Love. His heart expanded in his chest. “It feels like that for you, too?”
“Yes, it does.” As she took the first sip of champagne, a spray of lights flashed in front of them, followed by a heavy boom.
“It’s midnight,” she whispered, setting her glass on the table. She slid over and rested her thighs across his. The tops of her stockings peeked out from under her dress, and he slipped his hand under the hem, onto smooth bare skin. More fireworks went off, the flashes and thunderous booms filling his living room.
He pulled her onto his lap, and she laughed as her mouth met his. She kissed him, her lips soft and hungry. He’d ached for these lips every day since they’d left Hawaii. Now he closed his eyes and kissed her, touched her, telling her in every way just how much he’d missed her.
“Happy New Year, Ruby,” he whispered in her ear. “Let me give you everything you want this year.”
“This is already perfect,” she said. “Everything about this is perfect.”
* * *
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by Rachael Stewart
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PROLOGUE
CHRIST, HE LOOKS HAPPY. And ‘happy’ isn’t generally a word that comes to mind when I describe my twin. Dedicated. Focussed. Intent. Determined.
But right now, looking at him with his bride and their son—a nephew I didn’t even know I had until a week or so ago—I feel as though I’m seeing Dim for the first time.
And why?
Because he’s married?
Jesus. I thought we were on the same side of the fence there.
Marriage is shit.
Love is shit.
There’s no such thing as happily-ever-after.
I feel my smile dropping, a grim frown taking its place. It hardly says congratulations, and yet I can’t help it.
We are both products of the same upbringing, and we’ve both always laughed—scorned, even—as our various friends took the plunge and dived into a life of matrimony. And we’ve met each other’s eyes with a knowing look when, within eighteen months or so, divorce bells have rung.
Please. Marriage is for—what? Fools? Because Dimitrios is no fool and, looking at him and Annie, I feel—something. Not a change of heart, exactly, but a belief in hearts, and their power to open to each other. There’s love between them, and there’s love for their son.
Except love doesn’t exist. My dad taught me that—taught both of us. It was a lesson I learned at a young age and it’s stuck with me all my life. Love is a lie, and the flip side of believing yourself in love is inevitable pain. So what the hell is Dimitrios doing? Why would anyone walk into that willingly?
I force my smile back into place just as Annie’s eyes slide towards me. She returns my smile, and then I look away again, guilty for the cynical direction of my thoughts. If Dimitrios is happy in this life—if marriage is for him—then I have no choice but to support him, even if I believe he’s making a monumental mistake.
Give me a choice of lovers in every city in which we have business, and never more than two nights with each, and I’m the happiest I’ll ever be.
CHAPTER ONE
‘MACALLAN, ON THE ROCKS.’ I tap my freshly manicured fingers against the top of the polished bar, sliding onto one of the stools, not daring to meet my own expression in the bevelled-edged mirror that hangs behind the service area.
I probably look exactly how I feel.
Frazzled and cross.
Fuck my fucking family.
I breathe out slowly, so my dark side-swept fringe lifts a little, landing with a soft thud against my brow. Why did I let my sister talk me into this?
‘You can’t not come home for Christmas, Jessica. It’ll kill Mum.’
Yeah, yeah. I’m a sucker and it’s Christmas—a time for family togetherness and all that schmaltzy warm, fuzzy crap that I usually love, but, ugh! This is the last place I want to be but, just like the good daughter I’m doing my best not to be, I stupidly boarded that plane and came back to Singapore. Except one hour with my parents, my perfect older sister and my sister’s creepy, sleazy, perfect-on-paper husband has reminded me exactly why I’ve made a life for myself in London. And despite the guilt trip my family tries to lay on me, London always will be home. It’s where I spent the first ten years of my life, and it’s where I feel most ‘me’. Plus, when I’m on the other side of the world I only have to see my family a few times a year.
Like this—Christmas.
The bartender puts the Scotch down in front of me and I nod in thanks, lifting my phone to indicate I’ll tap it as payment. He hands over the machine and without looking at the price I press my phone to the device. Several email notifications are sitting on my screen. I’ll check those in a minute. Once I’ve calmed down and got some fresh air.
Well, as fresh as it can be in a bar. For the first time since walking in, I let my eyes drift around this place. It’s long been a favourite of mine and as such is haunted with memories—good and bad. I’ve had a lot of important conversations here. Not to mention that time with sleaze ball Simon, aka my brother-in-law, when he calmly suggested we might like to have sex, you know, no big deal. And of course he did it in a way that almost sounded like a joke, because that’s a skill serial philanderers have; but I knew he wasn’t joking. Bastard. I grip my Scotch as though it’s a lifeline, lifting it to my lips.
