He stripped off his clothes and took a quick shower. His muscles ached as he climbed into bed. He flung his arms over his head and stretched. Craving the oblivion of sleep, he closed his eyes, but all he could see behind the lids was Natalia McKenzie. As he recalled her quiet beauty, her throaty laugh that promised all sorts of possibilities, and how her voluptuous body had wrapped around his on the dance floor, he hardened.
He tossed the covers to one side and launched himself out of bed. He strode naked across the suite and poured half a glass of Midleton, throwing it down his throat. The welcoming burn gave him the self-approval to pour another. Making a snap decision, he grabbed his phone off the desk and found the contact he needed.
“Cash, baby,” Suze purred, answering on the first ring. “It’s been a while. What do you need?”
“Dorchester,” he demanded. “Harlequin Suite.”
“I’m on my way.”
Suze was always up for anything, and that was exactly what he needed at the moment. No emotion, just sex. He threw his phone on the desk and paced. He didn’t want Suze. He wanted her, Natalia McKenzie. But he couldn’t have her because he didn’t know where she lived. It wouldn’t be very difficult to locate her, and he’d already made up his mind to get someone working on it the next day, but she wasn’t there at the moment, and every time he thought about how her body had melded into his…
Christ, he needed a fuck.
Thirty minutes later, a light knock on the door interrupted his pacing. He peered through the spy hole in case it was Kinga then flung open the door. Suze glanced down, taking in his nakedness, and her eyes widened in appreciation. He wrapped his hand around her wrist and yanked her inside, slamming the door behind her.
“Hey, gorgeous.” Suze reached up to curve her arms around his neck. “Long time no see.”
Cash didn’t reply. He grabbed a condom and gripped the hem of her barely-there skirt, bunching the material around her waist. He ripped the thin silk thong and tossed it aside before rolling the rubber down his cock and thrusting inside her, caring nothing for her pleasure, only his own. He closed his eyes. The last thing he wanted to see was Suze’s face. Instead, he pictured Natalia McKenzie. He imagined what it would feel like to have her voluptuous body beneath his. To feel those long, shapely legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. To have those amazing tits pressed hard against his chest as he pushed himself inside over and over again.
After five or six thrusts, he came, the orgasm barely giving him any release from his earlier frustration. He immediately pulled out of Suze. Without saying a word, he strode into the bathroom and firmly closed the door, locking it for good measure. He yanked off the condom as though it burned him and threw it into the toilet. Standing with his hands braced either side of the sink, he glared at himself in the mirror. Staring back was the face and body that countless women all over the world fantasised about, but Cash knew the truth: all that was just a pretty façade. Underneath, he was rotten. Unworthy of adoration, devotion, and definitely love.
He stepped back into the bedroom. Suze had undressed and was lying, spread-eagled, in the middle of his bed.
“You’re not staying tonight, Suze,” he said softly.
She beamed and patted the space beside her. “Come on, lover. I know that wasn’t your best work, but you must have needed it. How long has it been?”
“I said not tonight,” he snapped and then in a more measured tone said, “You know the deal.”
Suze climbed off the bed. Hips swaying, she sauntered over to him. Her hands curled around his face. “You’re too tense, baby. Let me relax you.”
She began to sink to her knees before Cash gripped her shoulders and pulled her upright. “I said no.”
Suze pursed her lips, and for a minute, he thought she was going to cause a scene—one he’d have no choice but to deal with harshly. But then she shrugged and began gathering her clothes. She picked up her thong and swung the torn material around her index finger. “You owe me one. And I don’t just mean a new thong.”
Cash forced a smile he wasn’t feeling. “La Perla?”
“I’ll expect a suitably large gift box in the post.” She dressed quickly and stuffed her feet back into her shoes. With a brief caress as she passed, she smiled. “Don’t be a stranger, baby. Call me when you get back from Oz.”
Cash closed the door behind her and fastened the deadbolt. He snatched up the whiskey bottle and took a long draw before dangling it loosely from his hand as he wandered over to the window. He stared at the road below. Even though the shops were closed, the streets were full. Young lovers strolled arm in arm, ignoring the bite from the wind as they stared into each other’s eyes, and gangs of girls and guys stumbled from pub to pub even though, like him, they’d probably had more than enough booze for one night. Not for the first time, he yearned to be one of those faceless thousands who could walk down the street in peace.
He should have been happy. He was respected, had a career he adored, and made more money than he could ever hope to spend. His life was full and rich.
And yet he was the poorest person he knew.
THREE
Tally arrived at the office at six on Monday morning. She waved her arms at the automatic lights, and they flickered and blinked before coming on. Her eyes were stinging from lack of sleep. She’d stayed up all night pulling together the first draft of her article and had only managed about three hours’ kip.
She fired up her computer and closed her eyes as she waited for it to boot up. She could still sense Cash’s arms around her from when they’d danced, could still smell his cologne in her nostrils and feel his breath on her skin from when he’d whispered in her ear. And the way he’d pronounced her name—N’talya.
