Робин Грейди – Unfinished Business: Bought: One Night, One Marriage / Always the Bridesmaid / Confessions of a Millionaire's Mistress (страница 9)
Oh, dear. Her immunity was fast disappearing. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, didn’t want to reach out to him, so she tucked them behind her back and clutched at the curved edge of the stainless steel bench. Bad move, because it meant her entire torso—and below—was exposed and pushed slightly in his direction. If he leaned just a fraction closer they’d have full-body, length-to-length contact. Her breathing shortened. Could he hear her heart?
A mocking smile touched his features. ‘You’d better close your eyes.’
He was right. Because this close his looks were searing into her and her blood was thudding through her body. She felt hotter than if she’d been grilled on high in her top-of-the-range European oven.
He took his time watching her as she struggled to decide what to do. Why couldn’t her brain work? This was ridiculous—what had she just agreed to?
‘Close them.’ A soft command.
Her lids fluttered. It was easier to obey. But her mouth opened—to argue, right? To get in some air? Not because she wanted to let him in.
Yeah, right.
It was a moment before he made contact, a moment in which she fought to restrain her body from meeting his. Because frankly her lips were on fire and if he didn’t touch his to them soon she couldn’t be responsible for her actions. Her reason, her rationality, seemed to have gone on an extended lunchbreak.
But Blake didn’t take what she was offering, not in the way she wanted. He didn’t plunder and ravage, didn’t press his mouth hard on hers even though she half longed for a kiss that demanded everything, that simply took right from the start. Instead he touched her gently. The contact was slow and almost annoyingly sweet. His lips over hers were firm and warm and he tasted, damn him, of a hint of cucumber—all cool and in control.
Then the sweetness became less annoying, more intoxicating and more inviting. She squeezed her fingers harder on the cold steel of the bench—not going to reach for him. Not going to.
She couldn’t help her tongue, though, from seeking out his depth and the essence, teasing him all by itself. And suddenly the kiss changed and his plunder element surfaced. Satisfaction coursed through her as the pressure increased, as did the demands—for both of them. His Saturday morning stubble rasped on her soft skin and she wanted to feel more of his hair roughened body against her—like all of it, now. With a barely audible moan she opened more to him and he leaned closer to take full advantage, going deeper, lusher. Still not close enough, not for Cally. Finally his lips left hers and she felt his breath hot and fast on her face and she doubted the degree to which he was cool and in control.
She felt the space between them grow as he quickly pulled away.
‘A very willing little slave.’
His confident drawl hit her. He was the boss, huh? She didn’t think so, not from the way he was gulping in the air. Slowly she raised her lashes and looked at him as coolly as she could. ‘Just who do you think was the slave then?’
His brows lifted. ‘Did I say five? I think we’ll make it six. Let’s really prove that exact point.’
He’d almost exited the room and she’d almost slid to the floor to assume the recovery position when he stopped. Turning back to her, he spoke, no hint of a grin, just the edgy, angry model-man look.
‘I should warn you. I never make promises I can’t keep.’
CHAPTER FOUR
FIRST thing Monday morning there was an email.
9 a.m. Monday, one hundred dollars. 5 p.m. Friday, let me know your total. You know the prize.
Cally did and she also knew she didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of beating him at this game. Sixth sense told her no matter how she played it he’d go one better—as he had every step of the way so far. She’d run a Google search on him two seconds after reading the email, and looked at only the first few hits of the many that came up—the bio on his company website, plus a few articles in which he was portrayed as a major mover and shaker in the business world. Hell, she’d had no idea; all she knew was soup. How insulting had she been? He knew how to make money—serious money—and, while Cally had serious money, she wasn’t so good at making more. Sure, her company did OK, but it was niche and she knew if she really wanted to expand she needed leverage and expert advice. But she wasn’t sure expansion was the way to go. It would be nice to keep it the size it was—even though she could hardly keep up with it. She worked round the clock, seven days, and still couldn’t seem to keep on top of it all. Her beloved time experimenting in the kitchen was suffering major erosion.