The familiar pungency warms me immediately.
Heaven.
Relief.
I’m going to be okay. This is only two weeks.
Two weeks! Why did I come so early? Why didn’t I just wait until December twenty-third?
Because of Dad’s birth
day—in a couple of days. It’s a milestone—though he’ll never admit that to anyone outside the family. I think my dad harbours some kind of fantasy that, despite having been at the helm of several blue-chip multinational corporations for the past four decades, and having a daughter who’s thirty-two—Jemima—and me, twenty-eight, people might still believe he’s only fifty.
‘You’re about to strangle that bloody glass, you know.’ A deep, husky Australian accent has almost the same effect on my body as the Scotch. Warm and soothing, it reaches inside me, spreading warmth and pleasure like smoke.
I tilt my head slowly. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see. This is a pretty prestigious institution so not exactly a beach bum, but the only Australian men I’ve ever known all boasted a certain air of salty, sandy dishevelment—just the way I like it. This man is not that.
In fact, this man is...
My eyes widen as realisation dawns.
‘Zach Papandreo?’
His laugh is just as husky and sensual as his opening line would have suggested. His grin sends shards of awareness through me.
‘Have we met?’
‘No. Let’s just say your reputation precedes you.’
‘That doesn’t seem fair.’
‘You think there’s something wrong with your reputation?’
His grin widens and he stands up so I get to appreciate the full six and a bit feet of him, his lean yet muscular frame in a dark grey suit with a blue and white striped shirt. No tie—the top two buttons are undone, revealing his neck and a hint of coarse chest hair. My stomach flips.
‘Depends.’ He lifts his shoulders as he moves to the stool opposite me, pointing at my drink then holding up a finger to indicate he’d like one of what I’m having. A quick glance shows me the bartender has seen and is already complying.
‘So?’
I’m a sucker for male fragrance. I don’t mean a department-store overly manufactured smell. I don’t like men who are too fussy and vain. I like men who put a dab of something on in the morning, something masculine and woody, and then don’t think of it again, so it mingles with their own hormones, and Zach Papandreo has got some kind of magical smell. I try not to breathe him in but there’s some serious testosterone at play here. And is it any wonder?
Apart from being one half of a global media-mogul team—he and his twin brother own everything from television stations to radio networks to newspapers, magazines, websites, blogs and news apps all over the world—he is an undeniable playboy. Playboy? What am I, my mother? Try man whore. I don’t mean that with even a hint of disapproval. He’s renowned for his business nous and an aggressive investment strategy but, more than that, this half of the Papandreo brothers is renowned for the speed with which he goes through beautiful, glamorous lovers.
I’m not sure if he reads gossip blogs—I don’t—but the app and online community I founded a few years back—She-Shakes—seems to get a lot of Zach Papandreo memes posted in there—shirtless ones get the most clicks. And I can see why.
Va-va-voom.
The bartender delivers Zach’s drink; I lift mine towards it. ‘Jessica Johnson.’
He grins again, clinking our glasses together. ‘I feel like I’d remember meeting you, but your name’s familiar.’
My smile briefly falters. ‘You’re probably thinking of my father—Clive Johnson?’
‘Him I’ve heard of. I’ve met him a few times actually.’
No surprises there. Dad and this guy are cut from the same cloth and undoubtedly move in the same circles. I turn away, taking a drink of my Scotch until it burns all the way down.
‘But no, I’m sure it’s you I’m thinking of.’
I purse my lips. ‘Really? Is that a line or are you being genuine?’
He laughs again and my whole body responds. My nipples tighten against the silk of my bra, my stomach clenches and heat fires in my veins.
‘What do you do?’
I know he means for work, but I can’t help flirting. I lean a little closer, my eyes locked to his in a way that is laced with suggestion. ‘Do?’ I sip my Scotch, not dropping my gaze.
His laugh is just a short sound now, husky and showing he has heard every hint of my suggestiveness and is returning it with his own.
I smile and lean back, more confident. ‘I founded an online community, and a couple of years ago launched an app alongside it.’
He clicks his fingers. ‘For women. The one that helps with job prospects and the like. She—She something.’
He’s legitimately heard of me? ‘She-Shakes,’ I supply, surprised.
‘Right. You’re killing it.’
