Forbidden

by Connelly, Clare

  I move quickly, back into the lounge area, where my dress has been cast aside. I lift it into place, eschewing underwear of any sort because I need to get the hell out of here. My bag is by the door. I catch my reflection as I stalk towards it and grimace. My hair is a wet curtain down my back and all my make-up has been kissed off, or wiped off on his sheets, or washed away in the shower. I look pale and haunted, like a wraith bent on destruction. Which I suppose I am.

  But leaving him without so much as a cursory explanation doesn’t feel right. As Manning pointed out, at least he had the decency to leave a goddamned note.

  I grimace and move back into the lounge, straining to hear the shower. Yes, it’s still going.

  I have time.

  There’s a pad on a side table, yet for the life of me I don’t see a pen. But Manning’s jacket is discarded over a chair and I know he always, without exception, keeps a pen in his top pocket. Just like his father.

  I reach into the fabric and remove the pen that I know will be there, uncapping it and hovering it over the paper for a moment, thinking of what to write.

  Now you know how it feels.

  The water has stopped. I have moments only.

  I replace the pen, but as I slip it into his pocket my fingers catch on something and I remove it with natural curiosity.

  It’s a ticket, torn to show it’s been used, and it’s for the performance I did tonight.

  Everything is sucked out of me. All my certainties disappear. Confusion reigns.

  He came?

  To see me?

  So why deny it? Why not just tell me?

  I grip the ticket in my fingertips, holding it tight, as though just by gripping it I can be tethered to reality and earth and life as I once knew it.

  ‘Baby? Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  His towel is wrapped low around his waist, a crisp white that shows the perfection of his tan and makes me ache for him anew. But desire is pushed to one side in the face of my confusion. Of not knowing.

  His eyes fall to my fingertips and I drop the ticket; it flutters to the floor, lying at my feet.

  Slowly he walks towards me, his lips a grim slash in his face.

  He looks at the ticket, and then at me, and then towards the table, where my note sits like a glaring red light.

  Surprise contorts his features briefly, and then he is a picture of control. He is the man I’ve always loved. Unyielding, determined.

  Manning Brown-Hadden at his finest.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘SO, WHAT…? THIS WAS revenge?’

  ‘You came to the concert?’ I volley back, my face feeling tight.

  His lips turn downwards. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’ It’s just a whisper. A sound of confusion. ‘Why?’ I ask again—louder, clearer.

  ‘Why do you think?’ There is a weariness to his confession.

  ‘I have no clue, Manning. You said you didn’t…’

  ‘I know.’ A muscle jerks at the base of his jaw, throbbing like the confusion that’s swirling in inside me.

  ‘You lied to me?’

  He dips his head forward. ‘I presumed it would stir things up if you knew.’

  ‘I don’t understand…’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ His eyes, when they latch onto mine, are loaded with desperate anguish. ‘Yes, you fucking do.’

  And his fingers lace into my hair, pulling me close. He presses his forehead to mine, our breath mingling, our eyes closed.

  ‘I don’t… You…’

  ‘I had to see you.’

  He cups my cheeks and I open my eyes to find he is staring at me.

  ‘I can see you from a distance, can’t I? I can want you from afar.’

  ‘You can see me up close, too,’ I whisper, haunted. ‘You can want me and have me now…’

  ‘You were about to walk out,’ he says softly. ‘Weren’t you?’

  I bite down on my lip, seeing now how juvenile my plan is. Seeing how futile, too, it is to hurt the one you love with such premeditation.

  ‘I…I was hurt. When you left.’

  ‘So you want to hurt me?’ he surmises—correctly.

  ‘I want to regain some pride,’ I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut.

  ‘Oh, baby, you didn’t lose any pride—it was me. All me. I had resisted you for so long I thought I could be close to you and ignore how much I wanted you. But then it all blew up in my face. That’s my fault, not yours. It’s my problem.’

  ‘None of this is a problem!’

  I shake my head, and when he doesn’t say anything I push my hand against his chest, shoving him.

  ‘Why are you running from this? We’re two consenting adults…’

  ‘Who have the same parents!’ he says softly, slowly, as if he’s talking to a child. ‘Parents who would hate this. Parents this could kill.’

  I catch my breath, thinking of Carter and how weakened he’s become lately. How terrifying his heart attacks have been, how dreadful for all of us, and for my mother particularly.

  But then I imagine life without Manning, and my own heart lurches dangerously, painfully.

  ‘I love your father, Manning, you know I do. He’s the only dad I’ve ever known. And I don’t want to hurt him. But I’m not going to sacrifice this—us, what we are—for him or anyone. Tell me you don’t feel the same.’

  He opens his mouth and I hold my breath, waiting for what he’s going to say, needing him to give me what I want, to promise me that he wants what I do.

  ‘I feel…’

  I wait, breath held, heart twisting.

  ‘You know I fucking love you, angel. But being with you is a different story.’

  I let my breath go, relief saturating my body. He loves me. I knew he did. And I love him. It is enough, for now, to know that we feel the same way.

