The Deal

‘We won’t have time for that,’ I say, still in a voice that hums with the Deep South. ‘I’ve only got a few minutes.’

Emily’s trying not to laugh. Crap.

At least Nicholas doesn’t look any the wiser.

‘Well, if y’all change your mind,’ she says, with a wink at me right before she pulls the door shut behind her, leaving me alone with sex god Nicholas Rothsmore in the middle of my Manhattan office. I’m grateful the lenses of my glasses are darkly reflective, so I can stare at him without him having any idea.

He’s wearing jeans today, low-slung and faded, with a long-sleeved black T-shirt. It’s snowing out, so I imagine he’s left a jacket somewhere, and I imagine it to be distressed leather, something that goes with this billionaire-bad-boy-about-town look.

I manage not to drool, but my tummy is clenching with serious lust.

‘Imogen.’ His voice is crisp, professional, but that doesn’t matter, I hear it filtered through lips that have kissed me all over, sucked my nipples until pleasure exploded through me, and I find myself unable to push those memories away. My breasts ache now and heat fires low in my abdomen.

He crosses the room, extending a hand for me to shake, and my pulse shoots up a thousand notches; my body temperature skyrockets.

Act natural. Act natural.

I skirt around my desk, holding my own hand out, and I realise my fingers are trembling, just a little but enough for me to feel incredibly self-conscious. He doesn’t appear to notice as he shakes my hand.

‘Ignore the glasses,’ I explain a little stiltedly. ‘I had an operation.’

An operation? On what? My corneas?

If he thinks it’s a weird excuse, he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he presumes I had a big weekend and am wearing sunnies to cope with the hangover.

‘I need your help.’

Straight to it, then.

‘Sure, have a seat.’

‘I’m fine.’ He ranges to the windows, his stride long and lean, his body powerful. I mean, he looks powerful and sexy and yet I imagine him naked and my knees almost buckle beneath me.

He stares out at the city, snow falling fast beyond my window, the buildings lit up despite the fact it’s mid-afternoon.

‘Well, Mr Rothsmore, how can I help you?’

‘I was at the masquerade last weekend,’ he murmurs, still not looking at me. And I’m glad, because it means I get to look at him. And keep looking. At his broad shoulders, his narrow hips, his firm ass, his long legs. Legs that have straddled me, legs that have pressed hard against mine.

He turns around and again I’m glad for the glasses. He’s waiting for me to speak. I swallow, bringing much-needed moisture to my mouth. ‘Yes?’

A single word, husky and dry.

‘I met a woman there. I didn’t get her name but I’d like to speak to her. Can you put me in touch?’

My heart hammers like nobody’s business. I’m dying inside. ‘I…’

My pulse is thready in my veins.

‘You know privacy is one of the member guarantees,’ I hear myself saying, moving to the bar across the room and pouring myself a mineral water. I take a sip to buy time.

‘Yes,’ he agrees, his eyes narrowing slightly.

‘That guarantee benefits everybody.’ I move to my desk, propping my hip against it with what I hope passes for nonchalance.

‘Nonetheless, the club is about networking and I have a proposition I’d like to make her.’

I swallow, desire flushing through me. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be! One night, no strings, no more. But, God, I want to push him to the floor and kiss him, hard, and beg him to make love to me. I sweep my eyes shut for a second.

Safe in the knowledge I’ve deleted Miss Anonymous from our forums, I shrug. ‘Have you checked the app?’

‘She’s not there, despite the fact we exchanged messages. I’d appreciate it if you could have someone from IT locate her and give me the details.’

I’m floored. And kind of flattered. ‘That would definitely be against membership rules.’

‘And you don’t break the rules, ever?’ he prompts, lifting a brow, and he’s just so perfectly rakish that my heart does a funny little tremble. I definitely broke the rules last weekend, even if they’re just rules of my own creation.

‘Rarely,’ I say with a small smile, which I quickly flatten. I smiled a lot that night. I can’t give myself away. In fact, I really need to wrap this up. As much as I don’t want him to go, he has to.

That night was an aberration. An itch I needed to scratch, and I scratched it. A lot.

‘Then perhaps this will be one of the occasions you will?’

I am instantly reminded that he is from a very wealthy, very ancient British family, a member of the aristocracy. He speaks with an authority and arrogance that would usually piss me off, but coming from Nicholas it is incredibly hot.

‘I’m afraid not.’

His eyes narrow. I suspect he doesn’t often get told ‘no’.

‘Not even if I make it worth your while?’

My heart turns over in my chest. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘A million-dollar donation to Chance. For a name.’

My sharp intake of breath is involuntary. It takes me several seconds to process this. My fingers tremble. I curve them around the water glass and sip, needing to process this.

‘A million dollars.’ He’s found his way to my Achilles heel and I’m sure he knows it.

Because I make it a policy of taking whatever I can for the charity. Even my parents’ donations, when I have mostly wanted to tell them to go to hell and take their ‘too little, too late’ conscience-pricking gifts with them.

I take everything that’s offered because I know the charity is now the wall that stands between life and death for so many helpless, impoverished children out there.

‘For a name,’ he murmurs, his hands in his pockets as he watches me intently.

‘Who is she?’

‘I only know that she’s single,’ he says with a grimace that signals frustration.