Ew. A back view—her generous bottom, swaying as she walked into the club. ‘Oh, well no need to ask if my bum looks big in this.’
Shoes were fine, but definitely too high for a night on the fizz. Then the clips changed. Others entering and leaving. Michael. He walked in looking—the only word for it was immense. Dark suit, white shirt, no tie. Face relaxed but eyes intense. A nod to the cameras and right on inside. Suave. It made her want to plant one on him—he was so edible. Just like now. How could one man hold such a full deck of cards? He had absolutely everything going on. Including being the best lover she had ever had. Ever.
A glass of juice was placed in her hand. A stool was nudged towards her. She hoisted herself up onto it, still watching. He went back to his reading. More video of more people. Her publicist friend. Dutch Ronnie. He damn well didn’t look broke, that was for sure! Then the real A-list arrived. She hadn’t seen any of them. Honestly—how hard was it to get an autograph these days?
‘Oh, well. Looks like a good crowd. Glad you went?’ She knocked the glass against her wonky teeth, dribbled a little juice and wiped her mouth with her hand.
He glanced up at her, then to the screen. ‘Keep watching,’ he said.
A head shot of a reporter in front of the entrance. Then the camera zoomed to something over his shoulder. And there it was. At first she thought it was a bouncer, throwing someone out, and then she realised it was Michael, dragging her out. She looked ridiculous. Tucked under his arm, her legs almost lifeless, shoes trailing on the ground. But it was her face. To describe it as angry would be a kindness, but it was twisted in an ugly scowl. He looked implacable. Even when he put her in the car like a box of old junk.
‘Well, you got your wish.’ He took another sip of coffee and read another inch of paper.
‘Sorry?’ She was stunned. The reporter laughed into the camera. Behind her the paps were running after the car, training their lenses on it. ‘You think I wanted that kind of publicity?’
He tilted his face to her in that annoying way he had. ‘You didn’t want that kind of publicity? You want any kind of publicity. You’ve proved that again and again.’
‘You honestly think I want to be shown to the world tucked under your arm like a drunk getting ejected by a bouncer?’
‘What I honestly think is that last night you didn’t seem to care who or what noticed you, as long as someone did—and preferably someone with money. So, lucky for you that I was there. Not only did I notice you, I also have money. And once you have showered and eaten—if your stomach can cope with that—I’m going to sit you down and show you some options for funding. Options that don’t include dressing up, drinking and falling about. OK?’
‘No! Not OK!’ His tone had imperceptibly risen with every word but she pitched in with an extra fifty per cent volume. Just to emphasise her point. ‘What makes you think that I want to hear anything you’ve got to say?’
He nailed her with a full-on stare. She heard her own words echo between them. She was an idiot. She knew she was an idiot. But they were out of her mouth and suspended in the air like day-glo graffiti. He was trying to help her. She could see that. But did he have to be so dominant? So overbearing? So…so much of a man?’
‘You know, Tara, for an astute businesswoman you can be pretty damn stupid. But fine.’ He gestured with his hands in a motion of defeat. ‘Fine. Do what you want. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me. If you want to take the independent female high ground, that’s your shout.’
He picked up his paper again.
‘You know where the bathrooms are. Help yourself.’
He picked up his phone, pressed in the code and read a message. Put it back down. Gently. Took a bite of his pastry. Ignored her. Completely and utterly.
She sat there. Two words stuck in her throat like dry toast. She couldn’t say them. She looked at the screen again. His screensaver had come on but the image of her being put in a car was imprinted in her mind—very, very clearly.
‘Surely you can see how that made me look? To be carried from a club and put in a car? Like you were my dad picking me up from a church disco, or something?’
‘I don’t know, Tara. Because you don’t tell me anything. Do you even have a dad? Where were you born? I don’t know anything about you other than what you choose for the world to know—that you like to drink, and dance, and flirt. That you’re a ball-breaker and a risk-taker.’
‘Well, I don’t know anything about you either! Oh, sure, I know where you were born, and that you went off the rails, then back on them when you…when you became your sisters’ guardian. But what have you really told me? Or shown me? What do you let anyone know about you? I could have read all that on the internet.’
That got a double-take. The cup that was halfway to his mouth paused. ‘Good try, Tara.’
‘What do you mean? I’m telling the truth. You’re even more of a closed book than I am.’
He finished his coffee. Walked over to the machine and poured some more. Leaned back on the counter and perused her like she was a museum exhibit. ‘I mean, good try because you are an absolute master of subterfuge. But I can see right through you. Distract. Divert. Decoy tactics. That’s your speciality.’
She frowned. Truly didn’t know what he was getting at. ‘I’m only being honest.’
He smiled. ‘You don’t strike me as anything other than honest. I’ve worked that part out for myself. But you give nothing away. And when the conversation gets anywhere near the real Tara you switch—go on the attack, change the subject.’
‘No, I don’t! No… I don’t…’ Her voice trailed off. He didn’t need to come back at her. She suddenly heard herself. Wow. She sounded ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
His smile broadened. He pushed himself off from the counter. Put his coffee cup down and walked over to her. Eyes fixed on her the whole time. ‘No, of course you don’t! You’re more defensive than an armed guard.’ He braced his arms on either side of the counter where she sat.
