Pleasured by the Secret Millionaire

by Natalie Anderson

  Now that he’d invited her here he seemed a little at a loss to know what to do with her. She helped him out. ‘You going to make me a coffee?’

  He moved then, reminded of his host duties. ‘You don’t want wine?’

  She shook her head. The beer she’d had at the bar had been enough. She needed to keep her wits about her and her will firm. Already she was in danger of forgiving all and letting him get away with anything. There was something so irresistible about his strength and silence and in the occasional vulnerability she saw in his full, sensual mouth. Part of her was so tempted to make a move—this was merely a holiday fling, after all. But she was deluding herself and she knew it. So instead she’d give them a moment for closure and then go back to the hostel. If she stayed around him she’d slip further under his spell and that would be stupid. Falling in love wasn’t an option—marriage, kids and a white picket fence were off the list. For the well-being of everyone.

  Aside from the art and the opulence there was little to distinguish his apartment from any other bachelor pad. Overflowing bookcases, a state-of-the-art entertainment system that included games console, stereo, masses of CDs and DVDs.

  She followed him into the kitchen area and as she turned to admire the gleaming espresso machine she saw what hung on the dividing wall.

  It was covered with black and white photos printed on canvas blocks. Varying sizes. Varying groupings. Formal portraits, family snaps. All had been digitally enhanced, then printed onto the canvas. Occasional stripes of colour had been painted on, or tiny details filled in. Some photos were left plain, others had been added to. The effect as a whole was striking—a dramatically different sort of ‘rogues’ gallery’.

  Sienna stared and stared. Finally asked, ‘Family?’

  He nodded. Eventually gave some more detail. ‘My sister did it for me. She’s a photographic artist. She does some interesting stuff.’

  ‘This is really cool.’ She walked closer, wanting to see if she could guess. She pointed to one shot of a young couple in older style wedding clothes. ‘Your parents?’

  He nodded, slowly coming to stand beside her.

  She pointed to a roly-poly baby. ‘You?’

  Again a jerky affirmative.

  There was a shot to the side of two wide-smiling boys aged maybe eight and ten, the elder one clearly Rhys. ‘Your brother?’

  He walked, angled away from her, arms folded across the front of his body. She could see his hands were curled into fists. ‘Cousin.’

  She stared at him. His ‘conversation closed’ body language couldn’t be any louder. She glanced again at the picture then moved on. ‘Which is your sister?’

  He came back. Obviously reluctant. Pointed, but immediately pulled his head back so his arms became bars across his chest.

  ‘She’s younger?’

  He nodded.

  She smiled. ‘Are you a bossy, overprotective older brother?’

  ‘She’d probably say so. I’d say I’m the responsible one.’

  ‘Responsible.’ Not the first time that had come up. She turned to him. ‘It’s a balance, isn’t it? Yes, you have to be responsible but you also have to live. And let others live their lives too.’

  ‘Yes, but you also have to recognise you have responsibilities to others—especially those you care about and who care about you.’

  Sienna knew that. It was precisely why she didn’t want someone getting too close. She didn’t want to be stifled. And, ultimately, she didn’t want to let them down.

  Rhys stared back at the wall. ‘You also have a duty to help where you can. A duty not to hurt, not to let people down.’ As his last words echoed her thoughts, his gaze landed on the picture of him with his cousin.

  Sienna was hit by a horrible thought. ‘Is that why you came after me? After I showed you my scar—you felt a duty?’

  ‘Not a duty. No.’

  ‘No? You didn’t feel bound not to leave me feeling bad?’

  ‘No.’ He turned away from the pictures and faced her. ‘I came after you because I couldn’t not.’

  ‘So it was a duty.’

  His gaze locked with hers. ‘It was desire. It’s still desire.’ He stepped closer, his reserve breaking. ‘I like how I feel when I’m around you.’ He put his hands on her shoulders, his fingers firm. ‘I like how I feel when I touch you.’ He drew closer still, speaking quietly yet every word rang loud. ‘I can’t help but want to touch you.’

