The Millionaire's Proposition

by Avril Tremayne

  Who would ever say no to you?

  Oh, God. God! Scott would say no. He would.

  ‘So, Kate, tell him. What you feel. Why you feel it. What he means to you. And move heaven and hell. Because, of all of my daughters, you can. And then, whatever happens, at least you’ll have no regrets.’ She paused again, shrugged. ‘The alternative is that I tell your father what he’s done to you—and he and Aristotle have been playing with a new set of throwing knives, so I’d prefer not to go that route. At least not yet.’

  Kate arrived at Scott’s on Tuesday ten minutes late.

  She stayed in her car for another ten minutes, with her mother’s words going through her mind. Tell him, tell him, tell him.

  But she couldn’t help feeling it would be like pulling the rug out from under him. I said it was only going to be sex, Scott, but it’s love.

  What would he say?

  Big sigh. Because she had no idea.

  He’d sent so many mixed signals her way she was beyond knowing what he expected of her, what he wanted from her, how he felt about her. He’d been everything from distant to demanding, from impassioned to indifferent. From flippant to furious. Agreeing to the rules—and breaking them.

  The way he’d looked at her in that alley on Friday night, when he’d taken her hands in his—that was not about sex. And that last Play Time, when he’d been so angry with her—irrational, emotional…

  Wasn’t that a bit like love?

  She sucked in a breath, because just saying that in her head made her heart flutter. Running a hand over her stomach, which was similarly fluttery, she wondered, maybe, if she should ask him.

  But after Play Time. Because if Play Time involved her getting into a PVC cat suit or wielding some kind of implement…? Well, she couldn’t see herself talking about love after a dose of kink.

  Sighing, she started to push the intercom button—but Scott opened the door before the chime even sounded. He took her in his arms, kissed her as though he’d been waiting a year and was starving for the taste of her.

  And everything in her fluttered. Nervous and hopeful and a little bit terrified.

  Releasing her slowly, Scott gestured for her to move into the house, and she was struck again by the magnificence of what he’d achieved—even more so today, when she was seeing it as Kate, who’d been invited, not Lorelei, who’d invited herself.

  It was stylish, lavish, unusual. A manifestation of all those parts that made Scott who he was. The coolness, the control, the hidden fiery core.

  Kate cleared her throat. ‘So. Play Time?’

  He put his arm around her, led her into what she supposed was the living room—or living space, more correctly, since there were no internal walls, only strategically placed columns.

  ‘Yep,’ he said. ‘I’m calling it “The Architect and the Lawyer”.’

  She halted as her hopes started to soar. ‘That sounds…normal.’

  ‘Ah, but with a twist. The way I’m seeing it is that the architect gives the lawyer a tour of his house. Along the way the lawyer tries to find a legal term appropriate for each space—extra points for Latin. And if the lawyer likes what she sees, she gets to touch the architect. And if the architect likes what the lawyer says…same deal. He gets to touch her. And then the architect—because he is multi-talented—prepares dinner. And they eat. And drink wine. And then, if all that touching has meant anything at all, they go upstairs to bed and negotiate the rollover of their contract for another month.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said as her hopes stopped soaring and started plummeting. The contract. One more month. Not exactly forever.

  Scott took her briefcase, threw it onto his glamorous coffee-coloured couch with no regard for the potential damage its buckles could do to the fabric, and slowly turned her to the living area. ‘So—what do you think?’ he asked.

  She tried to smile. ‘I guess I’ll start with…ab initio.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to have to kiss you for that.’

  ‘Do you even know what it means?’

  ‘No.’

  And then he drew her close and kissed her cheek. Just her cheek…but she felt it tingle all the way through her body.

  ‘So what does it mean?’ he asked when he released her.

  ‘“From the beginning”,’ she said. ‘It’s commonly used to refer to the time a contract, statute, deed or…or marriage becomes legal.’ Oh, God—why had she mentioned marriage? She cleared her throat. ‘But in this instance we’ll use it for the start of the house tour.’

  ‘Suits me,’ Scott said. ‘Ab initio. We can use it for the start of our new month too.’

