in the sunlight, his tapering torso cut off at the waist by the solid balcony wall, making her wonder if he was fully nude. Drake didn’t own any pyjamas and was totally unselfconscious about his body when he wasn’t intent on using it for pleasure. The first night they had made love she had been shocked by his lack of inhibitions, and very aware of her own hesitancy in flaunting her nakedness. She had tried to disguise her embarrassment, but to her amazement he had been powerfully aroused by her reticence.
If she hadn’t had a few more drinks than usual at the book launch, she probably wouldn’t have had the courage to accept Drake’s invitation back to his hotel room.
She felt an electrical tingle in her veins at the memory of the weight of his hand on the small of her back as he had unlocked the door to his room. Once inside she had drifted out of his reach, surveying the huge, split-level suite with assumed amusement that had hid a glittering rush of nervous excitement.
‘Rather over-the-top for one person, isn’t it?’ she commented, eyeing the polished black marble pillars, jewelled rugs and luxurious furnishings.
He grinned, tossing his black leather jacket over the back of an antique chair and snagging her evening purse to drop it on the seat. ‘Marcus works a great contra-deal for me with the international owner, who’s a big a fan of my books.’
‘You mention his hotels in your books in exchange for free rooms?’ asked Kate dubiously.
‘Bite your tongue, sweetheart; I don’t play the sap for no one,’ he sneered, in a passable Bogie imitation. Given his reputation for laughing criticism to scorn, she was surprised when he added: ‘Contrary to what the intellectuals say, I do have some artistic ethics. I don’t abuse my readers with subliminal advertisements buried in my text. It’s an up-front arrangement—I do all my press conferences and interviews in his hotels worldwide, and I autograph first editions for him. And the rooms aren’t free, I still pay something—but nothing like the rack-rates, so why not enjoy the best on offer? I happen to like the extravagant contrast to the austerity of my other life—my writing life,’ he added when she tilted her head quizzically. ‘The months when I shrink my world to the size of a keyboard and screen and live like an ascetic. That’s why I need to let off steam every time I emerge from my monastic cell—to reduce the risk of a creative meltdown.’
‘Writers have a much higher than average occurrence of mood disorders, especially depression,’ Kate murmured, wondering whether she was being naïve to hope she was more than just a convenient escape valve. Not that it mattered. In the space of a few hours the intense euphoria she felt when they had briefly shaken hands during their introduction had developed into a relentless craving; a single, stolen kiss in an empty corner of the crowed room merely confirming her addiction.
‘Do we really?’ he drawled.
She smiled sheepishly. ‘Sorry—occupational hazard for a researcher.’
‘You must have a great deal of interesting information squirreled away in odd corners of your brain, waiting to spring out of your subconscious,’ he said, his brown eyes narrowing in a fleeting moment of abstraction that made her feel totally invisible.
‘Yes, but it’s what you do with it that matters,’ she said with a wry shrug. ‘A lot of it is very esoteric or trivial. Don’t confuse memory with intelligence.’
His attention snapped back with uncomfortable intensity. ‘What makes you think you’re not intelligent?’
She thought of her endless struggles with hated school exams, and her mother’s coruscating lecture when Kate had secretly interviewed for a job instead of applying for university.
‘Not unintelligent…’ That was what had so infuriated her mother. She had viewed Kate’s abysmal marks as a wilful act of rebellion. ‘Just…um…intellectually unfocused.’ This was definitely not the time to be worrying about what her mother might think! ‘I suppose I tend to be a Jill of all trades and mistress of none,’ she finished lightly.
His smile took on a wickedly sexy smoulder. ‘Ah, an intellectual slut…my kind of woman!’ he growled.
Kate’s nerves skittered at the bizarre sexual imagery induced by his phrase. She didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.
‘I thought we were here to settle an argument about who played Velda in Kiss Me Deadly,’ she said, glancing at the wide, flat screen hanging on the wall above a sleek, electronic box. ‘You said we could watch it here on DVD.’
‘I have a better idea,’ he said, walking towards her.
‘Oh?’ Her tongue darted out to moisten her dry lips, heat beginning to flush through her belly and breasts at the fierce expression in his eyes. He hadn’t kissed her in the taxi coming over, but he had wanted to, and his restraint had made his desire all the more exciting.
‘We both know Maxine Cooper was Velda, so let’s forget the movie and I’ll show you the real reason I always stay in this particular penthouse…’ he purred, taking her hand and beginning to lead her towards the spiral staircase in the corner of the room.
Oh, God, what height of decadence was he about to reveal? A solid-gold bed with sheets of red silk? A black marble spa pool filled with champagne?
But they kept climbing up past the sprawling main bedroom and stepped out through folded shutters into a magical scene, shaded lights around the high walls illuminating a lush green jungle of plants and a riot of heavily perfumed spring flowers.
‘The roof garden…for my exclusive, and very private use…’he said softly, allowing her to walk ahead of him across the dense fan of green grass that divided into winding pathways of creeping groundcover curving around enclosed thickets of soft ferns and spiky palms.
‘It’s fantastic,’ she murmured, her high heels sinking into the turf as she paused by a shrub smothered in starry-white flowers and inhaling the heady night-perfume of Mexican orange blossom.
‘That’s what I think. Whenever I’m here in town and I start to feel like a victim of my own success, I skip out on the crowds and come up here to mellow out for a while. It’s the perfect cure for mood disorders…a little piece of Eden. And now it has its very own Eve…’ She heard a faint activating beep and turned to the sound of soft music rising from hidden speakers.
To her shock Drake had shed his footwear and his white silk shirt and was stripping the belt from his dove-grey trousers. At her gasp his hands stilled.
‘Have you changed your mind?’
It was on the tip of her tongue to claim that he was assuming way too much. But they would both know it for a lie.
‘No, but—I…should we? Out here?’
‘Why not? It’s warm, the grass is soft and the air is sweet, and we’re literally closer to heaven than anywhere else in town. But if you’re worried we might get buzzed by a police helicopter…’He picked up the remote control he had used to operate the sound system from the glass table beside him and pressed a button. With a low rumble a curved roof of tinted panels extended from the far end of the walled garden and eclipsed the distant stars, finally clicking home against the granite side of the building.
When Kate looked down from this fascinating piece of engineering Drake was stepping out of the last of his clothes, exposing himself without false modesty to her wide-eyed gaze, his large hands, curled into loose fists, hanging quietly at his sides, the