Pride hums inside me. It was a simple idea that kind of blew up into something much, much bigger. We’re practically global now; the biggest hurdle is finding the support structures in each region.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m serious. You work with women who are looking for jobs?’
I shake my head, brushing aside the over-simplification. ‘It’s so much more than that. We’re an all-service programme for women. Yes, we offer job-prospect advice including how to rewrite CVs, premarital financial counselling, post-marriage financial counselling.’ My lips twist cynically for a minute as I think of how many women use the latter service and how few the former. I see something spark in the depth of Zach’s eyes, as though he understands the slight scepticism that colours my words. ‘We help with salary negotiations and legal advice for all sorts of work-related situations.’
‘Impressive. And your user base?’
‘We have over five million clients worldwide.’
‘On a subscription service?’
I nod. ‘It’s a modest fee for what we offer and we make sure we offer a percentage of our enrolment free every year. This isn’t a money-making venture.’ I frown. ‘At least, it wasn’t intended to be.’
He laughs. ‘So what you’re saying is you’re making a shitload of money without meaning to?’
I sip my drink, not smiling. ‘I reinvest almost all of the profits into building the community.’
His eyes are serious as they hold mine. ‘You’re an altruist.’
‘And you’re a capitalist.’
‘You think you can’t be both?’
I lift my shoulders. ‘I’m not sure.’
He grins. ‘Nor am I.’ He chinks our glasses together once more, but this time he keeps his arm resting on the bar, creating a sort of frame around my body. I make no attempt to move away from him. I like being close—the intimacy warms me to the pit of my stomach.
‘And now you’re looking to sell?’
I lift a brow. ‘How do you know that?’
‘You’re in my wheelhouse.’ He wiggles his brows.
I’m not shy. Never have been, never will be. Shame briefly flashes in my belly because this is a trait I share with my father, and as much as possible I try to distance myself from the ways in which we’re similar.
On autopilot and instinct, I lift a finger to Zach’s chest, staring into the depths of his dark brown eyes. ‘And what exactly does “being in your wheelhouse” entail?’
Heat sears me. I feel it erupt between us, as though a blowtorch is aimed right at me.
‘I’m always looking for movers and shakers in the digital market.’
‘And you like the way I move and shake?’
He stares at me for a second then bursts out laughing. ‘You know how gross that would have sounded if I said it?’
I laugh right back. ‘Yeah, true.’
He sobers. ‘But you said it, so it was hot.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘No, you’re flirting, and you’re very good at it.’ More shame. So’s my dad, if his string of affairs is anything to go by. I push those thoughts aside once and for all, wondering if one day his ghost will cease to
haunt me.
Zach’s other hand, the one that’s not propped along the bar top, moves to my hip.
‘You’re sure we haven’t met before,’ he queries, moving so he can drink some Scotch. I smell a hint of it in the air between us, or maybe that’s my own desire clouding all my senses.
‘I think I’d remember that.’
‘Likewise.’ The word rumbles between us. ‘What brings you to Singapore?’
‘How do you know I don’t live here?’
‘Your accent.’
I lived in England for the first ten years of my life, then moved around depending on where Dad’s latest corporate conquest required; his last job—and a long-term mistress—are both here in Singapore.
‘You have an Australian accent but you live here.’
‘I spend time here,’ he says with a shrug. ‘I live all over.’
‘Ah. A man who refuses to be tied down. I hear that.’
He grins. ‘Being tied down is highly overrated.’
Our eyes meet in a sign of solidarity. ‘You’re preaching to the choir.’
‘Am I?’
My smile hides a multitude of hurts—hurts I’ve come to terms with over the years, but that doesn’t mean they’re not still lurking there. My father’s philandering, the way it felt to discover how routinely unfaithful he’d been to my mother, my brother-in-law’s attitudes to women—to think he could actually proposition me. The way I’d hurt the one man who’d ever loved me—I’d hurt Patrick so badly, just because I was careless. And the pain I’ve seen my mum and sister go through because of their marriages.
Who’d give up the freedom and independence of single life for the torment of a steady relationship?
I throw back the rest of my Scotch. ‘Putting down roots is my idea of hell.’
It didn’t used to be. As a kid dragged from one exclusive international private school to the next I used to desperately crave stability. I hated that Dad’s job meant we had to move so often. I hated making new friends then losing them again almost as quickly; I hated needing to learn new systems, routines, rhythms, hang-outs, but now I feel completely blessed. Give me a rucksack, three bars of Internet access and a phone charger and I could disappear for weeks.
Pure Satisfaction--A Hot Holiday Romance Page 17