  ‘Hmm…’ Kate said. A vague, nothing noise. ‘Where to next?’

  ‘Library—which, you will be interested to note, used to be an altar.’

  She could already see it, and walked slowly across the wooden floor and up the three steps. So beautiful. Coloured rugs. A fireplace—unlit in the heat of February. Books nestling in custom-made shelves; armchairs—some leather, some fabric—low wooden tables. She turned to face the main space, looking out at the expansive floor, partitioned into discrete zones via the columns—all spectacularly clean and modern, which made the library feel like an oasis of plush comfort.

  ‘It could do with a few of your mother’s paintings, but otherwise what do you think?’ Scott asked.

  Mother. Her mother. Tell him, tell him. ‘Umm…’ She turned to him. ‘Ad coelum.’

  Scott drew her in and kissed her eyelids. First one, then the other.

  ‘If you like it…aren’t you going to touch me?’ he asked, all husky.

  Kate reached a hand up, cupped his face, ran her thumb over his cheekbone. ‘Want to know what it means?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, as soon as you touch me again—you owe me for the living room.’

  She brought up her other hand and now both hands cradled his face. She leaned up, kissed him gently on the mouth. And then she smiled into his eyes.

  ‘To the sky. It’s actually abbreviated from cuius est solum eius est usque ad coelum et ad inferos—which basically means whoever owns the soil owns that space, all the way up to heaven and down to hell. And this is just heavenly. Which seems apt for a converted church.’

  ‘You’ve got no idea how much you are turning me on, Kate.’

  ‘That’s the whole idea of Play Time, isn’t it?’

  He frowned slightly, but said nothing. Simply took her arm and continued the tour.

  Scott showed her all over the masterpiece that was the lower floor. And it was obvious why his renown as an architect was growing.

  The huge arched panels of stained glass juxtaposed against the ultra-modern use of materials and neutral colours in most of the spaces were startling and lovely. The structure of the zones, flowing one into the next, was incredible. Scott’s stark office and the state-of-the-art kitchen and guest bathroom were top-notch contemporary. The surprising pops of colour, like the scarlet staircase and the chartreuse relaxation nook off a plant-filled atrium, were brilliantly eccentric. How could such disparate elements combine into something so blow-your-head-off gorgeous? But that was…Scott.

  Kate had to concentrate hard in order to be able to spit out Latin legal phrases, only to have her thoughts scatter every time Scott chose a different part of her to kiss. It was agonising, this falling in love. Feeling it dig itself more deeply inside her with every gentle, lavishing touch of Scott’s fingers, his mouth, on her lips, her cheeks, her ears, her eyebrows—her damned eyebrows!—and her hair. Wishing so hard it meant something, the way his eyes closed, the way he held his breath as she touched him in turn. Shoulders, hands, neck, chest.

  She was in torment by the time they circled back to the library, where Scott settled her with a drink while he finished preparing dinner. He was so jaunty as he left her—even whistling, as though he had everything he could possibly want.

  But then, Scott did have everything he wanted. Exactly what he wanted. She was the one who didn’t have what sh
e wanted. And she still had no idea how to get it—except to ask for it…and risk losing even the little of him she had.

  Kate didn’t know how long had passed when Scott came to escort her through to the dining area. But she could feel time just generally slipping away. Four days until the twenty-eighth of February. When their contract would be terminated—or rolled over.

  Scott held out a chair for her at the sleek wooden table and waited for her to sit.

  ‘You didn’t have to cook dinner,’ Kate said.

  ‘Well, you see, Kate, the fifty-fifty rule wasn’t working for me. So this—’ charming little shrug ‘—is my way of taking you to dinner. And before you tell me I’m breaking the rules, I’m going to remind you that extras are allowed in Play Time.’ He sat opposite her. ‘Cucumber soup. Perfect for a Sydney summer.’

  But Kate was beyond taste as she silently filled her spoon, raised it to her mouth, swallowed. Time after time. Until her bowl was empty.

  Scott—who’d done an excellent job of keeping up a flow of small talk—cleared the plates, then returned with something that looked so delicious Kate’s heart sank. He’d taken such care—but how was she supposed to eat it when her heart had swelled so gigantically it threatened to choke her?

