‘I might. What else?’
‘There’s the private performance by the London Philharmonic, the flight over the Baltic in Yuri Ostromonov’s helicopter, the private cruise of the Antarctic and the custom diamond choker from Alec Minton.’
‘Wow. That’s quite a haul.’
‘That’s just in the last week.’
I shake my head, floored by people’s generosity, even when I know half of it is about advertising and the kudos that comes from being visibly associated with The Billionaires’ Club.
‘Seriously, you should see my inbox. It’s overflowing with offers.’
‘Great. Well, let me know if you need me to wade in.’
‘Nope, I’ve got this. The caterer asked you to go by some time this week to review the menu. You’re free Friday afternoon.’
My heart notches up a bit. Before Nicholas left, he turned and said, ‘Friday night. I’ll be in touch with details.’
But the afternoon is a separate matter. I nod, turning away in case the heat in my blood has converted to pink cheeks. ‘Sounds good. Send me a meeting invite once it’s confirmed.’
‘Done.’
As soon as I’m alone, I cross the room and lift the box, running my finger over the embossed text with a small smile. My fingers shake as I pull on the satin ribbon. It loosens then drops to the floor, just a spool of white against the carpet.
I lift the lid slowly, placing it on the desk. There’s a gold sticker joining two sides of tissue paper together. I slide my finger under it, easing it up, deliberately moving slowly to counteract my body’s impatience, needing to control my instincts—which shout at me to rip the damned paper and see what’s inside.
The paper lifts and a delicate cream silk fabric sits inside, perfectly nestled, so I have to lift it out to see what it is. My breath hitches not at the beauty of the lingerie, though it is stunning, so much as at the idea that he, Nicholas Rothsmore, bought it for me.
I hold it up a little higher, skimming my eyes over the delicate spaghetti straps, which lead to a low V of lace. I can tell that when I wear it, my breasts will be visible through the frothy, twisting swirls. Silk kisses lace and it falls in soft folds down to what I guess will be my hips when I finally put on the exquisite piece. I spin, looking back to the box, and smile, because there are matching briefs, silk and lace, with ribbons at the side, so they can be undone with no more than a slight tug.
Anticipation supercharges my blood. I’m about to lay the lingerie back in the box and stuff the lid on when I catch sight of an envelope in the bottom. Intrigued, I reach for it, opening the back and lifting out a single piece of thick card.
It bears his name at the top, and a coat of arms, which, I imagine, belong to his ancient family. I stare at it for a moment, making out a lion, a spiky-looking flower and a bird with a full and impressive plume of feathers.
Aristocratic guys I generally avoid like the plague. And with good reason. All my experience has made me wary of people with too much money, but at least people who’ve had to work to earn it or fight to keep it have some appreciation for the value of it and an understanding for what life is like for those who don’t; the liberties and choices many are deprived of because of a lack of financial viability.
But it’s the lords and the sirs, the counts and the barons who are, by far, the most...wankery. In fact, the only member I’ve expelled from the club was a lord with an impeccable reputation, but we discovered he’d drugged a waitress at a club event—one of our members had found them in the Intimate Rooms just in time—but, God, it could have been so much worse.
Not that all the guys with titles are bad. They’re just definitely not my type.
I have no idea what my type is, but it’s not Nicholas.
That gives me a sense of relief because I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now, and so the only way I can really date him is because I know it will go nowhere.
Miss Anonymous—
I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.
Wear this.
N
It’s so simple, so completely to the point, but my heart stammers as though he’s breathed the words into my ear, and I need to sit down for a second to regroup. His handwriting is bold and confident, just like him, and he uses—what else?—a fountain pen. I lift it to my lips without thinking and breathe deeply, as though I might somehow catch a lingering hint of him on the card.
Friday is still three nights away and suddenly the wait feels excruciating.
Fortunately, I’m flat out too busy to pine or anticipate...much. Wednesday will be spent doing membership interviews and vetting, Thursday will be planning out next year’s events and schedules, making sure we have something seriously incredible planned for each month. Right now, The Billionaires’ Club is the hottest ticket in the world—my waiting list is a mile long.
It’s a great position to be in but it’s also dangerous territory—someone else could set up and start taking my business if I don’t make sure our offering is consistently better. Extra is my middle name.
We’ve got Egypt on the calendar next year, including the kind of money-can’t-buy access to the Pyramids of Giza followed by a starlit dinner right beneath the Sphinx, with delicacies from all over the world being flown in for members. Imagine a carpet of stars, a thousand candles lighting the way and one of the world’s best jazz musicians crooning some beautiful music all evening long. Followed by a night in a tent that, once you’re inside, is more like a six-star hotel.
It’s taken a huge amount of work to organise—dealing with the authorities and making sure we’re not violating any local customs or laws—but this is what people pay their million dollars a year for. Oh, the ticket price itself is extra on top, but without being a member, you don’t get a look-in.
* * *
On Friday, I meet with the gala caterers to do a small tasting of the menu, as well as the wines, and go over the running of the night, explaining when we’ll serve which courses and why.
It’s a busy day, and I’m glad for that, glad that by the time six o’clock rolls around I’ve barely had time to stop, let alone think about Nicholas.
Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve barely stopped thinking about him but in a ‘back of my mind’ kind of way. But as I lather myself in the shower then towel off before smoothing oil over my hairless legs, all I can think about is the next few hours and the certainty that soon his hands will be where my hands are.
My pulse fires at just the thought. When I slip on the lingerie he sent me, my body is already a field of live wires so my breasts tingle and my stomach twists.
I stare at myself in the mirror, still nowhere near ready, but wanting to stay just like this. Not to go out so much as to stay in. I wish I hadn’t agreed to date him, only to sleep with him. Except I’m actually a little excited to see what a guy like Nicholas has planned.
And sex is happening.
I just have to wait a few more hours.
Is this completely crazy? I don’t get involved with members. Even though The Billionaires’ Club is my creation, my baby, and I’m prominent in the community, there’s a distance between me and everyone else. I have to oversee things, to make sure it goes smoothly. I have to run the business side of things and manage membership difficulties.
I can’t be seen fooling around with someone in the club.
This has to stay private. And it has to be brief. He said he’s going back to England in a month, but that’s no real impediment to us seeing each other. I mean, the club has rooms all over the world; we host events everywhere. He attends most of them, like all of the members. So I’m bound to see him again, often enough that we could keep this going on a semi-permanent basis.
And then what?
I see him slinking off to the Intimate Rooms with someone else? I hear along the grapevine he’s getting married to Lady Asher Cumb
er-something-or-other?
Because that’s how this plays out.
And if I don’t retain a bit of control here, I’ll get hurt. I might seem, on the outside, as if I have everything ordered in my life, but loneliness is pervasive and powerful, and the temptation of being one half of a pair might lead me to forget the sense in all this.
I’ll have to be clear with him from the outset, and clear with myself too. With a small smile curving my lips, I think of the tattoo above his heart and reach for a pen. I am my own. I write the words hastily on the back of a store receipt and stick it to my dressing table mirror.
It’s a good incantation. I’m going to say it often. Just in case.
It’s snowing again and cold out. With no idea what we’re doing or where we’re going, I dress with versatility in mind. A pair of slim-fitting black leather trousers paired with a silk shirt with long, bell sleeves that falls off one shoulder and is a dirty gold in colour. I like it because the colour flatters my skin, the softness of the fabric hugs my curves and makes it pretty obvious I’m not wearing a bra, and when the sleeve drops over one shoulder, you can see the hint of lace from the camisole he sent me.
I take a few minutes to style my hair, curling it with my wand so it falls in big loose waves over one shoulder. Make-up is simple—as always—just a slick of mascara and the bright red lipstick I wore the night we fucked in Sydney.
My heart is pounding like a bird trapped in a too-small cage.
There are still twenty minutes to go. Waiting is killing me.
I pace through to the kitchen and pour a Chardonnay, press play on my phone so soft piano music connects to the speakers that are wired through my apartment, filling the space with beautiful, calming jazz. It helps, but I’m still looking at the clock every ten seconds.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I groan, pacing across the lounge for my handbag. On a whim, I swap it for a small gold clutch that matches my shirt and opt for my faux fur coat, wrapping it around my shoulders as I pace back to the kitchen.
Shoes! I need shoes.
Damn it.
I can only laugh at myself and my state of nervousness as I survey my extensive collection of stilettos. Again, with no idea what we’re doing, I should probably choose a shoe for all occasions.
But as I remember the way he looked at my stilettos that night in Sydney, a wild impulse has me pulling out one of my favourite pairs. Supple leather, a pointed toe, and a heel so high and spindly it’s a wonder they don’t snap in two, gives me a few extra inches in height and a mega-boost in confidence.
I add a couple of bangles on a whim, and have three big gulps of wine then stand perfectly still and wait. I breathe in, I breathe out, I empty my mind, I still my trembling—all the tricks the psychologist taught me right after Abbey died, after I’d started having panic attacks.
I don’t have the attacks any more but I still get flushes of anxiety, especially when I have to speak at an event. No one would ever know—I pride myself on presenting the image of a calm and collected entrepreneur, but in no small part my success at faking a confidence I don’t feel comes from this arsenal of stress-management techniques.
My buzzer rings.
My heart leaps to my throat.
I spin and stalk across the lounge, adrenalin pumping through me as I lift the phone off the cradle. ‘Hello?’ Just a husk.
‘Miss Anonymous?’
My smile is broad and instinctive. ‘I’ll be right down.’
I hang up, take one last look at myself and exhale slowly—it does nothing to quell the butterflies rampaging my stomach. They chase me as I exit the apartment and descend in the lift.
‘Good night, Mr Silverstein.’ I smile as I approach the door. He pulls it inward, a kind smile cracking the lines that form his face.
He lets out a low whistle. ‘You look mighty pretty, Miss Carmichael.’
He has a southern drawl a lot like my pa’s. It softens my heart whenever I speak to him.
‘Thanks.’
‘Got a club function?’
I nod, because it’s easier than admitting the truth—that I have a sort of date.
‘Have fun, be safe.’