  He kissed her then, a soft brush that had her parting and wanting. So much for closure.

  He looked down at her, his lips a fraction from hers, his eyes burning bright. ‘You have no idea how much I want to make love to you.’

  Her gasp was soft and in that very instant his mouth was back on hers, preventing her response, stopping her from voicing her doubt. Sending that doubt packing.

  They kissed and kissed and kissed again. A couple of times he pulled away from her lips, kissing down her throat but as quickly he was back to her mouth as if unable to keep away, as if needing to taste the sweet intimacy.

  Her resistance melted in the onslaught. As his hands framed her face, cradling her as he kissed her so tenderly, a wave of emotion rose in her and was more than enough to drown her hesitation and hurt. She closed her eyes and absorbed the care he was taking. She was too overwhelmed by sensation to realise he’d been slowly walking them somewhere. Not once breaking the kiss, not giving her the chance to take breath and reclaim sanity, he guided her to his room. With desire-drugged eyes she took in vague details. Just a glimpse of the bed had her knees pathetically weakening.

  ‘I’m sorry I lied.’ And she knew that he was. And she wanted to forgive him. She did. But he was still holding a part of himself back, and she knew it and she couldn’t quite say it didn’t matter.

  ‘Rhys…’ She should go back to the hostel. She shouldn’t let this become anything more. But the change was already happening; she could feel it swirling around her.

  ‘Let me show you.’ He made it so utterly impossible to say no.

  He gently set about removing her clothes. She raised her arms so he could slide the tee shirt off her, stepped out of the skirt as it puddled around her feet. Naked for him again, baring everything. Could he do the same for her?

  Her senses flared as he stripped. The way he touched her, the way he looked at her, she almost couldn’t bear it. His tenderness was so intense she felt more bowled over than if he’d bodily picked her up and taken her barbarian-style on the bed. Instead he moved with deliberate leisure over the length of her body, proving a level of passion that she could scarcely believe. She’d been treated gingerly before. This was different. This was genuine—it felt like love.

  She tasted his groan as he slowly pushed into her. She twisted her fingers in the hair at the back of his head, letting her other hand slide down the strong muscles of his back as gently, so gently, he moved against her. The press of his pelvis, the lock of his lips on hers, so they were joined and it was so deep, so complete. With arms wound tight about each other, nothing could come between them.

  The simplest intimacy. So sublime.

  Her head was spinning and the tears started falling before she was even aware of them until finally she had to break the kiss, arching her neck so she could gulp in one last breath before her body shuddered and her mind shattered.

  ‘That’s my girl.’ His smile was tender and tight.

  She stared up at him as she rode to the end of the crest, just as he hit his. Unwavering, fearless, their concentration sealed on each other as their bodies were.

  Then there was silence. Stillness. She reminded herself to breathe. She’d just seen into his soul. And knew he’d seen hers.

  Fear struck almost immediately. Rhys had good armour in place. Could she really believe in what she thought had been evident in his eyes? Some time soon she needed him to talk. She needed words as well as actions.

  Right now she just needed to recover.

  He lifted up from her, wi
ped away the tears on her cheek with the pad of his thumb. ‘You OK?’

  She nodded. Not wanting to risk a squeaky sob of a reply.

  He lay on his side, pulled her hips so she too turned onto her side, her back to him. He snuggled close behind her, his arm heavy across her waist, his hand pressing against her chest. Relief flooded her—so glad she couldn’t see him because she needed the respite. She felt raw and vulnerable, shaking with emotion so exquisite it almost hurt. This had been completely different from the wild abandonment that first night—the moment she’d thought could never be surpassed. She’d been wrong. Nothing could compare to what had just passed between them. And it frightened her more than anything had ever frightened her in her life. It wasn’t supposed to have happened like this. Everything had changed.

  He could feel her trembling still. He wondered if she could feel the tremors racking him too. He masked it by smoothing his hand down her back, wanting to soothe her. He regulated his breathing in time to the sweep of his hand.