  ‘Korean-style pork tenderloin with wild and brown rice pilaf and steamed pea pods,’ Scott announced.

  As Kate doggedly forced the food down Scott explained a house design he was currently working on. Presumably she offered appropriate rejoinders, because he didn’t make an issue of her lack of vocal enthusiasm.

  But then, why would he? It wasn’t conversation he wanted.

  He cleared the plates a second time, and while he was gone Kate had a mini-meltdown, remembering her mother’s words. Make it romantic. How did a person turn a contract into something romantic? Move heaven and hell. How? What was the trigger? What would it take to make him love her?

  And then he was back, carrying a tray. On the tray was a plate piled high with cookies of some kind and two exquisite boxes—one pink, one purple—decorated with fluttery fairies, shimmering with glitter, finished off with gauzy bows.

  ‘Whoopie pies,’ Scott said, depositing the tray in front of Kate and taking the seat beside her.

  Unable to stop herself, Kate reached for one of the boxes, ran suddenly trembling fingers over the top, pulled the end of the ribbon through her fingertips.

  ‘Do you like those boxes?’ Scott asked.

  She looked at him, said nothing.

  ‘They’re for Maeve and Molly. Because…’ He shrugged, blushed. ‘Well, you know… I spoke to them about baking whoopie pies and I… Well, since I didn’t know when I was going to see them again, and I was baking anyway, I thought they… Ah, hell, I thought they’d like them. That’s all. And I saw the boxes in a store near my office, so I…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I bought them. No big deal.’

  Nice and defiant. Still blushing.

  And everything surged in Kate—wrenching at her heart, racing through her blood, shattering every thought in her brain…flooding her with absolute crazy love. She was insanely, wildly in love with him.

  She couldn’t pretend any more. Not for one more moment.

  And the next moment of her life started precisely now.

  ‘Hugo,’ she said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  SCOTT REELED BACK in his chair. ‘What’s he got to do with anything?’

  ‘I don’t know, Scott. Why don’t you tell me what he has to do with you, with us, or indeed with anything? Because you’ve told me precious little so far. So—Hugo.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. Is this—? This is about…about Play Time. Stopping Play Time, right?’

  ‘Yes, Scott, it is.’

  ‘But…why? What was so bad? Do you want to…to go back and start again?’

  ‘No.’

  He blinked. ‘Okay, then, let’s skip it altogether and just go upstairs and—’

  ‘Hugo,’ Kate said again.

  He tried to smile, but didn’t nail it. ‘You don’t know what I was going to suggest.’

  Kate didn’t bother even trying to smile. ‘The fact that you said we should go upstairs—to bed, no doubt—tells me all I need to know. It tells me we don’t have a relationship.’

  ‘Sure we do.’

  ‘No, Scott, we don’t. We have a contract.’

  ‘You’re the one who wanted the contract.’

  ‘Semantics. With or without the signed piece of paper, we have an arrangement. An arrangement is not a relationship. And if you’re happy with that then I’m calling “Hugo”. As in enough. No more Play Time. No more anything.’

  Scott shoved a hand into his hair. ‘Kate, if it’s the subject of my brother that’s bothering you—’

  ‘Didn’t you listen? Hugo—as in I’m finished.’

  ‘—he has nothing to do with us.’ Right over the top of her. ‘I never thought you’d meet him.’

  ‘Well, I did meet him, Scott, so how about you explain now?’

  Silence. Scott’s jaw tightened.

  ‘Scott?’

  ‘You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met, Kate. I’m sure you worked it all out the night of the architect awards. Why do you need to wring the words out of me?’

  Kate stared at him.

  He stared back.

  And then he shoved both his hands into his hair. ‘Dammit—all right. It’s no big deal.’

  He took a moment. Placed his hands on the table, palms down. Very specific. Controlling them.

  ‘Very simply: my brother was the perfect child. Better than me at school, better than me at sport, better than me at everything. My parents let me know it in a thousand ways when we were growing up. And when Hugo hit the doctor target…? Big bonus points, there. Now he’s hit all the personal targets too—getting married, providing grandchildren. Long story short—Hugo is family all the way. And I’m…not. I’m number two. All the way.’

