Cross My Hart

I know luxury brands.

I’m in the business of knowing them, after all. We sell some of the most prestigious commercial real estate in Australia, Gareth and I. Our clients are multimillionaires, and our job is to speak their language.

I recognise that he’s carrying probably hundreds of dollars’ worth of miniature toiletries and frown, because he doesn’t strike me as vain, and he definitely doesn’t strike me as someone who’s got that kind of cash. And yet he literally does have a wallet bursting with cash, and now this?

But, no.

This room...his clothes...

Maybe they were gifts? I shrug; it’s the last thing that matters. You know how sometimes your mind throws up strange distractions to stop you from thinking about what you should really be focusing on? I think there’s an element of that going on.

Because I came here tonight wanting to erase him from my mind—Gareth. Wanting to push him out of my body, to replace him with someone else, and holy crap, did I achieve that! I don’t know at what point this became less about Gareth and more about a plain and simple desire for Jagger, but that’s what this is. I feel a surge of need and know what’s responsible.

It’s all him.

I lift my face to my reflection again, shaking my head. Smeared make-up is gone, but I still look like I’ve just done exactly what I have done. I finger-comb my hair, pulling it over one shoulder, then turn back to the door.

When I wrench it inwards I’m disappointed to see he’s pulled his jeans on. They sit low on his hips, undone.

He’s on the phone, his back to me, but when I enter he turns and his eyes lock to mine and then scan my face, as if he’s cataloguing the changes and simultaneously making sure I’m okay.

And I’m more than okay. I smile brightly because this—this one night—is exactly what I needed.

‘And a pizza. Large.’ He covers the mouthpiece. ‘Is there anything you don’t eat?’

It’s a perfectly normal question, but, given the context, heat stains my cheeks and he arches a brow, obviously understanding the direction of my thoughts. ‘Food-wise?’ he prompts again and I laugh, shaking my head.

‘And I’m starving.’

He grins, holding a hand out to me, and I walk to him without a moment’s hesitation. I put my hand in his and he squeezes it then pulls me closer to him, putting an arm around my body. ‘Some fruit, and a couple of salads. Maybe some pasta, too.’

He disconnects the call, replacing the handset, then turns to face me properly.

‘I’m so glad your friend picked me up for you,’ he says seriously, and I burst out laughing, dropping my forehead to his chest.

‘Penny’s always had great taste in men.’ I look up at him once more.

‘Better than you?’ His eyes scan my face in that intensely watchful way of his.

‘Oh, definitely,’ I agree. ‘I was looking to go home with the bartender.’ It’s a joke, a sarcastic rejoinder, and he smiles but says nothing, and the silence stretches between us so, after a moment, I say, ‘I’ve never been here before—to this hotel. It’s...nice.’

He laughs. ‘It’s three-star at best, but my secretary booked it last minute.’ He shrugs. ‘And there’s a bed, a bathroom, a good gym. What more do you need?’

‘What more, indeed?’ I lift my hand to his chest, running my fingers over his ridged muscles. ‘And you work out a lot, I’m guessing?’

His breath speeds up a little as my hands go lower. ‘I like to get my heart rate up.’

I arch a brow. ‘I can tell.’

‘I run ten miles, most mornings.’

‘I can’t even imagine running three miles,’ I say with a shake of my head, pulling away from him and moving to my beer. I sip it, then look around for my clothes. He’s picked them up and placed them neatly on the chair. It’s such a small gesture but it does something strange inside of me. I move to them but he forestalls me, handing me a white fluffy robe instead.

‘Don’t bother getting dressed,’ he says simply, but with a deep, husky promise in the words that makes my pulse quiver.

Shit.

I bite down on my lip and his eyes drop to my mouth, and desire is sparking around the room once more.

‘Running is a habit, and one that gets easier the more you practice it,’ he says, the words incongruous in the heat of our lust.

I swallow, trying to tamp down on my sexual heat, to keep my feelings at bay for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘It’s not my thing.’

‘What is your “thing”?’ he asks seriously.

My eyes skim his face, noting now that he has a slight bump in the middle of his nose, suggesting it has been broken at some point. ‘For exercise?’

‘Yeah. Or letting your hair down. Blowing off steam. You know, that kind of thing.’

I hesitate for only a moment and then speak with confidence and defiance. ‘Pole dancing.’ That defiance is hard fought for. My parents, my then boyfriend, everyone was askance when Penny and I took up the disreputable hobby. It’s amazing for your fitness,Penny cooed and, as always, she was right.

He regards me cynically, as though I might be lying.

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’

I can feel his curiosity and turned-on-ness pulsing towards me. He moves to the narrow wooden desk and props his hips against it. ‘Care to give me a demonstration?’

I eye the room and shake my head. ‘I don’t think anything in here would be strong enough.’

His disappointment is palpable. ‘You can’t pretend?’

I laugh. ‘Not easily.’ The robe is soft around me. I cinch the belt at the waist and move to sit on the edge of the bed, watching him.

‘How’d you get into it?’

‘The same way I get into most unorthodox parts of my life.’

‘Penny?’ he prompts, smiling.

I nod. ‘Oh, yeah, you betcha. I suggested we join a ballroom dancing club—I wanted a hobby, and to move my body, to feel limber and flexible.’ I smile distractedly. ‘I work really long hours and even though I get to be out and about a lot of the time, I still feel more...sedentary...than I’d like. So dancing felt like a health kick, or a kick-start to a health kick...’

‘Naturally.’ He nods, his eyes skating over my body, which must look like a fluffy duck in this robe.

‘She picked me up on the allotted night and we talked the whole way there. It was only when she pulled into some dodgy car park out in the western suburbs that I realised we weren’t at Miss Clarence’s Ballroom Blitz.’ I smile at the memory. ‘Penny said she presumed that because ballroom dancing was for senior citizens, I must have meant pole dancing and just got mixed up.’

He arches a brow. ‘You weren’t keen?’