She’d never liked her given name and only used it in full when she wanted to come across more formally. After all, a name with more than two syllables was a complete waste of bloody time, but the way Cash pronounced it made her reconsider that opinion.
As her computer sprang to life, she inserted the data stick into the USB drive and opened the draft article. She quickly scanned it, her stomach churning with a mixture of excitement and guilt. She’d panicked when he’d asked her if she was a journalist. Could her lie get her into trouble if she went ahead and published the article? Should she tell Pete she hadn’t managed to get anything fresh? No, she couldn’t do that. This was her big break, and she’d just have to take a risk.
By the time Danny arrived with her usual coffee order, she was satisfied she had something new to report. The Internet had very little on either of Cash’s parents, although she did find an archived story in a local Northern Ireland paper regarding how Cash’s father had died when Cash was only fifteen, which made his comment about his dad even odder. She’d assumed from his use of past tense that his mother was dead too, but research neither confirmed nor disputed that.
“So how was last night?” Danny asked.
Tally grimaced. “I survived.”
Danny grinned and perched on the end of her desk. “I must admit I was worried for you. Cash Gallagher is not exactly known for his love of journalists.”
Tally swallowed another lump of guilt. “He’s a complicated character, that’s for sure.”
“So you got up close and personal, then?”
“We danced.”
Danny tucked his chin into his chest and let out a low whistle. “Jeez. How did you manage that?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out for myself. Want to see the draft I drew up last night?”
“Absolutely.” Danny jumped off her desk and pulled up a chair. His keen eyes skimmed over the words on the screen, and he occasionally nodded for her to move the slide bar so he could read the next page. When he finished, his eyes were gleaming.
“You’ve got a hit there, baby girl.”
She grinned, both at Danny’s words and his pet name for her. “Really?”
“Yes. You must have some sort of voodoo-magic abilities to
get Cash Gallagher to spill such personal details. Have you checked if that info has been released before?”
She nodded. “There’s very little on either of his parents. This information is new.”
“Well done,” he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “You earned your chance, and you definitely took advantage.”
The door swung open, and Pete walked through. He wasted no time beckoning her into his office. Danny gave her an encouraging smile as she ejected the data stick and headed over.
Pete waved a hand at the worn fabric chair opposite his desk, inviting her to sit. “So?”
“I think I’ve got an angle.”
“Ready to share?”
She handed over the data stick. “It’s only a draft. Needs work. He’s a fascinating man, quite charming when he wants to be.”
“Charming?” Pete pulled a face. “Can’t say that’s been my experience. I’ve been on the receiving end of his hostility on more than one occasion. He has an acid tongue when riled.”
“Yes, you’ve said—more than once,” Tally said with a grin.
Pete chuckled and indicated for her to put the coffee on while he scanned the draft of the article. She set the percolator going and sat in silence while he read. She couldn’t keep her leg from bouncing in agitation, so much so that it began to annoy her. She pressed down on it with her forearm and picked at her chipped nail varnish instead.
“So what do you think?” she said when the silence became unbearable.
Pete looked up, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m proud of you, kid. It’s good. Like you said, needs some polishing, but you’ve got more than the bare bones.”
Tally could have punched the air. Pete rarely gave compliments, so when he did, they meant a lot.
“How did you get him to tell you about his mother?”
Guilt ballooned within her once more, but she shoved it to one side. “I’d like to take the credit, but all I said was that he was a good dancer. He offered up the information freely.”
Pete’s brow furrowed. “Hmm, interesting. Good quote to have snagged on the father too.”
“So you’ll go with it?”
“Definitely. Polish it up, and then I’ll edit. I’ll email you a copy before it goes to print. It’s your article, so if you think I’ve misrepresented anything in my edit, tell me. You did good, Tally.”
* * *
Tally poured herself a glass of wine and wandered into the living room. She did her best to ignore the evil little voice whispering in her ear that she should have told Cash she was a journalist the minute he’d cut in on her dance with Ralph. But then she wouldn’t have got the story, and she’d have let Pete down. Tally rubbed her forehead. The internal tug-of-war was giving her a headache.
As the front door slammed, a wave of relief hit her. Em would help put her fears into perspective.
“Hey, babes,” Em called out from the hallway as her shoes thudded against the wall. She sashayed into the living room as only Em could and rested a hip against the doorframe. “What did Dozer say about the article?”
Tally rolled her eyes. “You know he hates that nickname.”
Em chuckled. “With a name like Pete Bull, and the fact he bulldozes his way through life, it’s a perfect nickname. So come on—what did he say?”
“He loved it.”
Em flashed Tally a knowing smile. “I knew he would.” She pointed her chin at Tally’s wine. “Looks like you’ve started celebrating without me.”
Em disappeared into the kitchen and returned with her own glass of wine. They clinked glasses.
“You must be thrilled.”
Tally’s head flopped against the back of the couch as exhaustion swamped her. She swallowed hard past a throat that was thick with guilt. “I should have told Cash I was a journalist when he asked me.”
