by Fiona Lowe
‘Good heavens,’ he said with faux shock. ‘What sort of Australian are you if you don’t know that?’
‘Obviously a dessert-ignorant one. I guess I’ll be forced to remedy the situation.’
He had a sudden flash of her mouth closing around a spoon and slowly sucking ice cream off it. He was abruptly very hot and finding it hard to breathe. Tugging at his collar, he loosened his bow tie.
One of the last photos in the collection was taken during the Second World War. ‘I can’t imagine dancing while the bombs fell,’ Claire said softly.
He could. Dicing with death was a way of life for him with his unreliable heart. ‘Why not enjoy yourself to the very last?’
She gave him a sideways look. ‘More of your live-for-the-moment mantra?’
‘Sure. Just like we’re living for the moment now.’
A small frown creased her forehead. ‘I hardly think sneaking in here is very dangerous.’
‘Oh, I don’t know...’
She tilted her head, looking at him from those glorious eyes of hers. Her perfume, which always reminded him of sunshine, summer days and freedom, pulled at his restraint. So help him, he should have stayed upstairs and danced with the giggly nurses instead of coming down here with her. But here they were, alone for the very first time this evening, and all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her. He wanted to haul her in against him, feel her body pressed against the length of him and lose himself in kissing her until nothing else existed but their touch.
You know you can’t do any of it.
He never prevaricated or second-guessed anything but this was new territory for him. This was Claire and he was her boss. Until she gave him a sign that she felt exactly the same way he did, that she would welcome his touch, nothing could happen.
‘How can this possibly be dangerous,’ she said briskly with a hint of the terse Claire from two weeks ago.
He knew her well enough to recognise the tone she used when she was stressed. Was it because she could feel this thing leaping and writhing between them, desperate to be satiated? Please. He gazed down at her and said softly, ‘I think you know exactly how dangerous it is for us to be alone in this room.’
* * *
Alistair’s impossibly deep voice flowed around Claire like dark, melted chocolate—decadent, enticing and blissfully sinful. She knew exactly how dangerous it was for her to be standing mere millimetres away from him and his rock-hard body. A body her fingertips had committed to memory just over two weeks ago and itched to touch again.
You had a plan. Why didn’t you stick to it?
So much had happened between them since the evening she’d invited him to the ball and all of it made her head spin. Back when she’d issued the invitation, all he’d been to her was an infuriating and exasperating boss. Since then, she’d seen more sides to him than a polygon. When she combined it with that kiss, it made him—for her at least—the most dangerous man in London. It didn’t matter how great he’d been about her slightly unhinged behaviour around the Walker case or his empathy and practicality about her dyslexia, or that she now recognised in him values and ethics that she admired. No matter how much her body ached to touch his again, they were still in the power dynamic of boss and trainee.
To that end, she’d gone to great lengths to protect herself from doing something she’d regret at work. Tonight, she’d had a simple and foolproof plan for the evening—never be alone with Alistair. She’d known that outside of the protective framework of the hospital and their defined roles she might be tempted, so she’d strategised for it. She’d started by politely refusing his offer of a ride to the hotel and until now she’d only talked to him in the ballroom surrounded by three hundred people.
Why in heaven’s name had she brought him down here?
She blamed the dress and the hotel. Tonight was like stepping out of her prescribed life and into a magical world of pretend. It had started the moment she’d stared disbelievingly at the woman who’d faced her in the bedroom mirror. She’d hardly recognised herself. The boutique owner on a little road just off Oxford Street deserved a medal for convincing her to buy this frock. The little girl from dusty Gundiwindi had ridden to the ball in a London black cab, which in her book was as amazing as a pumpkin carriage being drawn by white horses. The moment the hotel’s doorman had swept open the cab’s door and she’d stepped onto the green carpet, she’d been treated as if she was someone special. Someone who mattered. That was her ambrosia.
