after Abbey died and I realised I had no one who really knew me.
I make an effort to straighten and transform into Imogen Carmichael, entrepreneur, philanthropist.
‘It’s not a big deal, okay?’
‘I beg to differ. Are you some kind of masochist? Or nun?’
‘Clearly not the latter.’
‘So why the hell have you been single so long?’
I square my shoulders but make no effort to pull my hand away from his. I like touching him. That should set alarm bells off inside my brain. Maybe it does. I ignore them, though, staying right where I am, his naked torso with that cursive script tattoo inked over his heart calling to me.
‘I’ve been busy,’ I point out, waving my free hand around the office.
‘But sex is…’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ I roll my eyes. ‘To you, sex is like breathing. I get it.’
‘I was going to say,’ he interrupts, a little gruffly, ‘that it’s an instinct. And it’s more than sex, it’s companionship. It’s falling asleep in someone’s arms, it’s having someone to laugh with.’
‘Says you, Mr Manhattan Playboy?’
He lifts his defined shoulders. ‘So? A varied sex life doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy those perks.’
It’s an admission I didn’t expect. Our eyes connect and something electrifies my pulse. ‘With a different woman every night, right?’
His eyes hold mine unflinchingly and I admire him for his lack of apology. Why should he apologise? He’s a renowned bachelor; he lives as he preaches. Everyone who sleeps with him knows what they’re getting.
Great sex.
Lots of it.
But just for a night or so.
I knew that—it’s why I approached him, specifically, in the forums. I didn’t want the complication of a guy who might want more from me.
Which somewhat begs the question as to why he’s here.
And why I don’t feel more annoyed about it.
‘You like sex,’ he says, as if I’m a puzzle he wants to work out.
My cheeks flush. Because up until a week ago, I didn’t know how much I like sex. I’ve only been with two guys. My college boyfriend, who it turns out was using me to access my mother’s production company connections, and Jackson, who was ‘great on paper’ but a complete dud in real life. It’s a shame it took me six months to work that one out.
In any event, the sex with both was…nice. At best.
‘Apparently,’ I murmur, scanning his face.
I had no idea it could be so completely mind-blowing. I mean, I’ve read my fair share of romance novels and watched movies where the women just have to be kissed on the nose to go into a full-blown orgasm, and I’ve always thought it was a stupid fantasy.
Not so much now.
‘You came looking for sex,’ he prompts, and I get a glimpse of the determination that’s made Nicholas Rothsmore such a success in business, away from his family’s prestigious standing in society. He has a needle-sharp focus and he’s using it to sift through my soul.
‘Yes.’ I jut my chin out unapologetically.
‘Why?’
I open my mouth to answer and then shake my head. ‘I told you, it’s been a while.’
‘So why now?’ he persists.
My eyes drop away from his, skimming the walls of my office. This place is my home away from home and yet it’s nothing like the real me. Elegant Scandinavian furniture, obvious signs of wealth and success. It’s what my clients expect.
‘I guess…’ I search for an answer. The truth is, it wasn’t one thing or another. People in the club have been pairing off lately. There’ve been engagements and rumoured weddings, and I guess it’s made me realise how far I am from that. It’s the knowledge that I’m approaching thirty and that happy couple life is nowhere near being on my horizon. But mostly, it was desire. Curiosity. Loneliness—the kind that permeates me on a cellular level, so I could no longer ignore it.
He squeezes my hand so I jerk my attention back to his face.
‘I just wanted to get laid.’ The admission is bare-faced, if only a fraction of the complex knot of emotions that led me into the Intimate Room. ‘And then get on with my life.’
‘Ah.’ He grins, just a flash, but I have the strangest—and most unpleasant—sensation that he’s laughing at me. ‘Sex isn’t a part of your real life?’
I shake my head. ‘This is…’ I wave around the office. ‘My business. The club. The charity. That takes pretty much all my time and energy. It’s hard to meet anyone, but—’
‘But?’ he prompts, when I don’t finish the sentence.
My teeth press into my lower lip as I think that through. ‘But, I’m twenty-nine and I have barely been in a relationship. I mean, a couple of guys but nothing serious, nothing that could ever go anywhere.’
He’s quiet, listening attentively.
‘And suddenly, everyone seems to be pairing off, like the club has become its own kind of Noah’s Ark or something.’
He laughs gruffly.
‘I’m almost thirty and I have no social life to speak of.’ I grimace. ‘I haven’t dated in four years. The guy I have the most frequent conversations with is my doorman, Mr Silverstein, and he’s seventy-five years old and very happily married. My parents won’t get off my back about being single. It doesn’t matter that I’ve built all this, they really only care about me getting married and having babies—not so many that I ruin my figure, mind you.’ I pause to roll my eyes, making the mental excuses for my mother that I always bring to the fore when I’m frustrated with her. How she’s an aging Hollywood starlet who sees youth and beauty as her greatest assets—and both are shifting away from how she wants them to be. ‘But more than that, I’m…getting used to being alone.’ I swallow, the raw truth of the confession surprising me.
‘It’s not that I want a relationship.’ The very idea fills me with panic. ‘There’s no way I could fit one in. I barely have time to workout in the day. I have to get a manicurist to come to the office if I need my nails done.’ I shake my head, hating how entitled that sounds, resisting an urge to explain it’s part of the whole image thing my clients expect me to project.
‘So our night in Sydney was…what? Your sexual equivalent to an in-office manicure?’ he teases.
Heat blooms in my cheeks.
‘Dial-a-Fuck?’ he pushes, and I laugh, shaking my head.
‘Honestly?