Em snorted. “You’re not still banging on about that? I thought I put you right last night. He could have grilled you much harder about what you were doing there, but he didn’t. And if you had told him—”
“I know, I know. He’d have clammed up. But what if I get into trouble?”
Em huffed. “You’re not the first journalist who snagged a story by being less than truthful, and you certainly won’t be the last. Relax. You got some new information from a guy who’s notoriously tight-lipped, and now you’ll get your just rewards. You’ve worked hard, babes. You deserve all the success coming your way.”
Tally nodded in agreement, even though that nudge of conscience about her duplicitous response to Cash wouldn’t shut the hell up. She glanced at her phone as it dinged to let her know a new email had landed, and her breath caught when she spotted the sender.
“It’s here.”
Em moved to squish in beside Tally on the sofa, and together they read the article. Pete had worked wonders, making her words sing off the page. But guilt tasted sour, even mixed with the sweetness of excitement and the satisfaction at seeing her name in the byline. Until the night before, she’d prided herself on having high integrity and morals. She wasn’t going to be one of those journalists who would do anything to get a story, to advance her career at the expense of others. And now, the realisation that she was exactly one of those journalists was not easy to accept.
After she replied to Pete, Tally made her excuses to Em and headed off for an early night. She had no idea what Cash would do when he read the article. But one thing was certain: he’d wish he’d never met her.
FOUR
Cash opened his eyes and turned his head to the side, immediately regretting the movement as a sharp pain in his temple made him wince. He squinted at the clock. Seven. His lips were dry and cracked, his throat parched. With a glance at the near-empty whiskey bottle sitting on the window ledge, he groaned.
He sat up in stages, pausing to breathe through his nose every time a wave of nausea hit him, until he finally managed to place both feet flat on the floor. He staggered upright, holding onto the bedframe for support. Putting one foot in front of the other took a monumental effort, but he eventually made it to the bathroom. Clutching the sides of the sink for support, he stared into the mirror at bloodshot eyes, and skin that looked sallow and sunken. Not a fucking heartthrob now, are you, dickhead?
He turned on the cold tap, filled the sink, and plunged his face under water until he ran out of air. He repeated this several times, and after he’d showered, brushed his teeth, and dressed, he almost felt normal.
Whatever normal was.
He called Fortnum’s and ordered a huge bouquet of flowers and a hamper full of Suze’s favourite things and followed that up with another call, this time to La Perla. Suze knew the score, and she was good with it, but he was still a shit for getting her all the way across town for a quick shag. He hadn’t even offered her a drink.
A gentle rapping sound at the door made him sigh. It didn’t take a genius to work out who was on the other side. Normally, Kinga had a solid, authoritative knock. The soft tap meant she was embarrassed about her behaviour the previous night and wanted to make amends.
Cash opened the door and rested a hand on the frame, effectively barring her way. “Morning.” He purposely spoke in a flat, unemotional tone, and she ducked her head.
“Can I come in?”
“That depends. Are we going to have to rehash last night?”
“Not in detail. But I do need to apologise.”
He remained motionless, his outstretched arm still preventing her from coming inside.
“Please, Cash. I don’t want to have this conversation in the hallway.”
He dropped his arm and stepped back. Head bowed, Kinga shuffled into his hotel suite. Cash closed the door a little harder than he should have, and she jumped.
“Make it quick. I’m flying home today.”
She paused midstride before slowly turning around. “To Ireland?”
“That is where I live.”
“But we’re having Christmas in London. We talked about this on F
riday. I’ve arranged everything.”
“Well, now you’ll have to un-arrange it.” Cash grabbed a suitcase and threw it on the bed. He began to haphazardly chuck his clothes inside. Even though he’d made a snap decision to go home, the way the tension he’d been carrying around for days finally decided to sod off told him he’d made the right decision.
“Cash.” Kinga stroked his arm, but he pulled it away. “I’m sorry.”
He snorted and continued pulling stuff out of drawers and cupboards. “Déjà vu, Kinga.”
Her hand fluttered to her throat to fiddle with that damn cross she always wore. She wasn’t even religious.
“It won’t happen again.”
A loud smash made them both jump. He’d thrown the half-empty bottle of cologne he was about to pack at the wall. He hadn’t even realised he’d done it. Shards of glass scattered all over the floor, and the strong scent of his favourite aftershave flooded his nostrils.
“Every time, Kinga,” he bit out. “Every fucking time you get pissed, you become someone else. If you can’t handle the drink, then give it up. But I meant what I said last night. We are never going to end up in bed together. You need to decide whether making another pass at me is worth more than your job and our friendship.”
She drew in a shaky breath. “Being your agent and your friend means everything to me.”
“Then you’ve made your decision, and we’ll say no more about it.” He finished packing and locked the case. “Now I’m going to enjoy a peaceful breakfast alone before I head off to the airport.”
Winning Ace: A Winning Ace Novel (Book 1) Page 3
