of my breasts, my nipped-in, corseted waist, my hips and lower, so heat flushes my cheeks and I’m grateful for the face mask I wear.

Lower, lower, over my legs, until, at my ankles, he grins. ‘Nice shoes.’

I lift a foot, to dislodge one, but he shakes his head, his eyes flying to mine. ‘Leave them on. For now.’

My pulse races. Anyone who knows me—who knows me as I really am—knows I’m not one to be told what to do. But for some reason, the idea of momentarily relinquishing control is kind of empowering and very appealing. I do as he says, leaving the shoes in place. He lifts a finger and bends it, signalling silently for me to join him.

I walk across to him with what I hope passes for a seductive stroll, a feline smile on my lips the closer I get. Here, just a foot or so away from him, I breathe in and taste the masculine fragrance he wears—woody and alpine and intoxicatingly sensual. His shirt is crisp white and at the cuffs he wears shining black cufflinks, which I have every reason to suspect are diamonds.

When someone applies to join The Billionaires’ Club, we run a detailed background check to maintain our exclusivity and privacy. I mean, membership comes with an annual fee of a million dollars, plus the buy-in, so I know the members can get their hands on serious cash, but we need to know more than that. Criminal records, credit history, scandals, everything.

So I know Nicholas Rothsmore’s background, probably better than most who just presume he’s a playboy bachelor living off his family’s considerable wealth. Sure, he was born with the proverbial silver spoon but he’s also smart as all get out and a crazy hard worker. Five years ago he arrived in New York to take over his family’s American branch of the Rothsmore Group and in that time he’s trebled their revenue and expanded beyond a blue-chip investment portfolio to a remarkable presence in the tech world.

Even without his family, he’s a formidable and impressive entrepreneur. Then again, his silver-spoon start in life probably didn’t hurt.

‘Your eyes,’ he murmurs, scanning my face thoughtfully, and my heart rate kicks up a gear, so that I doubt my veins are going to be able to hold the blood in place. ‘They’re so…’

Instinctively, I blink, shuttering my eyes from him. They’re a very dark blue, the colour of the sky at dusk, and I know it’s unusual. I don’t want him to recognise me. ‘No cheating,’ I say, taking the champagne flute he offers, lifting it to my lips. ‘This is secret.’

‘Right.’ His grin is pure devilish heat and his expression is one of amusement. ‘Well, Miss Anonymous, what’s your thing?’

‘My thing?’

‘Yeah. What are you into?’

I think about it for a moment. ‘I don’t have a lot of spare time. I guess, reading…’

‘Fascinating.’ His laugh is a slow vibration that travels around the room before landing at the base of my spine, sending little shards of awareness through my nerve endings. ‘But I meant, in bed.’ He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us, his fingers lifting to curl the edges of the wig, teasing the flossy pink strands between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Right.’ I slap my forehead exaggeratedly and my smile holds a silent apology. So much for acting as if I do this all the time. ‘I’m…a little out of practice.’

‘Are you?’ His gaze flicks to my cleavage again, lingering there for so long a faint murmur escapes my lips. Heat travels along my body as though he’s touched me.

All I can do is nod.

‘Why is that?’

We’d agreed not to discuss anything personal. I think of how to answer in a way that won’t give me away. ‘I’ve been single awhile.’

His smile is just a lazy flicker of those sculpted lips, framed by a squared jaw and a brush of stubble. I like the stubble. I itch to feel it and rather than denying myself that impulse, I surrender to it, lifting my hand to his face so I can run my fingertips over his jaw.

It shouldn’t be so sensual, but just the act of touching him like this is so illicit and sinful that I make a low, husky sound, my body trembling with the first flush of desire.

‘So you are nervous?’ He comes closer, so our bodies brush, and then he moves behind me, so close I can feel his nearness, his warmth, even though he doesn’t quite touch me.