He rose between her thighs, rolling his fingers—slicked with her cream—over her clit as he did so. Readying to unzip his fly and claim her totally. Readying to possess her to the fullest.
The moon slipped behind a cloud, throwing them into darker shadows.
And to their right, a brilliant white flash detonated.
Lachlan reared backward. “What the fuck?”
The flash fired again, a second before a male voice muttered “fuck” from the trees near the bleachers.
Cold fury punched into Lachlan. He swung his stare to Cameron’s face. Found confusion etched there. Confusion and fear.
And once again, the flash fired.
Oh God, no.
The dismayed thought had barely finished forming in Cameron’s head when Lachlan leapt to his feet.
He turned and ran for the tree line, fists bunched, body leaning into a sprint. A shadow bolted from behind the closest tree, a shadow the size of a man.
“Finally fucking a model, ‘eh McDermott?” the man-shaped shadow shouted. The flash fired again, farther away this time, but still Cameron flinched. “Just like your old man now, right?”
Cameron’s mouth turned dry. She scrambled to her feet, snatching her top from where it lay in a crumpled mound of silver silk as she did so. The moon picked that moment to escape the blanket of the clouds, bathing Lachlan and the fleeing photographer in pale light.
The paparazzo was stumbling over the grassy area between soccer field and car park, throwing the pursing Lachlan backward glances even as he continued to take photos. The click of the camera’s shutter sounded like a scream in the night, although Cameron doubted any shots the paparazzo fired would garner anything by blurred smudges of movement. But that wasn’t the point.
They’d been photographed. Making love on a public soccer field. Her and Lachlan. The country’s most powerful businessman and the ex-model who’d dropped out of existence.
Her stomach rolled, sick tension knotting inside her. Oh God, the media was going to have a wet dream over this.
Unless the photographer hadn’t captured anything. Was that possible?
“Yeah, right,” she snarled, shucking her shirt over her head and down her torso to cover her breasts, breasts so recently worshipped by Lachlan’s lips and tongue and teeth.
Had the paparazzo captured that? How long had the guy been there before the moon went behind the clouds and his autoflash fired?
Cameron’s stomach rolled again. How could she have been so foolish? She knew Lachlan was a target for the press. She knew that.
And still she’d let him make love to her. Almost make love to her. And it wasn’t Lachlan that had stripped her shirt from her body. It had been her. It wasn’t Lachlan that had begged for more. It had been her. Oh God, if the photographer’s flash hadn’t fired what else would he have photographed? And worse still, who would he sell the images to first? How long before they found their way onto the net? How much longer after that before they graced the front pages of newspapers around the world?
The crunch of heavy feet on grass made her start. She blinked, hugging herself as Lachlan stormed back toward her. Even in the darkness she could see the rage in his face. The icy contempt and disgusted fury.
“Did you…” She bit back the question before it could finish forming. It was a stupid question. The paparazzi knew how to get away. How to escape a furious target was an inherent talent. It went hand in hand with how to be a low-life scum feeding on another’s right to privacy.
Lachlan’s nostrils flared. He stopped a few feet away from her, jaw bunched. He didn’t look at her. Icy rage radiated from him, a menacing storm that made Cameron’s already knotted stomach twist.
“What the hell was I thinking?” The words fell from his lips in a flat grunt. His hands didn’t so much as drag through his hair, but gouge through it.
Cameron licked her lips. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight. “Do you know who it was?”
Unlike her previous question, this one wasn’t stupid. The Sydney paparazzi were a small band of carrion feeders. Those who were exposed to their particular talents grew to recognize them.
“A prick called Holston.”
Cameron bit back a groan. Carl Holston, Sydney’s most notorious paparazzo. The guy had been around even in Kole’s days, climbing trees into people’s backyards, following them into doctors’ surgeries, hanging outside their children’s school all in the hope of catching that one photo he could sell for thousands. There were even rumours he’d attempted to muscle his way into the private funeral of Nick Blackthorne’s parents in the hopes of scoring a shot of the grieving singer.
