by JC Harroway
CEO Orla Hendricks has a very sexy proposition for devil-may-care billionaire Cameron North in this third installment of The Billionaires Club quartet—six weeks to help her discover her wild side!
Handsome young men blowing their newfound billions in a decadent frenzy? I’ve seen plenty of them at the überexclusive M Club. But there’s something different about Cameron North. Tall, toned and tanned, he looks like he’d be more comfortable on a surfboard than in the boardroom... And imagining him without the constricting tux is waking up my long-neglected sexy side.
It isn’t long before I’m getting my wish as we explore the instant chemistry between us. But one night with him just makes me want more. So I give him a proposition—six weeks of hedonistic sex and glamorous destinations, then we’ll go our separate ways. He agrees—as long as I agree to give him control of our fun...
But as we jet from casinos to horse races to masquerade galas, Cam is becoming more than just a sexy diversion. When the six amazing weeks are up, Cam makes his own proposition. But how can I risk my heart on the only thing I’ve ever failed at—a relationship?
Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.
Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!
Lifelong romance addict JC Harroway lives in New Zealand. Writing feeds her very real obsession with happy endings and the endorphin rush they create. You can follow her at jcharroway.com, Facebook.com/jcharroway, Instagram.com/jcharroway and Twitter.com/jcharroway.
If you liked The Proposition, why not try
Her Intern by Anne Marsh
Her Every Fantasy by Zara Cox
Double Dare You by Cara Lockwood
And look for other DARE books by JC Harroway
Billionaire Bachelors
Forbidden to Want
Forbidden to Taste
Forbidden to Touch
Discover more at Harlequin.com
THE BILLIONAIRES CLUB
Exclusive. Elite. Always discreet.
Welcome to the Billionaires Club! Join the members of this elite club—Ash, Seb, Orla and Imogen—as they get up to exciting, sinfully sexy and downright dirty naughtiness at exclusive, international and glamorous events. Let the debauchery begin!
Have you received your invitation yet?
Enter the world of the Billionaires Club:
The Debt by Jackie Ashenden
The Risk by Caitlin Crews
The Proposition by JC Harroway
The Deal by Clare Connelly
Discover more at Harlequin.com
THE PROPOSITION
JC Harroway
To the DARE team for their vision, guidance and support—I have the best job writing these stories!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Excerpt from Her Intern by Anne Marsh
CHAPTER ONE
Orla
I TAKE THE first delicious and well-earned sip of my drink with a sigh, my lip curling with satisfaction as the decadent flavour of the Macallan Scotch glides over my tongue. Not because I drink a lot of the spirit, or alcohol in general, but because it’s a Scottish single malt, and therefore considered inferior by my Irish-born father. Even at the age of thirty-six, I feel the need to break free from his expectations.
The oppressive feeling that’s followed me since I arrived in Monaco to pursue my latest client, Jensen’s, weighs down on me once more, as if the air itself is too heavy. My intel that Jensen’s are shopping around, sniffing at my father’s door, adds to the pressure. Perhaps I’m burning out, pushing myself too hard to be the best, to outmanoeuvre the man who considered me unworthy to take the helm of our family business. But this deal has too much riding on it for me to blow it now; better to back off, to let the prospective client feel as if they’ve been wooed, but not cornered.
My fingers toy with my glass, slowly spinning it on the sleek and shiny bar. I look around the dimly lit intimacy of the casino, trying to shake off any thought of work, more determined than ever to embrace a change of pace for the evening. That’s why I’m here, dressed to the nines, pretending to enjoy myself at Monaco’s most glamorous club; why I left my sumptuous suite in the hotel upstairs despite its stunning views of Port Hercule in the dusk, a million lights dancing on the gently bobbing Mediterranean Sea. To let off a little long-overdue steam after a day of meetings, of waiting for the email that will tell me I’ve won Jensen’s’ business from under my father’s nose.
I clink the ice in my glass, smirking at my pathetic efforts to cut loose from working, which is pretty much my entire life—a single-drink party for one.
Wow, Orla. You really know how to let your hair down...
Ignoring my snarkier side, and to distract me from ruminating on the high stakes of the Jensen’s deal, I slide my stare around the casino, scanning the tables beyond the bar while I contemplate a tame gamble to liven up my rare night off. A small bet won’t hurt, even if it goes against every cell of my venture capitalist’s brain to risk money on a whim of chance. But it’s exactly what I need—a release valve, a way to break free from my own head, my own high expectations, my endless desire to succeed.
A distraction.
I sigh, disgusted with myself. It’s been ten years since I was passed over for my younger and less qualified brother. Ten years of hard work, one successful global investment firm and one marriage casualty later and I’m still trying to prove him wrong. My father, that is.
My roaming attention is drawn to the group of excited onlookers around one of the roulette tables. Someone must be about to either lose or double a significant chunk of his net worth on a single spin of the wheel for the game to attract such interest. We’re all members of the M Club here, all wealthy enough for an invitation-only membership and therefore used to top-shelf hedonistic pursuits, so this big roller must be something else.