The opulence and grandeur of the surroundings had called to her and she’d been like a kid in a lolly shop. She’d gone exploring, making her way noiselessly along thickly carpeted corridors and peeking behind closed doors. When she’d stumbled into the half-hung exhibition, she’d been so excited about discovering the living history of the luxurious hotel that she’d wanted to share it with someone. It had totally messed with her plan. So here she was, alone with Alistair, and although his hands were by his sides and not a single cell of their bodies touched, the electricity that buzzed and fizzed between them could light up London and the home counties.
For the first time, the look in his eyes was unguarded. The professional interest that usually resided in the grey depths whenever he looked at her—a glance that occasionally morphed into moments of a friendly gaze—had vanished. In its place, the flames of unadulterated lust burned brightly. Danger and desire swirled with an intoxicating pull.
Her body responded to it, leaping with a need to match his. Fleetingly, she wondered why he’d dropped his guard. Why now?
It’s this hotel. This dress. This night. None of it’s real life.
Exactly. So take what’s on offer because it will vanish with the dawn.
She swallowed and dug to find her voice, not quite believing she could be so daring. ‘You once accused me of not having fun. This hotel, with all of its stories, almost demands I step outside of my real life and do something outrageous for a night.’
His eyes flashed silver. ‘It would almost be disrespectful not to honour the hotel’s reputation as a host to many clandestine lovers.’
Tingling delight swooped through her and she was dizzy with the idea that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. But memories of Michael, along with a deep-seated need to protect herself and her scholarship, made her say, ‘This has nothing to do with work. What happens in the hotel stays in the hotel.’
Tension coiled through his body, radiating from the jut of his jaw and out across the square set of his shoulders, but still he didn’t move to touch her. ‘I promise you, Claire. It won’t spill into our work world. It’s your decision. If you have any doubts...’ His husky voice cracked. ‘Are you absolutely certain you want this?’
Her heart rolled oddly at the concern in his question and she plucked at the organza of her full skirt. After working with him for weeks she recognised him to be an honourable man. She trusted him and knew that he’d never coerce her or use this night against her. She met his gaze. ‘Tonight’s all about fantasy, right?’
He made a low growling sound in the back of his throat. It made her feel strangely powerful and she rose on her toes to kiss him. For two long weeks she’d replayed the juxtaposing touch of his mouth on hers—soft and firm—and the searing heat of his lips that lit her up from the inside out. She couldn’t wait another second for his taste to invade her.
Knowing his mouth was millimetres from hers, she closed her eyes and leaned in. Her lips hit air. As disappointment whipped her, Alistair grabbed her hand. He pulled her so fast towards the double doors that she almost tripped. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, frantically trying to keep her balance.
‘What the hell do you think I’m doing?’ He wrenched open the door.
‘I thought you were going to kiss me.’
He stopped and gently cupped her cheeks, his palms warm against her skin. ‘
If I kiss you here, Claire,’ he said raggedly, ‘I won’t be able to stop.’
The little girl inside her squealed, twirled and clapped her hands. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ He dropped his forehead to gently rest against hers. ‘I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment I saw you across the other side of the crowded ballroom. I’m not ruining this fantasy of ours by getting charged with indecent exposure. We’re getting a room.’
‘But Marlene Dietrich apparently—’
But he was already towing her across the foyer towards the reception desk. With one arm clamped firmly around her waist, keeping her tightly pressed against him, he said in a crisp, polite and plummy voice, ‘We’d like a room for the evening.’
The receptionist—his name badge said he was Daniel—didn’t bat an eyelid. Nor did he ask about their luggage or lack of it. ‘These functions can be quite exhausting, sir. I’m sure you’ll find everything you need in Room 613.’ After running Alistair’s credit card through the machine he gave them a wallet containing two key cards. ‘Just insert the card into the lift, sir, and press six. Enjoy your evening.’
At that precise moment Claire developed a fondness for what up until now she’d always considered starchy, British manners.