She licked her lips again, studying Lachlan’s face. “Can you do anything to stop the images being released?”
The laugh Lachlan barked out was devoid of mirth. “You truly have been out of this world for a while haven’t you, Kole?”
Cameron blanched at the name. Or maybe it was at the cold contempt in the dark eyes that cut through her. “Excuse me?”
He shook his head, turning away from her again. “I might run just about every damn newspaper and television network worth anything in the western world, but I don’t have power over the internet.”
She shook her own head. “I didn’t mean—”
“Damn it.” He tore his fingers through his hair once more. “This is why I never let myself lose control.”
The statement was like a physical slap. Sharp and stinging. Cameron blinked, a numb pressure closing around her chest. “This? You mean being caught by a paparazzo?”
He didn’t answer, his stare fixed on the other side of the soccer field.
Cameron’s stomach flip-flopped. She narrowed her eyes, the pressure on her chest growing cold. “Ah, you mean fucking a model, don’t you? The famous Lachlan McDermott Rule, no models allowed.”
When he still remained silent, she placed her hands on her hips. “Well, isn’t it a good thing you weren’t.” His stare slid to her and she lifted one eyebrow, giving him an expression she knew was sarcastic. And very, very Kole. “Fucking a model, that is. You only had your fingers buried in an ex-model’s cunt.”
His fists bunched at her crude statement. She didn’t care. “Of course, being photographed doing the nasty with an ex-model will only further cement the fact you are the epitome of an Alpha male, won’t it, Mr. McDermott? Especially one not photographed for sixteen years.” She gave him a cold smile. “Aren’t you lucky.”
“Are you finished?” His voice cut the night like an icy blade. His eyes were flinty.
She shifted her weight, assuming a stance that left her Kole expression for shame. The stance just about every woman the world over used when they wanted to project an air of bored indifference. On a model of Kole’s caliber, even if she was unpracticed, it was caustic. Inside however, Cameron felt sick. Sick and ashamed. Her own shock at being caught by the paparazzo had given away to disbelief at Lachlan’s callous reaction. That she’d let herself believe he was something other than an arrogant McDermott dismayed her. Her self-imposed exile had done her no favours it seemed. She was still a victim of her naivety and trust. “Yes,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “And I’m sorry I even started.”
He narrowed those flinty eyes of his. “Started what exactly? You’ve been in my face since before the party, putting it out there. Doing everything in your power to make me want you. The whole sex-kitten act, followed by the seductress, the vixen and now, out here on the soccer field, the sweet almost innocent woman. One of them was bound to work. Of course, it was the one right out in the open, wasn’t it? And Holston just happened to know where we were…” His Adam’s apple jerked up and down his throat. “What? You decided it was time for a come-back and figured a sex scandal was the best way to kick your career into first gear?” He paused, a chilling stillness falling over his body. “Or were you hoping to snare yourself a piece of the McDermott empire? Perhaps hook a potential husband?”
It was his last ins
ult that set Cameron moving. Never had she been consumed with such nauseous shock. Nor scalding anger. She walked past him. Without a word. Without a glance. Just walked past him, utterly thankful for the family genes that gave her long, long legs. It meant she could be rid of him so much quicker.
Her fingers were wrapping the driver’s side door handle of her Mini by the time he caught up with her, but she didn’t stop. Not when he growled her name, not when he called her Kole either. She pulled open the door and flung herself behind the wheel, the jingle of the car keys hitting her knee the mellifluous song of angels. He’d left them in the ignition. When they’d first arrived, a lifetime ago, Lachlan had left them in the ignition, too eager to race out onto the field and lull her into a false sense of deluded security.
He had accused her of acting a role to get what she wanted? Huh, he was just as guilty.
“Cameron.”
She didn’t bother to check where he was before yanking the door closed. Served him right if he lost a finger. Nor did she let herself believe the sudden doubt in his voice. She grabbed at her keys and rammed them clockwise, her unshod feet working the pedals like a pro. She knew her car, damn him. And she knew how best to work it to get away from him as fast she could.