She flashed him a grudging half-smile. ‘Can’t help it.’
‘Maybe you should try.’
He put his arms right round her and hugged her into him. She stiffened. For a moment she stiffened. But he wouldn’t let go. And then he began his master stroke—his touch. He drew slow circles on her back. Held her and touched her. And eased the tension right out of her. It was heavenly. She should give in. Her body already had.
He lifted her to her feet, cupped her face. Smiled right into her eyes. ‘Do you trust me?’
She nodded.
‘Enough to let me into your head?’
He held her so steady, stared straight into her eyes. That feeling swelled to her chest again and she knew right then she would refuse him nothing. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Good. I know you’ll try. I don’t know what’s stuck inside you, or what’s caused you to be this way, but opening up will help you through.’
He stroked her hair and she found words coming into her throat.
‘What do you want to know? That I left home when I was sixteen? Left town. Left the country to come here. Got a place in college and never looked back.’
He smoothed her and soothed her and more words came.
‘I had to get away. My life was not good. Not good at all.’
She tucked her head against him, spoke into his chest. She could feel his strength and patience. He wasn’t pressuring her, but it was so much for her to pull up these dark buried memories.
‘And no, I don’t have a dad—not one I ever knew, anyway. I have a granddad. And a mother who “let herself down” and was never allowed to forget it. And neither was I.’
She couldn’t say any more. It was like a rock had been shifted. A tiny chink of light was behind it, but the rock was huge and heavy and she had no more energy to push it. She laid her h
ead against him and felt the wetness from her breath on his shirt. His hands had never stopped stroking her. There were no other sounds. Nothing.
‘Soft and sad. You said that last night. Is that who you were talking about? Your mother?’
She nodded into him, willing him not to ask any more. She couldn’t give up any more to him just now. The soothing touch of his hands was like some kind of balm and she absorbed it easily, thankfully.
‘OK, baby. OK.’
Long moments passed and then he eased her off him. Cupped her jaw, smiled. His eyes were kind. Warm, dark and kind.
‘You look like a paint palette.’
She smiled back, found her voice again. ‘I can only imagine.’
‘Want to shower? Together?’
Just those words sent a quiver of passion right through her. She lifted her face to him, desperate for his mouth. ‘Now who’s offering up distractions?’
‘Oh, I think we could distract each other for quite a few hours this morning.’
He placed a kiss on her cheek. Slipped his hand round to her ribs. Slowly raised it to cup the underside of her breast. Palmed it. Touched her nipple. Her sex thrummed to life. He kissed her other cheek. Circled her nipple over and over. She found his mouth. His perfect mouth. It was a full-blown assault. Defence was futile.
He took her hand and she followed him out through the door. They walked down the long, daylight-flooded hallway to his bathroom.
She caught sight of herself in a console table mirror. ‘I look horrific. Like a bomb went off in a flower shop.’
‘I’m not going to lie to you, Tara…’
She mock-punched his arm. Tried but failed to run her fingers through her hair. ‘And you look like your usual fragrance advert. So there’s no point in competing.’
‘Tara Devine? Not competing? Does your publicist know?’
She smiled and laughed. Ugh. That had brought her right back down to earth.
She stalled. ‘I really need to get back on to this. I need to find another backer, or at least some short-term cash. Otherwise I’m finished. And just as it’s all taking off.’
Michael stopped. Spun her round to face him. Held her face again. ‘The offer’s there, Tara.’ He bent forward, kissed her. Slow. Deep. Long. ‘And I don’t make it lightly.’ Kissed her again.
Her mind was beginning to go fuzzy. She couldn’t drag her mouth away. Could not get enough of his tongue. Her hands went to his shirt. His hands went to her dress. He ripped it up and over her head. She clawed at his buttons.
‘We need to do this. I need to be inside you before I can make another coherent sentence.’
He was out of his shirt now. Bare-chested. The most fabulous defined bare chest she could ever remember seeing. Golden skin and light dusting of dark hair. Pecs that looked too perfect to be real. Musculature that was not too heavy but radiated strength. She dragged her fingers across him, relishing the sensations.
He stilled her wrists and held her arms open, exposing her in her underwear. But she felt his adoration—wave after wave of it—as he looked her over. Then he dipped his head and tugged at her nipple through the silk of her bra, soaking her.
Even though she felt like yesterday’s rubbish, she could no more stop this than stop breathing. She held his head in place while he worshipped her breasts. Her legs went weak. Knees buckled. All her blood rushed south.
He stopped and held her close. ‘C’mon, let’s get dirty.’
* * *
Michael watched her towel her hair. Wrapped in a bathrobe that drowned her, and with one leg crossed over the other, she looked strangely at home. And he wanted her all over again.
He had to move away. Had to get some space. He’d lost count of the different ways they’d made love. She brought out sides of him he hadn’t known he had. When he got his hands on her—every time since the first time—he just wanted to possess her. It was almost primal. Then he wanted to play with her. Like his very own private movie. And then he wanted to cherish her.
