Bad Mistake--A Scorching Hot Romance

by JC Harroway

  Tell me about yourself, Nick.

  What do you do for fun, Nick?

  It’s okay to relax a little, Nick.

  Even if I wanted to lighten up, which I don’t, I wouldn’t do it with her. Our professional relationship works just fine for me, despite the attraction. We’re from different worlds. Ever since my young life imploded at my own reckless hands at the age of eighteen, I’ve avoided women like Brooke Madden. She’s too much like my ex-girlfriend—influential, privileged, used to doors opening without resistance. Even though I brought the helpless and defeated feeling upon myself, I never want to be victim to it again.

  Now the life I’ve engineered for myself is disciplined, predictable and as safe as I can make it. And, aside from taking this job and the temporary temptation of this woman, there’s no room for error.

  Her lips twitch in a nervous snigger. ‘I know you haven’t done an overnighter for me before, and I’m here to work, but I also deserve a little down time.’

  I bite my tongue. It’s not my place to curtail my client’s activities.

  But...

  ‘In order to protect you I need notice of any unscheduled movements. Anything not on the itinerary forwarded by your assistant requires my prior approval.’ Damn, her plans have been set for weeks. Typical Brooke to throw in some impromptu ‘fun’, whatever the fuck that means. Perhaps a knitting circle...

  ‘Of course,’ she says, eyeing me with a curiosity that makes me want to don my dark glasses. ‘I appreciate everything you do to keep my name and pictures off the Internet, but surely together we can come up with safe ways and places for me to let my hair down?’

  She laughs, then strokes the closely shorn hair at the nape of her neck. ‘Not literally, of course.’

  ‘Can we?’ I think of all the ways I want to show her a good time, ways miss Goody Knitting Needles would probably quail over. Most involve her naked and following my directions. I’m certain that’s not what she has in mind, although I’m not blind to the fact that she finds me attractive. But, despite the flirting, she’s too radiant to drag into my darkness, even for a short while. And too risky.

  She nods nervously. ‘Yes. I don’t employ you to babysit me. I have a public profile, but I’m not a nun.’

  More’s the pity...

  ‘Let’s improvise,’ she says with a sexy smile. ‘That’s why I’ve tagged on a couple of days in Saint Moritz once my work in Milan is complete—a little winter break away from it all. I’m due a holiday and, since I no longer date, you’re it to keep me company, I’m afraid.’

  I say nothing, my brain still filtering images of Brooke at one of the clubs I frequent, and bombarded with curiosity as to why she no longer dates... My mouth dries at the idea of entertaining her exactly the way I want...

  Why is she pushing this agenda? She’s usually astute enough to take the hint that I’m not one for small talk or sharing stories. I’m going to be the worst company she’s ever had.

  The Brooke Madden too busy doing her thing to see me is hard enough to ignore. This inquisitive, engaging version showing me glimpses of the real woman behind the public persona, and the prodding at my defences is hellish.

  The lift reaches our floor and relief drains through me like a cold shower on a hot day.

  At her room she hands me her knitting bag while she rummages in her robe pocket for her key card. ‘I’m usually pretty energised after a show so, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’d like you to take me for a nightcap later tonight. Somewhere quiet and classy.’

  She pushes into her room and turns to face me. ‘Okay?’

  I want to say no. To confess I prefer it when she’s safely tucked up in bed, her bed, and I can retreat to my own room from some much-needed breathing space. Not only from the physical temptation, but also because wanting her with the ferocity I do reminds me of my biggest failure, the series of events that decimated my life and the lives of the only two women I’ve ever loved.

  Instead I suck it up, lock down any emotion unrelated to doing my job and nod.

  Five nights, four more days.

  Protect her. Protect yourself. And never work for her again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Brooke

  KNOWING NICK IS here somewhere, watching me, floods my body with arousal. His closeness always leaves me fizzing with sexual frustration, but the fact that for the first time I have him captive for five long nights makes this trip ripe with possibilities. Not that he’d allow himself to notice if I walked around naked and painted high-vis orange.