Long legs and a perfectly tuned engine. That’s all she needed at this point in time. Not an arrogant, self-important, narcissistic media mogul. Long legs, a perfectly tuned engine and a locked driver’s side door.
A sharp knock on the window told her the locked door had been inspired. She jerked her stare to the right, her belly clenching at the sight of Lachlan standing on the other side of the glass. If she’d heard confused regret in his voice earlier, there was no sign of it on his face.
She ground her teeth, shifted the Mini into gear and then wound down her window, fixing him with a level look. “You know, you may be the most amazing lover I’ve ever had, but you’re also a wanker. I liked you better when you forget that’s the way you’re expected to behave.”
And before he could reply, before he could say a word to make her doubt herself, she flattened her right foot to the accelerator, pulled her left foot from the clutch and tore out of the car park, her tyres spewing a cloud of smoke and dust behind her.
Chapter Six
She refused to look in her rearview mirror. She refused to cry. She refused to think about the man she’d left behind in the car park.
She refused all these things. It wasn’t tears stinging her eyes as she sped through the quiet streets. It wasn’t. It wasn’t Lachlan invading her mind with words that made her gasp with desire and ache with grief as she shifted gears and rode the accelerator. It wasn’t. Be damned if she was going to let Lachlan McDermott destroy what little pride she had left.
And still, the drive home was a blur. If she’d stopped at red traffic lights, she didn’t remember. It wasn’t until she was standing in her living room, staring at the carcass of her latest mechanical restoration project—a classic Triumph motorcycle—and all its cleaned bits neatly waiting reassemble that she realised she was in fact home.
Home. The secluded single-story house surrounded by ancient fig trees, lush grevilleas and wild jasmine in a quite backstreet overlooking Sydney Harbour. Paid for in full sixteen years ago with the money from her aborted modeling career. Bam, one payment and it was Kole’s.
Kole’s. Bought for with Kole’s money, decorated with Kole’s money, hidden from the public’s eyes with Kole’s money. Hiding her, Cameron, behind high fences, thick bushes and a security system worthy of the Queen of England.
A lifestyle forced on her by a man who’d wanted more from Kole than he was paid to.
Cameron dropped into the closest armchair and pressed her hands to her face. Why was she thinking about this now? Surely she had other things to be freaking out about? For example, the way Lachlan McDermott had ripped out her heart and ground it under his boot?
Heart? Was she so beguiled by the soccer-ball-kicking Lachlan she’d gone and fallen in love with him in amongst all the back-and-forth kicks? The man who had not only accused her of being a liar, but a conniving slut?
She let out a ragged sigh and slumped back into the chair. Was she a conniving slut? She’d willingly slipped into Kole the second she’d come face-to-face with Lachlan as easy as slipping into stilettos and black lace knickers. In fact, she’d used Kole to the same effect—a provocative covering intended to arouse and tease.
Did that not make her just as guilty as Lachlan of subterfuge and deception?
“Maybe.” The words tasted bitter on Cameron’s tongue. She let out a sigh and combed her fingers through her hair. If nothing else, this surreal night had proved two things. One, now she’d worn Kole again, she knew she was done with her. Kole, the sassy, brazen supermodel was dead.
And two?
Cameron snorted. “I am so not going to any more parties.”
With another thoroughly unlady-like snort, let alone un-model like, she pushed herself to her feet and headed for her bedroom. She needed a shower. She needed to wash the remnants of Kole from her person—the sultry makeup she never wore anymore and the hair product she hadn’t used since her last Kole photo shoot. She needed to wash it away along with the lingering scent of Lachlan McDermott clinging to her body.
The water was hot needles of near-scalding torture. She scrubbed away what was left of her makeup and washed her hair, twice, lathering the cherry-blossom scented shampoo in with fierce savagery. The suds streamed down her shoulder, her back, her butt, following the curve of each cheek and trickling into the crevice between them. Cameron closed her eyes at the delicious sensation on her sex, her nipples pinching into tight points. Damn it, when the hell had a simple shower become so arousing?
