odd expression she couldn’t decipher creased his brow for a second before vanishing.
‘You don’t get to be the best by settling. For anything.’
Excitement rippled through her—whether from his drive, his power or his proximity, she had no idea.
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’
She could play it safe, give him a boring brush-off. But she was through playing it safe. Look where safe had got her for the last few years.
Uh-uh. Safe was for being the best at her job, staying loyal to one dance company for seven years, trusting her partner. And look where she’d landed anyway.
Forget safe.
‘That depends.’ She leaned into his personal space, her reeling senses on overload. ‘What’s on offer?’
This close, she could see his eyes were dark—deliciously dark and enigmatic—though she didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out the mystery behind them right now.
He was turned on: pupils dilated, eyes wide, pheromones creating a sensual cocoon around them.
The buzz she’d experienced when jabbing his chest had returned tenfold, multiplying and stultifying and defying her to take a risk.
‘You don’t want the job, so what do you want?’
She wanted to push the boundaries, to flirt, to feel feminine and desirable and wanted—all sadly lacking in her last relationship.
But was it worth inviting a potential one-night stand on her last night in Sydney?
For one drawn-out, exciting, tension-fraught moment, with Callum Cartwright staring into her eyes, she was sorely tempted.
CHAPTER TWO
COURTING a potential business partner was the only reason Callum had attended another boring cocktail party tonight.
He’d made the requisite circle of the room, shaken hands, slapped backs, and had been counting down the minutes deemed polite enough before leaving when that klutz of a waiter had bumped into him.
He’d been less than impressed—until he’d locked eyes with the gorgeous blonde on the other side of the room, and suddenly his drenched shirt hadn’t mattered, the evening had not been so mundane.
He was a firm believer in following instincts. His gut reaction had made him millions in the financial arena, where Cartwright Corporation ruled.
So when she’d fled, he’d followed.
She’d verbally retreated. He’d verbally sparred.
And he’d been getting somewhere too. Her flashing eyes and lush mouth had been at odds with her defensive body language…until this.
Fishing his vibrating mobile phone out of his pocket, he glanced at the caller ID and begged off the luscious blonde, asking her to wait for him as he headed for the far side of the balcony.
He never turned off his mobile phone—the height of rudeness, as his last PA had kept reminding him. But then she didn’t run a corporation and control billions of dollars. The money market never slept, and neither did he these days.
He hadn’t slept in a long time—not since the fateful night that had catapulted him into this business in the first place.
And that was why he had to take this call.
Not because it would make or break Cartwright Corporation, but because it was from the one person who understood exactly what had happened that night, and was still dealing with it in his own way.
Taking a deep breath, he stabbed the answer button. ‘Rhys, how’s it going?’
‘Not bad, bro. You?’
‘Same old. Where are you?’
‘Japan for a few more days, then I head for the States.’
‘You coming home eventually?’
‘We’ll see.’
A resounding no, as usual. While he’d thrown himself into the family business after the accident, Rhys had fled. Studying interstate, escaping overseas once his degree came through, avoiding Melbourne and everything being a Cartwright entailed.
Callum envied him.
He’d been like that once, a lifetime ago, when he’d been carefree and selfish and irresponsible.
When he’d still had an older brother.
The Cartwright boys, people had called them, lumping them all in together. They’d been a team—before the accident, before Archie died, before their lives had been turned upside down.
‘Where are you?’
‘Sydney. Some boring cocktail party for work.’
Rhys paused, the faint static doing little to disguise the concern in his voice.
‘Better than being alone tonight?’
Callum mumbled a noncommittal response, rammed his free hand into his pocket, and deliberately relaxed his tense shoulders.
He didn’t want to discuss this.
He never wanted to discuss it.
Talking about what had happened this night fourteen years ago wouldn’t change it. Nothing would.
‘I’m hanging out with some mates tonight.’
‘Good.’
Silence stretched, as it always did on their rare phone calls. They didn’t have much to say to one another these days, what with most topics invariably leading to the past and what they’d done.
He glanced at his watch, cleared his throat. ‘Do you need anything? Money?’
‘I’m all right, but thanks.’
‘Okay, then. Gotta go.’
‘Cal?’
‘Yeah?’
He heard the faintest hiss of breath before Rhys said, ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
Callum disconnected in a hurry, the gut-wrenching twist of sorrow deep in his gut telling him otherwise.
It was his fault—every shocking, mind-numbing moment of that night fourteen years ago.
He could forget most days, chase away his demons by submerging himself in business until the figures blurred before his eyes, but on nights like this it all came rushing back in an agonising avalanche of horrific memories.
Rubbing