  Now there’s an idea...

  The odds he’d act on our obvious mutual attraction are zero. He’s so controlled. So disciplined. But that’s why flirtation and seduction were created.

  I wait in the wings for my cue for the final walk of the show, my adrenaline spiking to dizzying heights. I recall the way Nick looked at me by the pool—with predatory intent, as if he’d wanted to devour me. Is he looking at me now with the same hunger? Oh, he’s usually very good at concealing those urges, and even better at ignoring our chemistry. Or perhaps, while reeling and then recovering from my last disastrous relationship a year ago, I’ve only now given myself permission to open my eyes where Nick is concerned. Perhaps Neve and Grace, my best friends, are right—it’s time to make something happen.

  Warm, syrupy heat settles in my pelvis.

  If I’m honest, the thought of getting physical with my big, brooding bodyguard—the perfect fling candidate for a woman with my trust issues—was why I suggested the ‘get laid’ pact with Grace and Neve over cocktails one night. Those two embracing their own holiday flings––Grace in Fiji and Neve in the Maldives––means there’s no way I can chicken out. But, despite those heated looks and Nick’s clear interest, my side of the bargain—seducing Nick—seems less likely than ever.

  At the signal from the show director, I emerge onto the runway, which stretches the entire length of the stunning baroque ballroom. The walls and high-vaulted ceilings are decorated with intricate gilded frescoes, and I strut in time to the haunting classical music. The full, hooped, couture gown I’m wearing as part of this Winter Fantasy charity fashion show sways with my swinging hips in time to the beat. I feel hundreds of eyes on me, but I’d settle for just one pair. Conker-brown and haunted...

  It’s electric as usual, a buzz I love. But, instead of focussing on walking in skyscraper heels, I’m thinking about my own winter fantasy—Nick Rivers shaking off his detachment and touching me, kissing me, fucking me...

  At the end of the stage I strike a pose for the audience, lapping up the applause, which is normally all the thrill I need. But tonight it’s dampened, as if finally acknowledging the undercurrent of chemistry between Nick and I has highlighted the gaping holes in my complicated, lonely life—the biggest being sex.

  I lock my smile in place, trying not to think about my struggles with trust or relive the horrible feelings of vulnerability and betrayal. Since my ex Dave went public after our split with intimate details of my life, even selling nude pictures to the tabloids, I’ve had no stomach for dating. Being Brooke Madden is not like having a regular job. I’m the sole owner-operator, CEO and public spokeswoman rolled into one. A position that requires me always to be stage-ready and, consequently, always hiding parts of the real me.

  That’s why a fling with the insanely sexy Nick is just the boost I need. He’s discreet, barely speaks and I won’t have to worry that he’d kiss and tell.

  I lead the line of predominantly Italian models backstage to rapturous applause, probing why the euphoria I usually feel is absent tonight. I’ve spent my entire life on display in one way or another. First as the daughter of Earl Piers Madden and Lori Colt—my prominent politician father and my actress and fashion-icon mother—and then later as my own career took off. I’m used to the constant attention.

  But sometimes I wish I was an ordinary p
erson. Maybe then I could simply invite Nick for a drink, walk into any bar unrecognised and just see where it leads.

  But my public prominence complicates everything. Dating isn’t straightforward when there are people out there who’ll pay for exclusive secrets or candid photos. The down side to a life that on the surface seems to be all glamorous parties and international travel is zero privacy to be yourself. And, worse, never knowing if someone wants you, the real you, or simply their five minutes with your public persona.

  Of course, I also have the enormous privilege of being able to make a difference. It’s a delicate balance, one I’ve grown up watching my parents try to navigate.

  Fear shudders through me. I’ve also watched scandals all but ruin their marriage, and occasional death threats rule their lives and those of my sister and I. Is locking down who I really am, keeping my private life separate really such a high price to pay to keep myself and my family safe?