I click my tongue against my teeth at such reckless behaviour. To me money is sacrosanct—a means to live on my own terms and a marker of success beyond being from one of Sydney’s most affluent families. My entire livelihood is based on how much wealth I can generate for my clients, who trust me with their investments.
I crane my neck despite myself, curiosity winning over the distaste of witnessing someone about to gamble with daredevil abandon, if the crowd of onlookers is any indication, catching only a glimpse of the back of a blond head. His hair is a little long for the usual immaculate clientele of the M Club, but whoever it is who’s providing this evening’s entertainment, at least he’s enjoying himself and thrilling the crowd. At least he’s not moping at the bar with a barely touched drink, thinking about work. At least he knows how to have fun outside of endlessly striving to prove something to a father who happily overlooked his daughter in favour of having a son at the helm.
I finger the two-carat diamond stud in my ear, my mind dragged from the audacious stranger. The earrings were a twenty-fifth birthday gift from my father—a gift I consider a consolation prize. A gift I wear every day as a talisman, a reminder that what I’ve achieved in the ten years since, I’ve done alone and in spite of my archaic, misogynist father. A fresh layer of impotence sett
les over my skin, a familiar layer of prickly heat, one that drives me to be better, to aim higher, to prove him wrong...
The second sip of my Scotch fails to deliver the escape I crave. Now all I need to complete my misery is to ruminate on my failed marriage to Mark...
I release a sigh. For fuck’s sake, can’t I spend one evening having fun?
I glance back at the roulette table, more in need of a distraction than ever now that my thoughts have turned maudlin and focused on my greatest failure in life. The crowd around the man who seems to be causing the casino security team to sweat inside their pristine white collars parts, gifting me a full, uninterrupted view of the high-stakes gambler.
In the same heartbeat he looks up from the table, the chip he’s twirling between his fingers stalling as our eyes collide for a split second.
My breath catches. I slide my parched tongue over my lips, seeking the remnants of the sip of Scotch to steady my pulse at the violent jolt of attraction. This place is crammed to the gills with wealthy, beautiful and successful people, but this guy...
Harshly masculine, from the cut of his square, stubble-covered jaw to his body’s uninterested lounge in the chair, he’s hotter than Hades, explaining at least half—the female half—of the attention he’s assembled. But he’s younger than I assumed—mid-to-late twenties—young, in fact, to be a member of the M Club, which is exclusively for billionaires.
Too young for me. But I did ask for a distraction, and they don’t come more eye-catching than a gorgeous man in his prime.
My finger traces the rim of my glass as I watch. He’s focused once more on the spin of the wheel, and yet I can’t drag my greedy eyes away, even though I’ve seen this kind of display before, met his type before. Playing hard and fast, they never last long as M Club members, no doubt blowing money they have no idea how to master, allowing it to own them until they lose every cent and their membership is delicately, but adamantly, rescinded.
But despite his flagrant display, my body warms, the delicious stirring of interest kicking up my pulse as I watch the latest easy-on-the-eye hotshot from my vantage point at the bar. From his appearance, the way he’s flouting the strict dress code of tuxedos for men and evening wear for women with his absence of a bow tie and his unbuttoned shirt collar, I’m surprised he was even admitted to the casino. Somehow, and for reasons I can’t fathom, his devil-may-care attitude adds to his appeal. My existence must be particularly dull at the moment for me to be impressed by someone who, on the surface, seems to be intent on making himself considerably poorer. After all, I, and most of the people in this casino, are in the money-making, not money-losing, business.
The rebel lifts a glass of amber liquid to his mouth and I’m caught off guard anew by his hands: the manly size of them—serious, capable hands that look more accustomed to manual labour than they do to running an empire from a smartphone as do most of the M Club’s members.
Teasing fingers of intrigue dance down my spine. What would those hands feel like holding my face as we kissed? Rough or smooth? Hesitant or demanding?
In unison the crowd around him sighs, snapping me from lusty fantasies about a younger stranger and informing me that his winning streak has dried up. But not a flicker of emotion crosses his handsome face. With less interest than if he’d tossed away a soiled napkin, he slides a stack of chips forward, placing another bet seemingly at random.
Then our eyes collide again.
I freeze, too startled to look away, although I should in case my intrigue is written all over my face, but I’m too fascinated by his expression of both boredom and challenge to do anything other than gape.
His eyes—I can’t tell from this distance whether they’re blue or grey—travel my face, dip lower and then bounce back up. In that second I know he’s appraising me as I am him, and by appraising I mean assessing availability clues, scanning for a wedding ring and generally lusting.
And why shouldn’t I lust? My sexy side is long overdue an outing; in fact, she’s probably desperate to break free, she’s been so neglected recently. This guy certainly looks as if he could bring a nun out of her shell...