And now, instead of getting on with the job, she turned her back on the overflowing in-trays and panicked about their stupid competition some more. It was hardly sausage-sizzle and cake-stall stuff. She had no time to organise anything. Fundraising did not mean asking her wealthiest buddies for a handout—anyway, how could she possibly explain the real reason behind it? And what could she ‘do’ to raise sponsorship? Again there was no time and, as far as she was aware, there weren’t any marathons being run between now and Friday. Not that she’d manage even half a mile.
Besides, if she was honest, did she really want to win? Didn’t she want to win in the best way possible—to be there for the weekend and not give in to him?
That one was a fantasy—seriously delusional and she knew it. Just the memory of that kiss—the one that had been on autoreplay ever since, despite her best ‘delete’ efforts—had her burning up to such a degree it was a wonder she was still whole and not some speck of cinder being blown on the breeze. It would take less than a second of contact and she’d be his.
So, she’d better win the competition because she
‘Every pottle we sell this week we donate fifty cents to charity.’ She worked up a sign. Put it in the window. Put a jar beside the cash register alongside the tip jar for the staff.
‘Are you sure?’ Mel looked sideways at her. Already Cally’s Cuisine donated a percentage of profit to charity. Cally could understand the question.
‘Yes. I need to really raise some funds for this charity. It’s important. Just this week—a one-off fundraiser.’
‘What charity?’
The ‘save Cally from utter humiliation’ charity—not that she told Mel that. ‘The usual.’
Mel had lost interest in the topic anyway, had a cunning smile on. ‘How was your weekend?’
Cally had been putting off this moment for as long as possible by hiding out upstairs and pretending to be super busy and not up for chat. ‘He cleaned my car and then left.’ As crisp and matter-of-fact in delivery as she could manage.
It was enough. Mel shook her head. ‘You’re a lost cause.’
‘Ain’t that the truth,’ muttered Cally.
Wednesday afternoon she worked in the shop to cover Mel’s break. Panic was definitely setting in. She rattled the jar on the counter; a few coins clinked together. The weather was warm and sales were down. Why couldn’t there be a wintry blast and soup be the dream diet of everyone?
She was just packing an order when another customer walked in. She looked up, her sales smile in place, and froze. He stood, wearing an immaculate suit and a devilish glint in his eyes. She fumbled her way through seeing off the other customer, all thumbs and heated cheeks, fully resenting the grossly unfair way he’d been given such perfect features—all of them.
He nodded towards her sign. ‘How’s the fundraising going?’
‘OK. You?’
‘Not bad.’ He flashed a smile she didn’t like. ‘I’ll take some of that cabbage one.’
She put a pack in the bag, gave it to him and assumed cool composure. ‘On the house.’
He inclined his head in thanks and then put his hand in his pocket, withdrawing his wallet anyway. With relaxed style he took out a note and stuffed it into the charity box. A hundreddollar bill, no less.
Cally looked at him. ‘Not bad, huh?’
He winked and left the shop. Cocky was not the word. It cemented the knowledge that, come what may, he was going to win—through sheer determination. The same way, she suddenly realised, that he’d been determined that she win him in the auction. He had that same look—challenging her, daring her.
She went straight upstairs and phoned her regular beautician. Late Thursday afternoon she left the salon after three hours locked inside. She was smooth, soft and totally depressed. Her bob sat sharp and gleaming, her toenails were trimmed and polished and every bit in the middle had been tended to and buffed. She was still depressed. She amended the sign in the shop and called to Mel.
‘Every soup we sell we donate three dollars to charity.’
‘Cally, that means we’re running a loss.’
‘I don’t care.’ She looked at her concerned employee. ‘Oh. OK. I do care. Two dollars.’
‘You’re the boss.’ Mel shrugged. ‘I know there’s something more going on here.’ A coy look. ‘Your hair looks nice.’