He walked into the kitchen. At least this time she hadn’t bolted the minute they’d finished. This time he’d held her in a grip like a vice, completely wrapped his legs and arms around her, tucked her head under his chin and held on. Even then he’d sensed her struggle with the aftermath. And even now he knew that he had only kept her with him physically. Her mind had drifted away.
He wondered how much her head was wholly with him when they made love? There was always that feeling of distance with her.
He was beginning to feel like Angelica. Like Tara was some sort of project. He could rationalise his offer to help her with her business—anyone would do that, especially if there was a quid pro quo, which there would be. And he was about to outline it to her as soon as she had finished fixing her hair. But why was he so caught up in what was going on in her head? What did he care if she gave him the best sex he’d had in years—OK…ever—and then wanted to retreat back to her shell? Wasn’t that every single guy’s dream?
He flicked on his laptop again. Found the page he was looking for. Looked at the footage. She looked so vulnerable. Even entering the club, she looked not just alone, but lonely. That fabulous smile with the quirky teeth. He could read every one of those smiles now. And the emotions that shone through that one were watchful, guarded and, yes, defensive. She didn’t just have her armed guard—she had a whole battalion behind a fortress.
But there was no doubt she was getting closer to letting him in. Whatever hurt she held from growing up in a family where she was seen as something shameful—if that was what she was getting at—it had scarred her pretty harshly. Of course it had. And of course she would haul that about with her and let it shade her life.
That was a lot for anyone to handle. And, to be honest, the fact that she had chosen him to share it with…that was a responsibility he wasn’t even sure he should be handling. She needed—she deserved somebody who could help her work things through. Maybe even a professional. Because the thing he’d thought he wanted to know—that she wasn’t going to rip the heart out of his family, that she wasn’t going to turn Fern’s head the way his had been turned at that age—was the thing he still wasn’t sure about.
He heard her moving about in his house. It didn’t feel wrong.
‘Morning again, beautiful.’
She walked into the kitchen looking fresh as spring flowers. Her skin was scrubbed clean and flushed pink. Her eyes, even shaded by lilac hangover shadows, were bright. Her halo of crazy peachy blonde hair was tamed. And her smile—her Tara smile—was as natural as he’d ever seen it.
‘Morning again, handsome.’
He couldn’t help it; he trailed a finger down her cheek and cupped her face up to him. Dragged a kiss from that sensual mouth and felt intoxicated all over again.
Drugged.
Obsessed.
Not things he wanted himself to be feeling. He really had to get back on track and stop overthinking her and her issues. She spoke to him sexually. OK, she screamed at him sexually. That he could handle. But all this analysis and worry that she was beginning to generate in him…?
He had enough to be getting on with—with the increasingly smart-mouthed Fernanda. He had to remember what his main responsibility was. Yes, he would help Tara, but he really had to get a grip and not lead her into thinking that this was anything more than what it was. Confessions about her mother might be the very thing to help her move on—but they came with flashing blue lights. He had to pause this and work with his own family before he could help anyone else work out theirs.
He was not himself. This was not how he handled his life. Dammit but he had to get a grip.
‘You got your business suit on under that robe?’
She beamed up at him. ‘Of course. Do you want to check?’
‘Ah… I think we’d bet
ter leave your outerwear in place for the duration of this meeting.’
He turned his laptop round to her, found the site he was looking for. ‘There you are. Have a look at this and then we’ll talk.’
She squinted at the screen. Then up at him. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s how you can promote yourself, earn yourself a truckload of money, and not have to sell so much of yourself in the process.’
He knew he wasn’t missing and hitting the wall, but she had to know that her ways were not the wisest.
‘It’s a new line one of my production companies is moving with. Taking “behind the scenes” web productions forward and doing a more in-depth take on some subjects. Fly on the wall, if you want to use that expression. Very special subjects. And, in your particular field, the links you could develop with other associated businesses could be very, very lucrative. Way beyond product placement.’
She sat still. Super-still.
‘What do you think?’
Not a sound. He waited. Filled nobody’s silence in business. Ever.
He got up and moved to get some coffee. The silence swelled, broken only by domestic noises—coffee sploshing, fridge door creaking, a swallow sounded loud in his head.
Finally…slowly… ‘I think… I’m not sure…but I think I love it.’
He swallowed more coffee, watched her as she scrolled through the site.
‘It could be perfect. How long would the cameras be there?’
‘That all needs to be discussed. And, remember—it’s not me you’d be dealing with.’
She looked up at him. ‘Oh? Who, then?’
‘This is new for us. And, to be honest, it wasn’t my favourite idea. But I think it could work well for you. It’s been brought across from a company we’ve acquired. The producer’s an easy guy to work with.’
‘I think it could be the perfect vehicle, but I’d need to be really sure how it would all roll. I mean…’ She looked up at him, excitement writ large on her face. Her eyes sparkled. ‘It’s a good offer. A great offer. I suppose my only worry would be how much control would I have? You know…you hear of these things. People get sucked in. Start to show themselves. And then the final edit is out of their control. They end up being made to look like a fool, or they totally open up and their whole persona is gone.’
Dressed to Thrill Page 12