I smooth a hand over my sleek chignon, adjusting a hairpin that’s slipped a fraction in a largely unconscious gesture.
The stranger’s expression shifts again, his lip curling with mild derision, telling me that he, with his overly long hair and his disregard for the club dress code, very much sees that I’m exactly the type of member the M Club was created for—wealthy, demanding, with an appreciation for the finer things in life. But rather than my membership earning his respect, I can tell he’s somehow judging, as if he thinks he has me all figured out.
I stare a little harder, sit a little straighter, spurred on by defiance and used to fighting my own corner against the men in my life. His mouth stretches into a sinfully sexy and lazy grin that seems to burn through my designer silk dress as if it’s made of cobwebs.
Perhaps professional exhaustion and sexual frustration is messing with me, because he’s definitely interested, despite his judgement, our age gap and our apparent differences.
For a split second, danger and excitement zaps through my bloodstream as if he’s delivered a potent shot of the Macallan directly to my system from across the room with that seductive smile. But before I can suck in a calming breath, he looks away.
My pulse plummets. What was I thinking?
I spin back to the bar on my stool, trying to shake off the uncharacteristic bout of sexual curiosity for a younger man. Curiosity for any man since my divorce is a rarity. If I’m not working or travelling I’m thinking about work. Yes, I wanted to blow off some steam, but not with his kind of distraction. I need something more forgettable, less consuming and more...fleeting.
The idea of a horizontal distraction takes root as I tap one fingernail against my glass. Why not? It would be more fun than drinking alone at the bar. I dressed and came downstairs in search of a change from the norm, a break from the long hours I habitually put in, a way to stop myself pushing my latest deal into the hands of my main competitor—my father’s company.
With the reminder that, in my father’s eyes, and despite my having built my own international firm, I’ll never be quite good enough. I’m back to square one. Instead of celebrating the successes which have brought me this far, I’m mired in the two great failures of my life. I take another sip of Scotch, fighting the bitterness I usually harness for motivation. Hell, my entire marriage was squeezed into an unforgiving schedule of meetings, world travel and time zones, my workaholic nature almost certainly the reason it failed. Another thing to credit my father with. If he’d been a little more emotionally present, a little less professionally demanding, maybe I wouldn’t be so distant, so goal orientated, so driven. Perhaps then I might have given my marriage the attention it deserved.
Come on, pull it together.
I’m not looking for another doomed relationship. I’m not looking for a relationship, full stop. Just an anonymous night of pleasure...
I look up from my drink again, scanning the patrons around me for someone more forgettable than the roulette rebel. Someone my age. Someone safe.
Then everything happens in a frenzied blur.
A commotion breaks out at a nearby blackjack table. A woman cries for help and before I’ve even swivelled in my seat, my sexy stranger dives from his laid-back slouch and strides towards the woman’s husband, who is pale and sweaty and an alarming shade of grey.
While roulette guy commands what is clearly some sort of medical emergency—tossing off his jacket, crouching down and loosening the older man’s collar—an air of panic settles over the entire room. The man clutching his chest accepts some sort of tablet from his wife, popping it under his tongue, his colour improving almost immediately. Security rallies and within seconds the blackjack table has been cleared of players to afford some space and privacy, the club’
s in-house nurse is in attendance and an ambulance has been summoned.
I turn away, but from the corner of my eye I see roulette guy and the nurse help the man into a wheelchair and he’s wheeled from the casino, even managing a weak smile and handshake for his rescuer, who waves off the smattering of relieved applause around him as he scoops up his jacket. He returns to his table to collect his chips, passes an impressive stack to the croupier and saunters towards the bar.
A kind of forced normality returns to the room. The croupiers smile thin smiles as they resume games, the waitstaff clear already immaculate tables and members, myself included, breathe a sigh of relief that the drama was quickly and efficiently dealt with.
But then, this is the M Club.
I settle my own adrenaline surge with a shaky sip of Scotch. Then a male figure enters my peripheral vision, the space between us flooding with a spicy masculine scent and an almost palpable wall of testosterone.
I look up. Way up—sexy roulette guy is tall.
Grey—the eyes are grey. And, up close, searing and intense.
‘You look pale,’ he says, his confident voice distractingly deep and resonant and exactly how I imagined it would sound. ‘Let me buy you a brandy—it’s better for the nerves than whatever it is you’re drinking there.’
I detect an Aussie twang to the accent. Although my private education rubbed the corners from my own lilt, I still have an ear for a fellow Australian.
I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to rush to the ladies’ room and check if, in fact, I am pale. ‘I’m good with my Scotch, thanks.’
As if deaf to my assertion, roulette guy signals the barman. ‘Brandy for everyone, please—the good stuff.’ He adds, although he should know the good stuff is all they sell at the M Club. Of course he would shout the entire casino a drink. The stack of chips I saw him tip the croupier with moments ago is more than most people will bet in an entire evening of entertainment.
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