Since all she could think about was Lachlan? Even if she was pretending it wasn’t?
Cameron pressed her forehead to the tiled wall, the cool surface a biting chill on her flushed skin. “That’s it. The next time I see Lil, I’m punching her.”
The promise made her snort. It wasn’t Lillian’s fault Cameron had built Lachlan up in her mind to be something he wasn’t. It wasn’t Lillian’s fault Cameron had strutted about being Kole again. It certainly wasn’t Lillian’s fault she’d freaked out at the party when the jerk with the Porsche had grabbed her butt. And it sure as hell wasn’t Lillian’s fault Cameron had gone and played soccer with Lachlan in the middle of the night.
With another snort, Cameron killed the water, stepped from the cubicle and snatched the closet towel from the rack as she did so.
It was time to move on. Time to get over the whole farce of the evening and move on. Even if Lachlan wasn’t a grade-A jerk, there was no happy ending to this tale. They could light the sky with their sexual fireworks and fill the air with their laughter and she still wouldn’t be with him. She couldn’t.
Because the Lachlan McDermott who kicked a ball with her on the soccer field, who made her feel so wonderfully happy and content and alive came in a package deal with the media mogul Lachlan McDermott—a Lachlan who would always be a target of the paparazzi and other media rivals. He could issue a command to his staff declaring any harassment of he and Cameron grounds for immediate dismissal and it still wouldn’t save them. He may be one of the world’s most powerful media magnates, but he wasn’t the only one. Which made him off-limits. She couldn’t go back to a life in the limelight and he couldn’t escape it.
The simple fact she’d even harbored such a ridiculous notion that they had a chance at something showed just how moronic she’d been. How deluded.
She would weather this storm in the best way she knew—staying inside and completing the restoration of the Triumph. And ordering lots of pizza online.
That was the life she lived now, the life she wanted, the life she enjoyed.
She would hole up here in her home, where not even her neighbours knew of her past existence, and wait until Lachlan stepped out with a new potential love interest. Then the focus would be on that woman and not Came
ron.
Letting out a ragged sigh, far too aware of the pain in her chest at the idea of Lachlan with another woman, she crossed to her bed and flopped onto it. A smart plan? No. A proactive, assertive plan. Not really. Her only plan?
With another sigh, Cameron closed her eyes. “Yes. And how sad and pathetic is that?”
Very sad.
And very, very pathetic.
The taxi smelt of stale cigarette smoke, old farts and curry. Old curry. If Lachlan wasn’t so damned pissed off, he’d let the driver have a piece of his mind. But he was pissed off. Big time. None the least because he couldn’t get his damn lawyer on the phone.
Stabbing in Mac’s cell number for what felt like the hundredth time, he listened to his best friend’s voicemail tell him, again, Mackenzie Harris was unable to take his call and to leave his number. Again.
Lachlan ground his teeth, his grip on his smartphone growing painful. “Where the fuck are you, Harris? It’s time for you to earn that exorbitant income I pay you.”
He disconnected the line and glared out the grimy front window of the cab. It had taken too damn long to hail the thing. Few taxi drivers were willing to venture into the burbs in the wee hours of the morning. Most preferred to stick to the areas overflowing with bars and pubs and nightclubs, assured of a fare. Driving away from guaranteed money wasn’t smart. Of course, that meant Lachlan had been walking for quite some time before the one he’d called for had finally arrived.
And you didn’t call your McDermott Media Corp driver because…?
Because Lachlan wasn’t a douche. Pulling the man out of bed at two a.m. just because Lachlan had been too stupid to keep control wasn’t called for. Besides, there would be enough talk about the night soon enough without adding being stranded in an empty car park in North Ryde.
Dark anger surged through Lachlan at the thought and he turned to stare out the side window. By now, Holston had probably uploaded the images he’d captured and was on the phone to his usual buyers. Within the next few hours, images of Lachlan and Cameron together would go global. Unless Lachlan could kill them.
Twister: Party Games, Book 3 Page 8