  He’d never felt like this. Never felt anything like that. What they had just shared was beyond comprehension. He hadn’t been able to think of a single pyrotechnic thing, no technique, no position that would make all the fireworks in China explode in the one hit. He’d just wanted to worship her. To show her how sorry he was. How much he liked her. To treat her as she should be treated—precious, cherished, loved. And so he had. With gentle hands, soft touches, starting at the bottom, slowly he’d savoured his way up the length of her, sliding his hands up her slender calves and to the rest of her beauty. But it was when he’d finally drawn over her and slowly pushed deep inside her that he’d felt it. The world had stood still. And, for one moment, had been perfect.

  How was it that this kept on getting better? That first time, in the cold store of the bar, had been crazy—wild and crazy and he’d never thought he’d feel such intensity again. But he had—time and time again with her. Fast, slow, risky or relaxed, it didn’t matter, it just got better and better. A woman he barely knew. A woman he didn’t know if he could trust. A woman who was vulnerable and whose vulnerability threatened him in his weakest spot. He couldn’t be falling for her. Cardio thoracic surgeon he wasn’t, but he knew enough. The likelihood of her needing more treatment in the future was pretty high, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t sit there and do nothing. Only able to watch while someone he loved…

  Oh, God, he was in trouble.

  Sienna knew it was the middle of the night but she couldn’t sleep any more. Her brain had clicked on and was whirring at triple overtime rate. She listened to his regular breathing. She needed some space. Carefully she slid out from under his arm, slipped into the shirt on the floor and padded barefoot out to the lounge. She flipped the switch and quickly dimmed the light. Her bag was at the end of the sofa. She curled into the chair and opened the book. How to make sense of this? The blank page mocked her swirling, chaotic thoughts and emotions. Fear held the words back. Maybe she shouldn’t overanalyse. Maybe she shouldn’t even try to make sense of what was happening, of the secret desires rising in her. All the things she couldn’t, shouldn’t have.

  Frustrated, she looked about the room. Write anything to break through it. Describe the damn curtains. And so she did. Putting order into her mind by describing the room she sat in. Ignoring the important things—like whose room it was and what she was doing in it wrapped in one of his shirts and nothing else. Trying to block out the melancholy that came when bliss was followed by uncertainty.

  He’d said he wanted to make love to her, called her his girl. But these were just words—the soft nothings of pillow talk. This was the man who still couldn’t seem to talk. Who was still so reticent and guarded—despite having invited her into his personal domain. Why didn’t he trust her? What had happened that made him stay so locked up? She longed to break through to him. She knew she shouldn’t, she was getting too involved, but how she wanted to. You always wanted what you couldn’t have.

  In his dream her belly was gently rounded. She put a hand to it, her secret smile teasing him. Then her belly was swollen tight and she sat naked, her breasts full, nipples darkening with maternal maturity. His body tensed with longing. His child. His family. Indescribable satisfaction surged through him.

  But in that flash the picture fled. Suddenly it was images of the hospital speeding through his brain—medications and operations and tubes and beeps. And then it wasn’t Sienna on the table, but a kid.

  He snapped back. No. No. No! The sound of his own voice jerked Rhys awake. He took a couple of deep breaths. Pressed his hands to his eyes, keeping them closed. Not real. The sweat rapidly cooled, leaving him chilled. He tried to rationalise.

  Rhys the clinician knew if ever she was pregnant it could be managed. Yes, there were higher risks, but nothing that medication and good care couldn’t handle. And, yes, there was the chance that a heart condition might be passed on to her child. The chance was small but it was there.

  Rhys the man couldn’t handle even the smallest risk. Rhys didn’t want to sit uselessly and suffer while his loved ones suffered.

  Suddenly his arms ached with emptiness. He reached out to touch her, sat up sharply as his hand encountered the cold, empty sheet. The loss stabbed. How could he give to her if one day he woke to find her gone?

