‘I’m getting the impression from that sceptical look that you don’t believe me,’ she said. ‘How about I make you a bet that we get everything done in under an hour?’
‘How many people do you have to get stuff for?’ he asked judiciously.
‘Umm.’ She curled her plump bottom lip under her teeth as if she were counting up the number in her head. ‘Ten. No.’ Her eyes met his, the bright light of excitement in them almost tangible. ‘Eleven.’
‘Eleven presents in under an hour? In the West End? On Christmas Eve? For a woman who loves to shop?’ he clarified.
She nodded enthusiastically.
‘Not possible.’ This had to be the sucker bet to end all sucker bets. ‘And what do I get if you don’t manage it?’
‘Hmm, let me think.’ She pressed the tip of her finger to her mouth, then leaned forward and touched his chest. Her nail trailed down over one nipple, across his ribs, down his abs and stopped just short of his belly button where his robe closed. She sent him a coy smile. ‘I’m sure I can think of something that you’ll enjoy,’ she said, her voice husky with provocation.
Despite his recent climax, he could feel himself rising to attention. He wrapped his hand around her finger, lifted it off his belly. The little tease. She was going to pay for that.
‘You’re on,’ he declared. ‘But once the hour’s up we head straight back here and get naked.’
One hour of shopping seemed like a small price to pay for the fantasies he was already conjuring to go with her sultry smile. And once they were back in the suite, everything would be back where he wanted it.
‘You’re assuming you’re going to win,’ she said sweetly. ‘But when you don’t, when the hour’s up, I get to take you to lunch.’ The sultry smile became decidedly smug. ‘And we get to have a proper conversation. About something other than sex,’ she added.
He smiled back. It had been fairly easy to distract her up to now. So even if the unthinkable happened and he lost the bet, that didn’t scare him. ‘All right, you’re on.’
He dragged her into his arms to seal the deal, but she wrestled out of his embrace and tapped a finger to his nose. ‘Not so fast, Ryan. No kissing until we’re in public.’ She lifted her eyebrows. ‘I know all your tricks.’
He chuckled as she dashed off to the bathroom. ‘Not yet you don’t,’ he murmured, feeling pretty smug himself. He’d managed to manoeuvre her into only spending an hour away from his bed today.
If this was an addiction, he had the will power to overcome it, once he set his mind to it. He’d overcome much bigger weaknesses to get what he wanted.
But there was no need to go cold turkey. At least not today.
Jace was feeling a lot less smug an hour later as Cassie walked back towards him with her latest purchase clutched in her fist and a triumphant smile on her face.
‘What’s the tally now?’ he muttered.
She held the bag up. ‘Jill’s present makes eight.’
Jace glanced at his watch and groaned. They were only thirty-five minutes into their shopping marathon, and she’d already got over two-thirds of her stash.
She laughed at his frown. ‘Regretting taking me on, Ryan?’
‘You’re not there yet, sweet cheeks,’ he countered, but his confidence about winning the bet was ebbing fast. He slung the three bags of purchases she’d given him to carry over his shoulder. Although, funnily enough, he hadn’t been nearly as bored or frustrated as he would have expected. In fact, watching Cassie shop was nothing short of fascinating.
She really was a champion shopper. Unlike with any other woman he’d had the misfortune to shop with, she seemed to know exactly what she wanted and where to get it. She’d attacked Oxford Street with military precision, avoiding the big chain stores, and instead using a string of smaller independent shops and boutiques mostly dotted on the side streets whose merchandise she seemed to have expert knowledge of. She didn’t browse, she went straight to the counter and described exactly what she wanted. He’d also noticed that her purchases were incredibly well thought out and individual. If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn she’d actually researched this trip.
As they walked out of the chocolaterie and back towards the throbbing activity of Oxford Street he noticed her open her bag and peek at something inside. He’d noticed her doing that a couple of times already. Snagging the leather bag from behind, he whisked it out of her hands and off her shoulder. ‘Let’s have a look in there.’
‘Hey, what are you …?’ she yelped.
‘What have you got? A secret weapon?’ Spotting the piece of paper she’d been reading, he whipped it out of her bag.
‘Give that back.’ She made a jump for it, but he held the paper easily out of reach.
‘Damn, it is a secret weapon.’ He stared at the handwritten list, which had annotations and notes, hand-drawn maps and several intricate little drawings jotted all over it. The thing was a work of art. She must have spent hours on it. A weird feeling of weightlessness lifted his stomach at the thought that she’d gone to so much trouble. That anyone would go to that much trouble. Over a bunch of Christmas presents.
‘What is this?’ he asked.
‘Give it back. It’s my Christmas list,’ she said, embarrassment turning her cheeks a bright shade of pink. She looked so damn cute and determined, the weightlessness increased.
‘How comes I never knew this about you?’ he teased, pushing the sentimental thought to one side. It was a shopping list, for goodness’ sake, not the Declaration of Independence or the Magna Carta.
‘Knew what?’ she said, swiping the list out of his hand when he dropped his arm.
‘That you’re anal.’
‘I am not anal,’ she declared, stuffing the list back into her bag. ‘I’m organised. And where Christmas shopping is concerned, it pays to be organised.’
‘I get it.’ The drop in his stomach lifted. ‘You write the list so you don’t overspend, right?’ That had to be the reason why she’d gone to all that trouble. It was so long since he’d had to buy on a budget he’d forgotten what it was like.
‘No.’ She stared at him as if he were witless. ‘I go to the trouble of writing a list so I don’t get the wrong thing. Getting people the right present takes work and consideration. I know it’s a cliché but it really is the thought that counts.’
If that were the case her friends would be rich, he thought, feeling uncomfortable again.
He couldn’t quite believe how much time and effort she’d clearly put into the process. This wasn’t about being a shopaholic. It was about actually caring about people enough to want to get them something they’d really like. The minute the thought registered, the weightlessness returned and the uncomfortable feeling got worse.
‘I like going that extra mile for the people I care
