months ago.’
He lets out a low whistle.
‘So this wedding—whirlwind? Or was he with her the whole time he was seeing you?’
‘No!’ I shake my head, the idea sharper and harder than the truth. ‘Just at the end. He met her a week before he broke up with me. Love at first sight.’ Again, my words are derisive.
‘Love at first sight is a juvenile concept.’
I agree with him completely. I hate that I do, that the girl who stared her sensible, conservative parents in the face and told them she’d rather be penniless and happy, chasing her dreams, than to give up on them because they seemed so unobtainable—that girl would never condemn ‘love at first sight’ as juvenile.
But he’s right.
Love at first sight is a construct. Maybe love is in general. Desire isn’t, though. It’s real and it’s flooding my limbs, bringing parts of me I didn’t realise were dormant back to life.
I drop my hand to his beneath the table and I fix him with a determined stare. ‘You know what?’
He moves his head closer. ‘What, Grace?’
‘I really—’ I drag his hand higher ‘—really—’ higher ‘—really—’ I place it between my legs, at the apex of my thighs, my eyes challenging him ‘—don’t want to talk about him.’
‘No?’ He moves his thumb just a tiny bit, but enough for it to brush my clit through the flimsy lace of my thong, and my breath escapes in a shuddered, tortured exhalation.
‘No.’ I shake my head from side to side, burying my face in his shoulder for a second. Fuck. He smells like...heaven. Sunscreen, sweat, strength. I lift a hand to his side, digging my nails into his toned hip.
I don’t know anything about him besides the fact he looks like a god and smells even better. His name. His country of origin. And the fact he’s blowing out of town in twenty-four hours.
It’s perfect.
‘What I want,’ I say into his shoulder before lifting my face and forcing my eyes to meet his, ‘is to get out of here. Right now.’
I WATCH AS she walks into the hotel room, wondering what she thinks of this place. I think you can tell a lot about a person by the way they appraise hotels, and her eyes skim the simple, small room. A comfortable king-size bed—a prerequisite—a small en suite bathroom, a view of another city high-rise. The harbour is down at the rocks and I’m up near the park.
I remind myself she has no reason to be surprised by the somewhat meagre accommodation.
She doesn’t know who I am.
She doesn’t know what my bank balance is.
She knows nothing about me.
Except that she wants me.
And, God knows, I want her.
I’ve been with precisely three women since my marriage ended. An ex-girlfriend in Berlin for old times’ sake—even though the old times weren’t actually that great—a lawyer from Stockholm, and Katrina, who lives in the subpenthouse beneath me. That was a dick move, because every time I see her in the lift it’s like she’s angling for an invitation back to my place and nothing fills my veins with ice more than the idea of a relationship right now.
The ink on my divorce papers is barely dry—I got the notification from my lawyer last week—and I plan on staying single a goodly while. Possibly for ever.
This kind of thing—casual sex with fascinating and enchanting women—is all I need. Companionship, satisfaction and no strings—or iron chains, as was the case with Lorena. And this can’t be more than it is—one night. I’m leaving in the morning, flying north to check out a golf course I’m toying with buying before heading home to the States.
This is my one night in Sydney.
One night with Grace.
I don’t even know her last name, and I want to keep it that way. Last names lead to expectations and I expect nothing of women now. I expect nothing at all. I thought I was different, that my marriage was different, but here I am, twenty-nine with a divorce under my belt. Who knows how many I could rack up if I wasn’t determined to not become Adrian Hart?
My father screwed up in a billion ways—but by far the worst, the one I run from every day of my life, was his ability to suck people in, chew them up and spit them out. Time and time again I saw him make women love him, but he never loved anyone. Not even us, I think. He was proud of his sons, proud that he had three boys to raise and carry on the Hart name.
But he didn’t love us.
He didn’t love anyone.
How else could you explain what he did to Holden? I think of my brother and the news he learned only a month ago—that Hart blood does not run through his veins—and anger slams into me. Our father was a bastard, but keeping the truth of Holden’s parentage from him was the cruellest, strangest decision he made.
Grace’s eyes have stopped inspecting the room and now she’s looking at me with a mix of curiosity and desire. I like the latter.
‘Would you like a drink?’ I offer, moving to the minibar and scanning it.
‘God, no, those things cost a fortune. Don’t waste your money.’
My lips twitch involuntarily, imagining how my brothers would react to that comment. With over thirty billion apiece, it’s been a long time since any of us has worried about the overinflated cost of the minibar. Then again, isn’t that part of why I choose to stay in places like this? Because I hate the assumptions people make when they know who I am. I hate everything people think about me when they know who I am.
‘It’s fine,’ I assure her. ‘Champagne?’
She moves towards me, the skirt she’s wearing kicking a little as she walks, so my eyes drop to her legs of their own accord.
‘I don’t need a drink.’ She presses a hand to my chest and then pushes me backwards, towards the bed.
I laugh, a husky sound from low in my throat. Her forwardness is different but, fuck me, I like it. She pushes again, her eyes holding mine, and I fall onto the bed, pushing up it until I’m in the middle. I watch as she stands at my feet, her fingers moving to the bottom of her shirt. For a second she hesitates, and then she lifts it up, over her sides, towards her head and she drops it to her side. I don’t see more than the swish of the fabric, though, because my eyes are locked to her breasts as though they’re some kind of glue or magnet in effect.
They are nice breasts.
My hands tingle with a need to touch them, to feel their weight in my palms. She reaches around behind herself for the bra strap, and I hold my breath, watching as she undoes it, her eyes still on mine. There is challenge