  ‘Then hold my hand and we’ll face this together, Manning.’

  His eyes lock to mine.

  ‘I’m not walking out that door. I’m not leaving you. And I’m going to bet you won’t make me.’

  ‘I’ve had a year of wanting you—hell, I’ve had years of wanting you. I’m not going to make you go anywhere. But, Astra… This is a thousand degrees of madness.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I grin, closing the distance between us and peeling my dress off once more. ‘And doesn’t it feel all kinds of wonderful?’

  Read on for an excerpt from Clare’s first sexy Dare story Off Limits…

  PROLOGUE

  The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

  Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

  Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

  For nothing now can ever come to any good.

  —WH Auden

  ‘YOU’VE GOT THE Prime Minister calling in ten minutes.’

  Jack nods, showing not a flicker of response at the prospect of this. Then again, nothing about Jack Grant is what you’d expect. For a self-made billionaire-investor-cum-philanthropist-cum-sex-god he is wild, disrespectful of authority and the establishment, and rough around the edges. Deliciously so.

  Take this situation: Jack, in his bed, naked as the day he was born, uncaring that he should have been at his desk an hour ago. That I can see most of his beautiful back and backside. That my insides are clenching with hot, steamy lust.

  ‘About…?’

  It’s a lazy drawl as he flips over and pierces me with those intelligent green eyes. His accent is pure Irish brogue. Like Colin Farrell after a night of cigarettes and booze: deep, hoarse and throaty.

  ‘The latest episode of The Great British Bake-Off.’

  I roll my eyes. We’ve been negotiating to buy a huge swathe of Crown land for the last six months; it’s at the highest level of negotiation and, given the media interest, the Prime Minister has become involved.

  ‘What do you think?’

  His laugh is a rumble that barrels out of his chest. ‘Well, every man needs a good scone recipe.’

  ‘And
you’ve got one?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He grins. It’s a grin that is at once devilish and charming, and I know how easy it must be for him to get women into bed. And that’s before you factor in the body, the money, the power.

  ‘Nine minutes,’ I snap.

  His grin unfurls like a ribbon on his face. My heart kerthunks. I ignore it. Stupid heart.

  ‘Did you book Sydney?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He arches a brow at my impatient tone and, as if to contradict it, stretches in the bed, his arms high over his head, his body gloriously on display for me.

  ‘And Amber?’

  I don’t mean to sigh but when the Prime Minister’s office is calling I feel there should be some air of responsiveness. Jack, apparently, doesn’t agree.

  ‘All arranged.’

  Lucy’s sister is taking a year’s sabbatical from her job as an executive at a bank to manage the foundation’s start-up year. She’s insanely qualified and personally motivated.

  ‘Salary agreed; she’ll be based out of Edinburgh, as we discussed.’

  He nods, but makes no effort to move.

  ‘Seriously, Jack. Eight minutes. Get the hell up, already.’

  ‘Ouch. Did you get out of the wrong side of bed this morning?’

  He runs his fingers down his chest, drawing my attention the ridges of his abdomen, the flesh so perfectly smooth and sculpted. My mouth is bone-dry.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re even crosser than usual,’ he teases, and my lips tighten impatiently.

  As it happens, he’s right. I got The Invitation this morning. The one that arrives every year, beckoning me to come and pay homage to my parents’ marriage.

  Ugh.

  It’s my least favourite social event—and the one time I’m forced to remember who I really am. The one time a year my parents recall me to the mother ship, reminding me that no matter what I do, professionally or personally, I’ll always be Gemma Picton. Lady Gemma Picton.

  Ugh.

  ‘Sit down. Tell me all about it.’

  He pats the bed beside him and I roll my eyes again, hoping he won’t know how sorely I’m tempted. Just once I imagine giving in to this—the electrical current that is arcing between us. I never would…never could. He is as off-limits as hell is hot—the stuff of fantasies and nightmares.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Personal stuff,’ I say, and he shrugs.

  But there’s curiosity in his eyes. A curiosity I have to ignore. Along with desire. Lust. Want. Need.

  We have our boundaries and we definitely know better than to cross them.

  Jack pushes the sheet off, exposing the tattoo that curls across his lower back and snakes around his hips to the tops of his legs. It must have hurt like hell to get it done—especially on the skin of his thighs, right near his cock.

  I asked him once why he’d got it. His answer? ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  He doesn’t care that I see him naked. It’s not the first time and undoubtedly won’t be the last. Sometimes I wonder if he’s goading me, waiting for me to react. After all, it’s classic workplace sexual harassment.

  Except it isn’t. Because I’m not harassed.

  I’m amused. And more than a little turned on.

  In the two years since I started working for Jack I’ve probably seen him naked on average once per week. That’s over a hundred stare-fests and he is totally worth staring at. I don’t think he used to be like this. Before this there was her.

  Lucy.

  His wife.

  But she got sick and died, and two months later I came to work for him and he was like this. Dark and brooding and desirable and sexy and messed up and mourning and fascinating.

