Robyn Grady - Unfinished Business - Bought - One Night, One Marriage / Always the Bridesmaid / Confessions of a Millionaire's Mistress

Cally gulped in a deep breath. And another. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘No.’ He smiled but searched with his eyes. ‘Not keen? You wouldn’t go far for your charity, would you? All talk. See, I was quite happy to give my time. You’re only willing to give your money.’

‘That’s not true.’ Indignation burned as she thought of the hours she’d spent at the shelter. But she wasn’t about to tell him what she did every Thursday night—and had done since she was a child. Her father had taken her, week in, week out, to stand in the kitchen and help prepare the meal. It was his way of showing her that not everyone lived in mansions with more servants than residents. And if you were fortunate enough to be born into a position in which you had both time and resource to help others, then you gave both time and resource. It was a lesson she’d embraced—never wanting to have the shallow lifestyle of her mother. Wanting to give back, wanting to be more her father’s daughter than her mother’s. She’d been going there so long she had a close bond with many of the long-term drop-ins, and had shared much with the other volunteers and the manager. It was just her small way of making a difference. Quite often it was the highlight of her week and she’d never abandon them.

So she didn’t need to prove anything to Blake McKay, did she? He could think what he liked. And as for what he was suggesting? No way.

She refused to acknowledge the imp in her head that was screaming ‘go for it’. ‘There’s a bit of a difference between cleaning a car and what you’re … implying.’

He looked amused. ‘I wouldn’t be doing anything that you didn’t agree to.’

‘I wouldn’t agree to anything like that.’

‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’ His grin widened.

OK, so now she felt the need to prove something to him. That he wasn’t going to have it all his own way, all so easily. Not with her. She’d definitely be the one to get away. ‘Anyway, it’s more than likely I’ll raise more money than you.’

‘Indeed. All those wealthy friends you have. Make a few calls and you’ll have a few thousand just like that.’

Oh, he thought she’d do that, did he? Her eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t beg from my friends. They have enough obligations. When I fundraise I do it properly.’

‘I’m sure you do everything properly, Cally.’

The implied criticism was too much. ‘Fine. You’re on. One hundred, starting Monday. Shake hands to seal the bet.’ She held hers out across the bench, primly, a little high.

He ignored it. ‘No. A kiss to seal the bet.’

‘Fine.’ She’d show him immune—starting right now.

She watched warily as he walked around the island, turning with him so the bench was at her back and he was in front of her. He stepped so close she didn’t think she had room to breathe. One arm came either side of her and he rested his hands on the bench, totally hemming her in—strong barriers, and an even stronger set to his jaw.

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.’

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.