He says the same thing every time I go out at night. I like it. Even though I’m long past the point of needing protecting, it’s still nice to feel as if someone cares.
Nicholas is waiting just outside, standing on the kerb, the back door of his low-set black car open. A driver sits behind the wheel. I don’t know what I’d expected. A motorbike, maybe? Not necessarily this. But most people I know are chauffeured around. In fact, I’m probably an anomaly for the fact I use cabs or the subway.
As I step onto the kerb, his eyes trail their way over me, slowly, dragging heat and electricity wherever he looks. My heart stutters, my stomach dives.
Anxiety is back, pulsing through my veins. I refuse to show it.
He takes a step towards me, and another, and my pulse races, my heart twists.
‘You look good enough to eat,’ he murmurs, holding a hand out to me. I place mine in it; sparks dance the length of my limbs, and my eyes widen in recognition of the strength of this attraction and connection.
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
His eyes show amusement, but he doesn’t laugh.
Heat explodes between us. I stay where I am; he doesn’t move either. We’re separated by several feet, but holding hands, just staring at each other.
He’s wearing beige trousers, a white shirt and a dark blue jacket, with brown shoes. He looks handsome, sexy, stylish and wealthy.
I wish he weren’t wearing anything.
‘What are we doing tonight?’ I hear myself ask, my lips shifting into a slight smile.
‘Ah. It’s a surprise.’ He jerks on my hand a little, pulling me towards him, and he kisses me on the cheek. It’s so chaste and weirdly sweet that a different kind of heat, a warmth, flows through me. And then, a whisper in my ear, just low enough for me to catch, ‘But I promise it’s going to end in my bed.’
CHAPTER SIX
LA CHAMBRE IS one of Manhattan’s chicest, hardest-to-get-into clubs. But I went to school with one of the owners, so my entry is guaranteed, any time.
I chose to start our night here for a few reasons. Obviously, because it’s exclusive, we can relax in privacy. It’s also named the French word for bedroom because its central design feature is that it feels like an extremely sumptuous and classy series of bedrooms. Each private booth is filled with velvet cushions, soft seats that recline fully, and privacy curtains for intimate moments.
The food and wine are second to none, and the lighting is dim. But more than that, I’ve done my research. The head chef of La Chambre consults for Est Il Est, the company that has a long history of catering Billionaires’ Club events. Meaning we can totally pass this off as research if anyone from the club sees us.
‘It’s like a grand bedroom.’ She looks at me with those huge dark blue eyes, and I can’t tell if she’s laughing at or judging me. A little of both, I think. For someone who’s so wildly abandoned in bed, she’s incredibly strait-laced when out of it. Yes, I see a hint of disapproval curve her lips and I ache to reach around and kiss it away.
And I will, later. For now, we’re in the dating portion of our night.
Besides, I’ve found myself wondering about Imogen this week, about more than just what makes her tick in the bedroom. She’s young to be so incredibly successful, and while I know she has the backing of her parents’ wealth behind her, she also has the work ethic of someone determined to make it on their own. I should know—I share that trait.
‘Ah, Mr Rothsmore.’ The maître d’ bows as he approaches us, a gesture of servitude I can’t stand but know I’ll have to learn to live with. ‘Welcome back. I’ve reserved your usual table.’
I nod. ‘Thank you, Jake.’
; He leads us through the restaurant and the hand I place in the small of Imogen’s back is purely friendly, even when I want to dip my palm a little lower, trailing my fingers over the delicate curve of her rear in those—God help me—leather trousers. As if she needed to get any hotter.
My ‘usual’ table is at the back of the restaurant, a booth that’s set away from the others. The chairs are actually a wrap-around banquette, comfortable and soft. I watch as Imogen shrugs out of her coat and hands it to Jake, then wish I hadn’t watched because the delicate shrug of her shoulders—one bare from where her silk shirt has slipped down—is enough to make my cock hard against my pants in a way that’s almost painful. Then, I see just a few millimetres of lace and know she’s wearing the twin set I bought for her and I’m pretty much done for.
‘Everything okay?’ she murmurs, batting her eyelids at me as she sits down. I order a bottle of champagne—my friend’s private vineyard supplies a Legacy collection for special clients—and a soda for myself, then give her the full force of my attention.
‘That depends. How do you define okay?’
‘You look pale, suddenly,’ she murmurs, her delicious lips quirking at the edges.
‘Funny, that, given the fact my blood has rushed south all of a sudden.’
She dips her head forward, her blonde hair forming a curtain that blocks me from seeing her face. Impatience has me reaching down and pushing it behind her ear so I can see her properly. Her eyes lift to mine, meeting them with a mix of emotions I can’t fathom.
‘You come here often?’ she queries and something shifts in my gut. A doubt? Does she not like the restaurant?
‘From time to time. Have you ever been?’
She looks around, her expression impossible to decipher. ‘Nope.’
I sit beside her rather than across the table. It’s not my usual play but I don’t really want to be separated from her. Once Jake brings our drinks, I’ll have him draw the curtains. Our knees brush beneath the table. She jumps a little. I smile.
The Deal--A Sexy Billionaire Romance Page 7
