one-glass-of-single-malt life.’
Instead of the outrage I should feel at being so neatly dissected and accurately pigeonholed, even insulted, every nerve in my body fires alive with electricity.
Fight, flight or fuck? I should definitely take option one or two…
I roll back my shoulders and stare into his cool grey eyes, seeing the hint of challenge. ‘Are you suggesting I’m uptight? I’m amazed you, with your devil-may-care attitude, even know what the concept means.’ I should walk away, go back upstairs and check on Jensen’s—but oh, the temptation to prove him wrong is overwhelming…
‘Hey, princess, if the shoe fits…’
We face off, sparks flying and heat building.
I can let go. I can have fun. He’s right, I do want him. I want to be ruined for one night.
And I always get what I want.
‘The earrings are two-carat,’ I say. ‘And, okay. I have a suite upstairs—let’s go.’
Cam
HER WORDS—WORDS that shatter my certainty that she’d toss her Scotch in my face—bounce around inside my head to the beat of my pounding heart as she slides her drink away, unfinished. Yes, she’s my type looks-wise—tall and willowy, naturally rich red hair, and a body whose every inch I want to acquaint with my tongue. But, by the earrings, the immaculate hairdo and the general air of class around her, I assumed she was way too buttoned-up to take our flirtation to the next level.
She reaches for her clutch and prepares to slide from her stool.
Eager, now she’s stopped fighting herself. Another fucking awesome surprise.
‘Wait.’ I stall, my dick throbbing in revenge. ‘I think we should at least introduce ourselves so you know whose name to scream later.’ I hold out my hand. ‘I’m Cam.’
She purses her delicious-looking full lips and strokes her hand over her sleek chignon as if mildly annoyed by the interruption of formal introduction. She takes my hand in hers, her greeting as firm as I’d expected.
‘Orla.’
‘Irish Australian?’ I say, prolonging the handshake, deliberately sliding my roughened thumb over the back of her hand to gauge her reaction to my touch, because I’m certain that under normal circumstances, in our everyday lives, she wouldn’t give a man like me the time of day. She’s too polished, too precise and undoubtedly super-high maintenance. There’s not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in sight, but I have the driving urge to see her all dishevelled and undone. She’d look twice as sexy rumpled and satisfied, those sea-green eyes pleasure-drunk…
‘Yes. I’m from Sydney.’ She looks down to where my thumb swipes across the delicate skin of her inner wrist, her small smile masking a look bordering on aversion while her free hand toys with the diamond stud in her ear.
In spite of my work-roughened skin, there’s excitement drawn all over her ethereal face, but her eyes say she’s all too aware I’m not her usual type. No doubt she’s used to the type of man who belongs in this club. The type who’s certain of everything in his life, especially where he comes from and where he’s going.
‘I grew up in Sydney, too.’ If only she knew that we came from opposite sides of the tracks before I inherited enough money to be thrust into her sphere. I look down at our joined hands, the sick slug of satisfaction at my rough and calloused hand swallowing hers, which is by comparison as delicate as a bird’s wing and impeccably manicured, adding to the thick desire humming through my veins.
Prior to my current fucked-up predicament—the very reason I’m here in this club for the elite and obscenely wealthy, having earlier this evening bought a supercar I’ll likely never drive and gambling as if I’m spending Monopoly money—I worked in construction.
And now?
Now I’m frittering through as much of the unwanted inheritance my no-good asshole of a father left me as I can. Oh, how he’d hate to see me now, wasting the money he sacrificed his family for, travelling the world in a private jet, gambling, bedding beautiful women in the most exclusive club in Monaco.
The familiar nausea I get whenever I think about my father takes hold, a part of me repulsed at becoming his puppet. I focus on the exquisite woman in front of me, a strong urge flaring up to push her out of her buttoned-up comfort zone until I know exactly how far she’ll go for her night with a stranger.
She glides from the stool, her hand still in mine. Instead of pulling away, she sidles up close until I see the golden streaks in her green irises, streaks that perfectly match those in her silky auburn hair, and I’m overwhelmed by how fantastic she smells. Classy and expensive.
She presses a fingertip to my mouth. ‘Don’t tell me any more. Anonymous, remember.’
I nod, dislodging her soft fingertip from my mouth while I wrangle the thick thud of my desire under control. She may as well have kissed me for the effect that simple touch from a solitary fingertip has on my body.
Yes, she’s way too rich, too straitlaced for my blood, but damn is she sexy. I want to haul her slender frame up in my arms, press every inch of her against my body until those eyes glow with the desire I see lurking in the shadows.
But could she let go enough to embrace this fierce chemistry?
‘Give me your phone.’ My voice is low but firm enough to encourage a frown of defiance from her stunning face. She likes being challenged, but wants to be in control. She’s clearly used to giving the orders.
I can handle that.
‘Why?’ She purses perfect lips. Lips I’m dying to taste.
‘Because I’m a stranger you’re about to invite into your hotel room. I’ll take a photo of myself, and you can send it to someone you trust, giving them your suite number and mine, too, if you like—two-seven-six-six.’
She nods, hands me her phone and I snap a quick selfie before handing the device back. I watch as she fires off a text, fascinated with the way her lips press together when she’s concentrating and how, despite the safety-conscious turn of the conversation, her nipples are hard peaks beneath the tight-fitting, backless black dress that hugs her toned frame and caresses the gentle flare of her hips.
‘So, shall we?’ She looks up, her chin tilted and face relaxed, but there’s vulnerability in her eyes, and I wonder what her real story is. Not the sanitised version she probably tells herself every day as she peruses her markers of success. But the version deep inside, hidden vulnerabilities which, if probed, wobble the confidence she wears like a tiara balanced on her regal head and perhaps the reason she’s alone in a bar in Monaco, far from home, toying with a drink she barely touches in the first place.
But then, who am I to judge? I swallow a bitter lump in my throat. Fuck knows what I’m doing here apart from running, hiding, while dispensing of the blood money I can’t stomach even thinking about.
I want to form a fist as the anger
