Kate Hardy - Hotbed of Scandal

Shadows of their youth swirled in those green depths, and for a moment he was lost in another time, another world. Shared hot fudge sundaes at the movies. Beach towels and barbecued sausages. The time she’d cheated on a test. The day he got his driver’s licence and taken her for a spin in his father’s BMW without his knowledge and put a ding in the passenger door…

He reached for the camera but she’d already whipped it behind her back. ‘Getting slow in your old age,’ she taunted.

‘Or you’re getting sneakier.’ He closed the gap till their bodies were a handspan apart. Breathed in the scent of her honeysuckle shampoo.

‘How do you mean?’ She blinked up at him, all innocence.

He set his hands on her shoulders, felt the fragile bones beneath the smooth firm flesh. ‘You know exactly what I mean. Using your eyes and the you-used-to-share-everything-with-me line as a distraction.’

As if the shoestring straps beneath his fingers weren’t distraction enough. Not bra straps, he noted. Just dress straps…

Barely touching her, he slid his fingertips down her arms and felt tiny hairs on her skin rise as a shiver trembled through her. Imprisoning her against his body with one hand, he reached over her shoulders for the camera with the other, and down…

The reason for the clinch was forgotten. Everything was wiped clean from his mind except the sensation of her breasts snug against his chest and the fragrance of her skin. His free hand slid over the smooth flesh of her naked back, each vertebra in turn, as he slipped beneath the edge of her dress and the crisp fabric.

Her head tipped back and her lips were right there, smack bang against his throat. Warm, soft. Mind-numbing.

Anticipation tingled on his lips, danced on his tongue…

Damn.

This wasn’t some nameless woman in a dark unfamiliar room where the slaking of lust was the only thing they had in common. He swore silently. Hell of a moment for his better self to show up. He wanted to throw back his head and howl.

Unlike last night or this afternoon, he knew he’d not stop this time until he had her writhing in pleasure beneath him. And she wasn’t ready for that. Nor was he willing to take the risk with the ball happening tomorrow night.

So this time it was he who took a step back, kissed her lightly on those waiting lips with their sweet promise of passion and said, ‘I’ve got some last-minute details to go over for tomorrow night; I’d best be getting on with them.’

She blinked at him as if she’d just woken up. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’ Her husky voice dragged like barbs across his over-aroused senses.

‘You might want to turn in early. Tomorrow night will be a long one.’ He let the suggestion hang.

She nodded. Didn’t say a word.

He turned away before he could change his mind, and climbed the stairs to his study. A man of his experience with the opposite sex knew when it was better to wait.

When Mariel came downstairs next morning Dane was already dressed. A suitcase and a suit bag sat by the kitchen table. He was standing at the breakfast bar, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee.

‘Good morning.’

He looked up at her greeting, his brow puckering as if he was uncomfortable seeing her there. ‘Good morning.’

He resumed skimming his paper, but she could feel the tension emanating from him like vibrating wire. ‘Did I break a house rule or something?’

He flicked to the next page. ‘No. Of course not.’

‘What, then?’

He looked up again, met her gaze. ‘I’ve never shared breakfast with a woman in this house; it caught me off guard.’

‘You’re kidding me. Dane Casanova Huntington has never had a sleepover?’

He studied the paper once more. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘So, what—they’re the Cinderella kind?’

‘I have a penthouse apartment in the city.’ He tossed back his coffee, set his mug on the counter with a snap. ‘I’m going to be busy all day, organising for this evening.’ He stared through the window at the pool. ‘I’ve booked a suite for us at the hotel, so I’ll arrange a car to pick you up when you’re ready to leave here.’

She was still processing the first bit. ‘You keep a city apartment for sex ?’

He exhaled slowly. ‘I want to keep my private life exactly that. Private. I’ve also made appointments for a massage, spa treatment, hair and make-up,’ he continued, as if she hadn’t interrupted him with a question he obviously wasn’t comfortable answering. ‘Did I forget anything?’

She was still catching up. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said slowly. ‘I could do with a little pampering. Do all your partners get the star treatment?’

She saw nothing in his gaze, as if he’d deliberately blanked it. ‘Tonight’s important, Mariel.’

‘I know that.’

‘We’ll be staying overnight, so if there’s anything else you might need…’

Like her contraceptive pills? ‘Overnight?’

‘We want to give them something to speculate about. Isn’t that what we agreed?’

Oh. ‘Of course. The press .’ The reason for this charade.

The press hadn’t been the reason he’d kissed her yesterday .

Picking up his bag, he headed for the door, jingling his car keys. Impatiently or edgily? ‘I’ll join you in our suite at six-thirty.’

Mariel’s entire afternoon session in the hotel’s spa and beauty rooms were pure bliss. Courtesy of Dane, she was massaged and exfoliated, buffed and polished until her skin tingled, her complexion glowed, her hair shone and her nails sparkled. She had The Best in facial and hair treatments.

But beneath the pampering she couldn’t stop thinking about this public affair she was rushing headlong into. She considered herself worldly enough to understand that mutual desire sometimes came without strings.

Except when it involved Dane.

She considered herself sensible enough to accept that it was possible to enjoy sexual intimacy without falling in love.

Except when it involved Dane.

And when a high-profile celebrity like Dane and she went their separate ways, as they inevitably would, she was going to have to live with the media attention for a long time.

She would not think about the other bad stuff she might have to learn to live with. Bad emotional stuff. Maybe she should make an advance booking for meditation or psychotherapy? She was likely to need it.

At six o’clock, in one of the suite’s bedrooms, she stepped into her dress. A one-off European designer gown, it fitted so snugly it took a few moments to shimmy the silky white fabric up her body. As she tugged the zipper in the side seam closed the final wrinkles smoothed out.

But her nerves didn’t. They tied knots in her stomach as she stepped into her sparkly stilettos, added a final touch to her upswept hairstyle and make-up. A delicate necklace of black diamonds flashed at her throat; a matching bracelet adorned her right arm. Her long platinum earrings swung as she studied her reflection side on.

Satisfied, she sorted her bag, then paced to the window to watch the late sunlight turn the River Torrens primrose.

She turned at the sound of the keycard being swiped in the door. Ridiculous to feel her heart pounding as if she was on her first date. She knew she looked fine, that this was exactly the type of gown his partners wore. Anyway, what did it matter what Dane—the king of dressing down—thought?

It mattered.

Taking a steadying breath, she turned. How did he manage to snatch her breath away every time? He wore black trousers and a made-to-measure white silk shirt that once again emphasised his shoulders and clung to his broad chest. His hair was still slightly damp and curled over the collar.