‘Thank you,’ Alistair said as he turned her and briskly marched them both to the lifts.
The journey to the sixth floor was interminable with the lift stopping at almost every floor. Their slow progression added to her frustration that Alistair was holding firm to his resolve that he wasn’t going to kiss her until they were inside the room. ‘You’re crushing my hand.’
‘Sorry.’ He gave her a tight and apologetic glance before dropping her hand and hitting the number six button another three times.
She used the tortoise-like passage of time to slip off her shoes. When the lift doors finally opened on their level she picked up her skirt and her shoes, stepped out into the corridor and ran. Just as she’d found their door, Alistair caught her around the waist with his left hand and with his right he inserted the card into the lock with a quick in-out action.
‘You’ve done that before.’
‘Never with quite the same level of desperation,’ he said with an ironic edge. He pushed open the door.
Together, they tumbled into the room, and as the door clicked shut quietly behind them, he kissed her.
Unlike that first time in the lounge, there was nothing slow about this kiss. It held two weeks of frustration and tightly leashed lust that now spilled into her with an urgency that chased along her veins. As it scooped up her desire and merged it into a molten ball of need, it detonated bursts of wonder. The explosions lit her up until her body was a pleasure dome of sensation and her legs threatened to buckle out from under her.
In a sea of organza and tulle she fell back onto the king-size bed, bringing Alistair down with her. Her hands tugged at his bespoke jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, and as he shrugged out of it his mouth didn’t leave hers. Somehow, despite the fact his kisses had reduced her body to a puddle of vibrating need and her mind to mush, she managed to get her fingers to work. She undid the buttons of his waistcoat and popped the studs on his shirt and collar. Finally, after clawing at a flurry of white material, her palms pressed against hot skin, corded tendon and rock-solid muscle. Bliss.
As she ran her hands across his chest she heard herself make an involuntary moan. Alistair pulled his mouth from hers and gazed down at her with a wide grin on his face. ‘Having fun?’
Her cheeks burned and she reminded herself that as much as he wanted her for his own enjoyment, she wanted him. He was hers for this night and it would be silly to waste precious time by being embarrassed. ‘You bet I’m having fun,’ she said, lifting her head and laying her mouth over his left nipple. She flicked out her tongue, tasting the hard nub, and then she sucked him into her mouth.
He gasped and his entire body flinched. ‘Vixen,’ he muttered, and as she laughed his hands moved frantically across the bodice of her dress. She could barely feel his touch through the detailed beading and corsetry and her laugher faded. She wanted his hands on her skin. His mouth on her skin. She wanted—
‘Bloody hell,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll get gravel rash from all this beadwork.’
‘The zipper’s on the—’ She suddenly had a face full of organza and tulle, but before she could fight the material, Alistair’s mouth nipped gently at the tender skin of her inner thigh.
‘Oh.’ She gasped and writhed in delight as his tongue flicked and his mouth sucked, all the while moving closer and closer to her hot and aching centre. Her breath came short and sharp as the delicious assault continued and it wasn’t until silver spots flickered behind her eyes that she flipped the skirt over and panted, ‘Need. Air.’
He extricated himself. ‘I was just having fun,’ he said with a wicked glint in his eye. ‘Just like you.’
Laughing, she sat up. ‘In the fairy tales, they never mentioned how the Princess got out of her gown for the Prince.’
‘Going on history and the lack of underwear back then, I think the Prince just pulled up the skirts and helped himself while the Princess lay back and thought of England.’ As his fingers found the tag of the dress’s zipper, he kissed her gently. ‘But I want to see and feel all of you.’
‘So do I.’ She reached for his belt and as her hand brushed his erection she suddenly flashed hot and cold. Contraception. ‘You’ve got a condom, right?’
He paled. ‘No.’