  His heart thumped a wild tattoo. Then he saw the faint light coming through the hall. He slipped from the bed and pulled on boxers. Quietly he moved, unable to stop suspicion rising. She was huddled in his favourite chair, her head bent, scribbling in her journal. What details was she recording?

  He stood in the shadow. Uncomfortable—with what had happened, with the crazy way his mind was messing with him, with what she was doing. How little he knew of her. Was she another Mandy? Was she transcribing their every word so she could sell it on? Rhys needed privacy. He needed to keep those deepest and darkest desires and secrets well hidden so he could keep their impact under control. But he’d just slipped up. He’d wanted to make up for his lie, but he’d given far more of himself than he’d intended. She’d slipped under his barriers. Had she known? He needed to back-pedal. Needed to get this back to the casual fling it had started as.

  ‘What are you writing?’

  She looked up and guilt flashed all over her face. ‘Nothing.’

  He hesitated. He could hardly demand to read it. He had to go on trust. He wasn’t so good with that. ‘You should be in bed.’

  Get her back in bed, where he could keep an eye on her. She’d admitted she hadn’t intended anything serious from this affair. He needed to think the same. Put it in the physical box and keep it there. No more questions, no more depth. No thoughts to a future that could leave him wide open to a level of pain he knew he couldn’t handle.

  She should be in bed? What was his angle—because he wanted her or because he was concerned for her? The last thing Sienna needed was another doctor. Scenes from the tapas bar tumbled back—the way he’d wanted her to eat, the way he’d tried to take her pulse, the fact he’d gone through her bag to find her medication. He couldn’t help himself. Being a doctor was as much a part of him as his legs were. If this continued into a relationship he’d be mollycoddling her as badly as Neil had. She should walk. Go back to the hostel. Stop before the disappointment hit—inevitable as it was.

  But his attraction was irresistible. He had such strength. She wanted to borrow some. And she also wanted to break through it, to whatever it was he was so fiercely protecting. She only had another couple of days in Sydney anyway. Live now.

  But as he flopped back onto the bed and pulled her onto him, she wished for the carefree romp they’d enjoyed at the hostel. This was getting heavy, he was starting to matter too much and he was so far wrong for her. But while the joy he brought was so unimaginable, so indescribable, she just couldn’t say no.

  They spent most of the next morning lazing, testing each other’s general knowledge by reading the questions from a trivia board game. Not bothering with the actual rul
es. Conversation stayed safe and simple. They shared favourite movies, favourite songs, most embarrassing moments. He joked, teased and laughed. She joked, teased and laughed. And all the while she knew she was finally getting the truth from him, but still not getting to the heart of him. The scar was key. She saw the way he sometimes rubbed at it. The way he avoided any mention of it.

  She thought of her airport trek tomorrow. Hell, her backpack was still at the hostel, padlocked shut but still vulnerable under her bunk in the dorm room. While Rhys was in the bedroom she found the phone and called Curtis on Reception. Got him to put it in the secure room for her. Fobbed off his attempt at chit-chat and enquiries as to what she was up to.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  She spun, surprised at the accusatory tone in Rhys’ voice.

  ‘The hostel. I just got Curtis to lock my pack away for me.’

  ‘Oh.’ He walked across the room, tightened the blinds, keeping them wide enough for light to come in but for the world outside to be blurry.

  Sienna couldn’t stand it any more. Skirting around issues wasn’t something she was good at. She was good at getting people to talk, and she wasn’t going to have Rhys, someone who actually mattered, be her only failure.

  She even had a plan. His bathroom was magnificent and already they’d spent quite some time investigating how much hot water was in the cylinder—lazing for hours under the shower. So in the late afternoon she suggested they return there. This time when she went in she eyed the double basins and twin towel racks with mock disfavour. ‘You entertain here often?’

  ‘No.’ He grinned. ‘I told you I like my privacy. I don’t tend to have people over much.’

  ‘I’m honoured.’

  He laughed. ‘You are not.’

  ‘No, I am, Rhys. You letting me in here.’ She shot him a not-so-innocent look from under her lashes. ‘You must trust me.’