  Kate reached for his hand but Scott pulled it back, out of the touch zone.

  ‘All the way,’ he repeated. ‘Want an example, Kate? What about that time I was in the Whitsundays, goofing off, teaching holidaymakers to sail, making a fool of myself over a girl who didn’t love me? What do you think my brother was doing?’ But the question was rhetorical. ‘He was one-upping me spectacularly by sailing solo around the world.’

  ‘So what?’ Kate asked, but it was hard to get that out because she wanted to cry.

  ‘So what?’ Scott laughed—harsh and awful. ‘So sailing was my thing. Why did he have to take that too? I swear, if he knew I liked cooking he’d go and get himself a publishing deal for a cookbook.’

  ‘Hugo didn’t win the architecture prize. You did.’

  ‘Wait until next year’s awards,’ Scott said. ‘He’ll pull a rabbit out of someone’s hat.’

  ‘Exactly, Scott! Out of someone else’s hat! Unlike you, wearing your own hat. Because you can’t tell me you simply follow blindly—not your parents, not your brother, not anyone. Otherwise you’d be a doctor like the rest of your family—you’re certainly smart enough.’

  ‘There’s no mystery there, Kate. I just wanted to be an architect.’

  ‘I know that. And I know why. Because it’s you. Creativity—and order. The perfect career for you! And I think your brother hates how good you are at it. Because you can bet that although you could be a doctor if you wanted to—’

  ‘Not as good as Hugo.’

  ‘Maybe…maybe not—but you could be some kind of doctor. Hugo, however, could never be any kind of architect.’

  ‘You can’t possibly tell that.’

  ‘Sure I can—because he wasn’t the one in the navy blue tux that night. He doesn’t have it. It. That thing you have. And what does it tell you that he didn’t even have the grace to come over and congratulate you when you won that award?’

  Scott said nothing.

  ‘That he was jealous,’ Kate said. ‘Is jealous. Of you.’

  Scoffing laugh. ‘He
has nothing to be jealous of.’

  ‘Really? Because the way I see it, you have something Hugo wants badly but will never, ever have. I’ll bet your parents don’t have it either. I’ll bet none of them even understands it—which is why it’s three against one in the Knight family. You have creativity, and charisma, and wit, and decency, and…and adventure in your soul, and so much more. That’s why you went to the Whitsundays, and why Hugo had to make do with what he thought was one better. Except it wasn’t one better. He had to follow you to one-up you. And he had to one-up you because that’s the only way he can feel better than you. He can’t bear your success because he wants it all—all for himself. He can’t be you, so he steals from you. But he can’t steal the one thing he really wants because that would make him…you. And, no matter what he tries, he never will be you.’

  Scott shook his head, wearing one of those smiles that meant nothing.

  ‘And the sailing thing?’ she said urgently. ‘I’d tell you to make it your thing again, if it bothers you, but you don’t have to make it your thing. Because it is your thing. It always was—and it will be waiting for you when you’re ready to let it all go and just be, Scott. Just be. Without comparing yourself to anyone.’

  ‘I’ve given up comparing myself, Kate.’ Scott took a deep, visible breath. ‘Number two is fine with me.’

  Heart. Breaking.

  ‘You’re not number two. Not with me, Scott.’

  ‘Not yet. But give it time. Someone else will come along. Someone older, like that Phillip guy. Someone smarter, like Hugo. Someone not as stitched-up and closed-off and conservative, like Brodie. That’s why you danced with him. Why you went sailing with him. I’ll bet you even told him about your custody case.’

  She was silent.

  ‘Did you, Kate?’ he asked, and she heard the edge of danger in his voice.

  ‘I don’t talk about my cases. Not in…in detail.’

  ‘Obfuscation? How very…legal.’ He shook his head, disgusted.

  ‘You sound like my mother. She really would like you, Scott.’

  ‘Did you tell him, Kate? It’s a simple question—one of those simple questions you say you don’t have a problem with.’