on the inside.
And then Kate put some money on the table and Scott had to grit his teeth again. Because—come on!—couldn’t he even buy her a damned cup of coffee?
The contract. Fifty-fifty. No, you can’t buy her a damned coffee.
‘Work calls,’ she said, all cheery and unconcerned. ‘Bye, guys. See you Saturday, Brodie.’
Gone.
Brodie looked at Scott, who had yet to take a sip from his fresh cup.
‘Are you insane?’ Brodie asked conversationally.
Scott laughed, and if it had a slight edge of insanity he wasn’t going to acknowledge it. ‘Tell me about your business,’ he said instead.
When Kate got back to her apartment she was so furious—and disillusioned, and…and hurt, she couldn’t think straight.
God, she hoped Scott hadn’t seen the hurt.
Not that Scott, who didn’t get hurt, would ever understand it. He’d just think she was piqued. The way he had last night just because she’d finally taken a stand and told him not to turn up today.
Well, that had sure worked!
And she really must be a pathetic nymphomaniac. Because she’d been so glad to see him when she should have been annoyed. So very glad…right up until he’d told her he hadn’t signed up for deep and meaningful.
Nobody signed up for deep and meaningful. It just…happened.
But not, apparently, to Scott.
Well, what had she expected? That two weeks of rock-your-hormones sex would somehow make her special? That the guy she was sleeping with might want to teach her to sail rather than palming her off on someone else? That he might actually introduce her to his friends so she didn’t have to introduce herself, when she didn’t have the remotest idea how to categorise their relationship for public consumption? That he might, somehow, claim her as someone just a little bit special?
The way she wanted to—
Ooohhhh.
She shuddered out a breath as reality hit her like a truck. She wanted to claim him. Mine, mine, mine.
Great! Just freaking great. Because Scott had made it pretty clear this morning that he was reading from a different script—and it wasn’t a romance. To Scott she was a collection of body parts, transferable to his friend for any non-bedroom stuff!
She’s all yours!
Well, quid pro quo. There was a legal term for Scott to mull over.
If she was nothing but a collection of body parts to him then he would be nothing but a collection of body parts to her.
Scott Knight: Kate Cleary’s stud.
No more kissing. No dates that weren’t really dates. No unscheduled drop-ins. No fireside chats. Nothing except sex. Only twice a week, because she was no longer in a negotiating mood. Starting with a Play Time that would fry his nether regions!
Before she could think twice she grabbed her phone, pulled up Scott’s number and got texting.
Play Time. Tuesday. 9 p.m. Ellington Lane.
That would shock him. He’d be sitting there with Brodie, never dreaming she’d text him so soon after that dismal coffee catch-up. He probably expected her to be lying face-down on her bed, crying into her pillow because she was piqued. Well, he could just—
Ding.
Text message. She grabbed her phone. Opened Scott’s text message.
Roger that.
With a smiley face.
A…a smiley face?
Now, you see—that was why he wasn’t the right man for her.
Or maybe why he is.
‘Yes, thank you, subconscious. Not helpful.’
Scott was champing at the bit as he approached Ellington Lane on Tuesday night.
He had no idea what fantasy Kate had dreamt up to carry out in this dingy, narrow, deserted laneway, but hopefully it didn’t involve his murder—because Ellington Lane certainly looked as if it regularly saw a dead body, and Kate surely must want to kill him after Sunday.
He wasn’t even certain she was going to turn up, given she hadn’t bothered answering any of his thousand calls since then.
But he was here waiting anyway—he who never had sex in public places—so hungry for her he’d do anything.
He was going to make tonight so damned good for her. Use his body to show her he didn’t mean what he’d said—because clearly he couldn’t trust his malfunctioning brain to choose the right words.
He still couldn’t believe he’d said it. She’s all yours. Just because she’d smiled at Brodie and he’d wanted to grab her and demand she stop. Because she was his, his, his, and she was supposed to smile at him—got it?
God, he was a moron! You’re mine—so go with that guy instead, why don’t you?
He deserved to be standing here, lust-starved and desperate, in an ill-lit, deserted alley, wondering if she’d turn up, shivering at the thought of what she’d do to him, and just…well, longing for her.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
And suddenly there she was.
SCOTT’S HEART LURCHED as Kate took one step. Stopped.
She was backlit by a street lamp just outside the lane. Standing with her legs slightly apart, looking tough. Tight pants, high boots, hands on hips, wearing some kind of cap.
She started walking towards him—very slowly, very deliberately. Halfway, he could see she was wearing a police uniform—but a sexed-up, skintight version.
His mouth went dry—so dry that when she asked, ‘What seems to be the problem?’ he couldn’t answer.
And then she was in front of him, and he could smell tuberose, and he wanted to throw himself at her feet and beg.
‘Not talking?’ she asked, and there was a snap in her voice. ‘Then I’d say you’re up to no good. Turn around, hands wide on the wall.’
He did as he was told.
She kicked