  Nick would protect me from a slight breeze, which is probably why I feel so comfortable around him—physically and emotionally. I know from the background check I did on Rivers Security that he’s ex-armed forces. When he first began working for me, he hinted at a turbulent youth. But who doesn’t make mistakes? I have. I’ve trusted the wrong people. Naively given over too much power in relationships. Made strangers’ opinions of me responsible for my self-esteem.

  Considering how many times he’s worked for me in the past few months, I know depressingly little about him. But I don’t need his life story to know he’s unlikely to sell my underwear on the dark web.

  He’s too self-contained. Too straight. Too focussed on his job.

  Which is why I’ll likely fail with my grand seduction plan. Dejected, I kick off the punishing heels torturing my feet and scoop them up as I head for the changing rooms. The object of my lust is wound so tightly by his rules and control and silent watchfulness that it seems he’d never surrender to anything as frivolous and irrelevant as sexual attraction. But I know he feels it.

  ‘No, your days are numbered, Nick,’ I mutter as weave my way past the other models in various stages of undress, bidding farewell to a few who I’ve met before.

  If I don’t succeed in seducing him I’ll have to suffer through the rest of the week pretending I can’t feel the heat radiating from him any time he’s close. Or that I’m blind to his muscles bulging through the black jeans and T-shirts he habitually wears like a uniform. Or immune to the seemingly impenetrable wall of indifference and his blank gaze.

  I sigh, removing the heavy chandelier earrings as a dresser helps me with the buttons at the back of the couture gown. I reach for some make-up-remover wipes and begin cleaning my face.

  When I first met Nick four months ago, when he accompanied me to an industry awards show, he’d worn a tuxedo in order to blend in. I’d all but drooled down my own chin. When some fans had jostled a little too closely, and he’d slotted his hard body between them and me and discreetly asked me if I was okay, I’d felt myself blossoming back to life after the long and lonely months of betrayal post-Dave.

  I told myself it was a response to his kindness and that my infatuation would fade. But, here we are, months later and no end in sight.

  He wants me too, so why is he putting up such a fight? And how can I resist such a thrilling challenge—hot, fast and furious sex with a man who’s probably...how did Neve put it...packing a trouser-leg full of knitting antidote.

  I smile to myself, my heart thumping at the thought of having him captive for a few days—plenty of time to penetrate his rigid control and reap the benefits.

  With the row of buttons undone, I slide the exquisite designer ball-gown down my arms and step out of the creation with care respectful of its price tag. I sling on a robe and head for the showers, still thinking about Nick.

  When I finally emerge, clean and relaxed. the backstage area is quiet and devoid of the post-show hustle and bustle. I dress slowly, the glide of denim and cotton sensitive against my skin. Spending twenty-four-seven with Nick has amplified my arousal to an urgent degree. How will I sit next to him in the car in this worked-up state? How will I say goodnight without pouncing on him and kissing those full lips I’ve never seen smile? How will I sleep, knowing his big, masculine body—built for power and strength—is likely naked in the room next to mine, controlled, coiled and ready to pounce for my protection?

  If only he’d pounce for our mutual pleasure...

  I tousle my damp hair, finger-combing the short strands into the signature style I can’t shake, then glide some moisturiser on my scrubbed-clean face and head out in search of Nick, and probably another missed opportunity. I’m dejectedly working my way through the narrow corridors and deserted rooms behind the scenes when I hear feminine laughter. One of the darkened rooms has open French windows that lead to a small walled garden.

  I step just inside the room, guided by the low outdoor lights and the unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke. A few of my fellow models must be lingering to socialise after the show. I contemplate joining them. It will delay the torture of Nick’s company. It might be fun, and I can practise my halting Italian which never seems to improve, no matter how much time I spend here.

  I recognise the two women as fellow models who’d walked the runway with me tonight. Although I’ve never met either of them before, one of them, a dark-eyed brunette, is exactly my type. She reminds me of Freya, the girlfriend I had at uni.

