Bought: One Night, One Marriage

Blake stood, head tilted as he considered her reply. He watched the rush of honesty reflected in her face and saw that the brown in her eyes was starting to melt. ‘Do you take everything so seriously? Who needs trust? We’re talking a bit of fun, not marriage and babies. I never talk marriage and babies.’

Not any more. Not ever. It was important she understand that. Paola had taken him for a ride once long ago and it was a ride he’d never take again. It still hurt so much he could hardly breathe when he thought of it. The way he’d been so vulnerable, how badly he’d wanted exactly those things—marriage, their baby. But she hadn’t, and she had got rid of both him and their baby. He sucked in a quick breath, pushed the pain away. Instead he concentrated on the temporary temptation before him, with her gaze that told of provocation but also barely hidden interest.

‘Why am I not surprised?’

She was determined to peg him as a philanderer—trying to use it as a flimsy barrier against the red-hot attraction that was pulling them together. He, conversely, didn’t see the point in fighting it. If they gave in to it, it would wane and disappear. One night full of passion would do the job nicely.

So she’d been messed about by some pretty boy some time and was shoehorning him into the same mould. Did what she thought of him really matter? Oddly it did. He’d been above angry at the auction, seeing the contempt so clear on her face. He wanted to prove her wrong.

And he couldn’t stop the attraction that was making him step beyond boundaries, the pleasure in seeing her cheeks flush as their conversation veered into the deeply personal. He wanted to know her, inside and out—but he had to establish the ground rules first. He’d make sure she understood exactly what it was between them—transient lust and nothing more. Then they’d be free to indulge it—and he would make sure she was more than satisfied. Equal participants aiming for extreme pleasure.

‘So how long has it been?’

He watched her expression as irritation warred with uncertainty. She didn’t reply. Clearly it had been quite some time. Wholly chauvinistic satisfaction washed through him. Good. He didn’t like the idea of other men holding her.

‘OK. So you’re unimpressed by my looks. I’ll have to win you with my other charms, won’t I?’ She’d surprised him, admitting to her attraction like that. But she’d also made it clear she wasn’t going to act on it—which irritated him no end. Not only because he wanted her to, but because fundamentally he was a man of action. When you saw something that needed doing, you did it.

And Cally Sinclair needed doing.

If they could have a weekend of good, hard, physical fun they could walk away and no one be any the wiser—a consideration he sensed was important for her and one he was happy to allow. He just wanted to see her face pink from pleasure, her eyes drowsy, wanted to feel her shudder around him, wanted to see her relaxed in the way that only sex could make you relaxed. He wanted to watch her the moment that sensation overruled mind—at her most basic, where manners and social niceties were long abandoned and need was driving her. Need for him. And, yes, he wanted her in a state where she’d do anything for him. Panting, pleading, begging. The way she’d dismissed him still rankled—so he was a gigolo that she didn’t need? Well, he’d see about that. He planned to drive her crazy, to have her admit her desire for him—not just with her mouth but with her body, to have her unable to deny it. He wanted to shake this prim little bird from its tree and watch it fly. He was certain she would soar.

Determination marked her features as she shook her head. ‘Not going to happen. I’ve told you, you’re not my type.’

‘I think you’re clinging a little too tight to that line.’

‘You’ve way too much ego for me.’

He stared at her for an explanation. Grumpily she gave him the angle he’d hoped for.

‘Come on, the way you were parading up on that stage…’

‘It was for charity,’ he answered easily before starting to dig. ‘Anyway, you were the one handing over the money. You bought me. Paying for a bloke?’

‘It was for charity.’ She was ultra-defensive; her mouth tightened ‘It wasn’t about the result, the prize—about you—it was about fundraising for people less fortunate than ourselves.’

‘Really? My, what a philanthropist. Well, what are you willing to do for charity, Cally? How far would you go?’

‘I give a lot to the causes I believe in.’

‘Bully for you. Hell, it must be hard getting together with a bunch of girlfriends for a boozy night ogling men in the name of charity. Sitting there thinking of all those poor people as you eat your chocolates and drink your champagne and decide which hunk you want to clean your car. That’s really doing your bit, Cally.’

He’d crossed the line now, and damn if he wasn’t enjoying every minute of it. Time to make a play for it. ‘I have a suggestion for you.’

She barely registered interest, she was too busy looking annoyed.

‘Let’s have a competition. Our own little thing for charity. We each start Monday morning with, say, a hundred dollars in the kitty. We fundraise. For a week. At the end of the week whoever has raised the most wins.’

‘Wins what?’ Curious now, fixed on him.

‘If you win, I’ll double the combined amounts and give it to the charity of your choice.’

‘And if you win?’ Her eyes were wide.

‘If I win then I get you for a weekend and can do whatever I want with you.’

‘Whatever you want?’ She sounded as breathless as if she’d climbed a thousand stairs.

‘You’ll be my slave.’

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?