‘What?’ Panic and surprise took her voice up an octave. ‘I thought you—’
‘Never leave home without one?’ He grimaced. ‘Don’t believe all the hospital gossip, Claire. This—’ he flicked his long, dextrous fingers between them ‘—is an unexpected gift.’
His lack of a condom was in a way gratifying—he hadn’t planned on having sex with anyone else—as well as devastating. They might not be having sex this evening after all.
‘Mind you,’ he said tightly as he strode to the bathroom. ‘It might be a gift that doesn’t get fully unwrapped.’
No. As she jerkily pulled open the bedside drawers on both sides of the bed, she heard him muttering, ‘Bloody hell. There’s enough shower gel here to wash an army.’
She reached into the second drawer expecting her fingers to touch a book but instead she felt a plastic case. ‘Alistair.’
He stuck his head out of the bathroom, his messy hair wild from the ministrations of her fingers. ‘What?’
‘Apparently, in the tradition of a hotel that’s infamous for catering to the rich and famous, there’s an aptly named “fun pack.”’ Laughing with delight, she waved it at him. ‘Daniel wasn’t wrong when he said we’d find everything we need. It’s all here, plus breath mints.’
‘Thank God for British ingenuity and organisation.’ He walked back to the bed and the mood lighting cast tantalising shadows on his naked chest. ‘Now,’ he said with a sly grin, ‘let’s get you out of this dress.’
He made short work of the frock, freeing her in less time than it had taken her to pour herself into it and then he was gazing appreciatively at her new French lace bra and matching knickers. She sent up a vote of thanks to the sales assistant who’d encouraged her to buy them, despite the fact she’d spent far too much money.
‘Don’t think I don’t appreciate lingerie, because I do,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the demi-bra. ‘It’s just, right now I’d appreciate it more off you than on.’
With a proficiency she didn’t want to examine too closely, he quickly divested her of her underwear. Attempting to match him, she unhooked his trousers and pushed his pants and underwear down to his ankles. He kicked them off and a thrill spun deep down inside her at the glorious sight of him before her—delineated pecs, washboard-flat abdomen, the tantalising trail of dark blond hair that arrowe
d down to the prize, which jutted out towards her, erect and ready.
I caused that, she thought in wonder, but before another thought could form, he’d killed the lights and was pulling her down onto the bed, rolling her into him in a tangle of limbs. His mouth honoured her, starting with her lips and then trailing along her jaw and down her neck before his tongue traced the hollow in her throat.
She shivered in delight, never having known such delicious sensations, and as much as she wanted to run her hands up and down his back and feel him too, she didn’t want a moment’s distraction from revelling in his touch. Besides, his mouth had closed around the aching and tingling flesh of her breast. An arrow of need darted deep, sharp and erotic, lifting her hips to his and bucking against him. Seeking him. Sliding her slick and ready self against him.
He groaned and raised his head. ‘If you want me to go slowly, that’s not the way to encourage it.’
‘Fast, slow, I don’t care.’
‘God, Claire,’ he ground out. ‘I’m serious.’
‘So am I.’ Her heart hammered. ‘Ever since that kiss I’ve—’
‘Wanted this so badly I can’t even think straight,’ he said hoarsely.
‘Yes.’ She breathed out the word. ‘Oh, yes.’
From the lights of the city that cast shadows in the room, she saw the agony of holding back glowing deep in his eyes. Her body thrummed so fast with need that her muscles quivered, desperate to close around him. She pulled her hands out of his grasp and picked up one of the distinctive blue squares. ‘We’ve got more than one condom and we’ve got the night.’
‘In that case, who am I to argue?’
She kissed him as she slid the condom along his silken length. Reminding herself this was her fantasy, and that he was hers to use for her pleasure, she rolled him over onto his back.
He rolled her straight back, capturing her hands again. ‘I’ve fantasised for a long time about your legs wrapped high around me.’
She was awestruck. ‘You have?’
‘Do you have any idea what those shoes you wear do to me?’ His voice was hoarse.