  But the two women aren’t socialising over a cigarette.

  They’re kissing.

  I freeze in the dark, my heart lurching into my throat. I’m openly bisexual, but being brought up by public figures and then dealing with the blow of Dave’s betrayal has made me fiercely protective of my private life.

  As a little girl I would watch my mother prepare for an appearance or a red-carpet event, dabbing my tiny fingers into her make-up palettes and smearing my mouth with her lipstick.

  ‘We’re putting on our faces, aren’t we, Brookie?’ she’d say. With her bright, camera-ready smile she became a different person––no longer just my mum. As if her career was one big game of dress-up.

  I too learned to paste on a smile and become Brooke Madden, while drawing a line in the sand about subjects I wouldn’t discuss, like who I date.

  And then Dave dropped his sensationalist bombshell.

  I make to back up and leave the room in search of Nick, but I can’t look away from the arresting sight of the couple, perhaps because of the crushing pressure of my loneliness. Their kiss seems tentative, as if it’s their first together.

  In my Nick-induced state of arousal, I grow hot. I’m envious of their lack of inhibition and conflicted by the illicit shame of watching. The blonde, the more confident of the two, grips the brunette’s face and slides her lips over the brunette’s. A hint of tongue. A self-conscious giggle.

  I close my eyes and fantasise about the taste of Nick’s kiss.

  Oh, to be so free to embrace a moment of fierce attraction. To forget the possibility that someone might see. To just be yourself—a regular woman with wants, needs and the desire for honest connection without the threat of betrayal.

  I need to find Nick.

  My eyes flutter open and I back up a few paces towards the door I entered through, desperate to stay silent and leave the couple to their moment of intimacy. I’m intruding, no better than the paps that sometimes hound my every move, sniffing out a social faux pas or a scandal or just a bad hair day.

  Soft, feminine moans trickle in from the garden. I take another peek. Their kisses have grown deeper, more passionate. The blonde slides one hand to the breast of the brunette––who I can see isn’t wearing a bra––her thumb locating the peaked nipple.

  I gasp, low and hushed. My core clenches, my pulse throbbing in my clit. I press my thighs together, grateful for the seam of my jeans, but it’s not enough. Because it’s Nic
k’s hand I feel on my aching breast. Nick’s thumb I feel circling my taut nipple. Nick’s grunts of pleasure and encouragement I hear ringing in my ears...

  I close my eyes again, leaning up against the doorframe as I indulge in my Nick fantasy for a few decadent moments. Soon I’ll have to face him and pretend once more, just like he pretends. I see his leashed passion in the clench of his jaw whenever I stray too close. His restraint, his indifference, a mask. I feel his invisible barriers go up when he shuts down any hint of a personal conversation. But I also know from the crackle of awareness arcing between our bodies like static that we’d be so good together.

  I press my fingers between my legs to ease the relentless throb that has been there since I made the call to Rivers Security a few weeks ago, requesting his personal overnight service for my trip to Italy.

  Having him to myself for five days feels so decadent. I know his every mannerism—the texture of his dark hair, the flat, expressionless slant of his delicious mouth, the evasive flicker of heat lurking in his conker-brown eyes when his guard slips. Despite looking like the bog-standard tough guy, he’s a complex man. Flawed. Compelling.

  I sway on my feet, oblivious to everything but the images of Nick in my head and the fierce longing infecting my blood.

  The sound of a familiar voice jolts me back to the present.

  ‘You know, voyeurism is considered a crime.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brooke

  I GASP, MY eyes slamming open and my hand dropping from between my legs. I spin towards the hushed deep and familiar voice. Nick lounges against the wall in the darkened corridor, his face cast in shadow. His posture is casual, his hands slung in his pockets, one booted foot crossed in front of the other. But his dark eyes burn into mine with shocking new intensity.

  My body floods with desire and determination.

  And a scalding bolt of shame.

  I’m standing here, apparently getting off on watching two people being intimate when I’m usually so practised at presenting a careful image to the world.