  This sleeping with anything in a skirt is post-Lucy. Same as the copious Scotch-drinking afterwards. It’s sensual self-flagellation but he won’t see it that way.

  So, no matter how much I want to stare at his naked arse, I know he’s for looking at—not touching. Like when Grandma used to take me shopping at her favourite Portmeirion boutique and I was allowed to stare at the intricate floral and botanical artwork for hours on end, but never, ever to touch.

  Because touching might lead to breaking—and, yes, touching Jack would, I fear, break me.

  ‘See something you like?’

  Another drawl—he’s so good at that. He lets words slide out of his mouth like liquid chocolate.

  ‘Nope.’ My smile is saccharine. ‘Seven minutes.’

  I spin on my heel and leave, a smile playing around my lips as desire pools between my legs.

  *

  Gemma is staring at me, and the mood I’m in I feel about two steps away from going all ‘Me Tarzan, You Jane’ on her. I want to grab her round the waist and pull her down on my length. No foreplay. No teasing. Just her…taking me deep.

  In my fantasy she’s not wearing panties and she’s left her brain at the door—because real-life Gemma would quote me a thousand reasons not to have sex even as she was moaning in my arms.

  Last night was fun. At least, it started off as fun. But the woman I brought here…Rebecca? Rowena?…talked too much.

  She’d wanted to be romanced.

  I wanted to screw.

  So I gave her cab fare and showed her the door.

  And now I have a raging hard-on and an assistant—she hates it when I call her that, so I do it often, even though she’s technically my in-house counsel—who seems to have moved into my sexual fantasies permanently. When did that happen?

  I rack my brain, trying to pinpoint the moment I went from observing her to obsessing over her. From looking dispassionately at her in those suits she wears one day, and the next imagining how long it would take me to strip her out of one.

  I don’t think it was one day, though, because that implies some switch was flicked. No, I think it was a look as she got into my helicopter in Spain. A laugh over dinner. Hearing her hum as she stared out of a window, her mind obviously running at a million miles an hour.

  Then there was that blackout we were once caught in at the city office. The fire alarm shut the place down, closing us inside an elevator for close on an hour, with just the dim flicker of emergency lights that made her legs look so long and smooth. By the time they cranked the doors I was about ready to pin her to the carpeted floor and screw her senseless.

  Yeah, that was probably the moment I realised how much trouble I was in.

  I’m not interested in a relationship. But I do want to fuck her. And I think she wants it too. I’ve seen the way her caramel eyes drop to my arse when she thinks I’m not looking.

  But I’m always looking lately.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHE MIGHT AS well be naked. The dress is skin-tight, bright red and low-cut. Tiny straps slip over her shoulders. The dress is short, too. Not indecently short but, Jesus, her legs are long and smooth, and while she’s wearing that dress I find it impossible to look away.

  She’s hotter than any woman here—and that’s saying something, given that this launch event has brought together most of London’s elite. There are models, actresses, singers, athletes, and lots of those women who’ve married for money and now make it their life’s work to live up to their husbands’ expectations.

  And then there’s Gemma.

  Her blonde hair is pulled into a ballerina bun, her face is serious, and her body is like pale silk that I want to wrap around me.

  She’s said something funny, going by the way the guy with her leans forward and laughs. Is he her date? A frown pulls at my brow. I stare harder. Did she bring a date? Isn’t she technically here as my plus-one?

  Seeing her with another guy does something dangerous to my equilibrium. A possessive impulse threads through me, knotting at my chest.

  I pull a couple of champagne flutes from a passing waiter and cut through the room. I’m aware of people trying to get my attention but I have no time for them. Ge
mma is in my sights.

  ‘Jack…’

  Her lips purse as I approach; her eyes flick to me in that way she has. How is it possible for one person to imbue a simple gesture with a measure of cold disdain even when there’s the hint of a smile somewhere in that symmetrical face of hers?

  I hand her a glass of champagne and she takes it, her fingers briefly wrapping over mine. Immediately my mind puts them elsewhere on my body.

  ‘You remember Wolf DuChamp?’ she says. ‘He manages our accounts in New York.’

  I remember his stupid name, but not the man himself. Nothing memorable about blond, pretty-boy looks and that air of Ivy League he seems to wear like a coat.

  ‘Sure,’ I extend my hand, knowing I have to meet the convention even when my body is singularly focussed on Gemma.

  ‘Good to see you again, sir.’

  Gemma’s lips quiver. I hate being called ‘sir’ and she knows it. Out of nowhere I have an image of her saying it to me, bent at the knees, her eyes moving up my body to meet mine as her lips clamp down on my length. Okay, maybe in some circumstances I could make an exception…

  What the hell am I thinking? These fantasies are one thing, but screwing Gemma cannot happen.

  Cannot happen. Might as well get that tattoo added to my collection.

  ‘I was just explaining the software overhaul we’re looking at to Gem.’

  Is he trying to piss me off? First of all by removing the very nice image I was enjoying by talking about software. And then by referring to Gemma as ‘Gem’—as though they’re best buddies who paint their nails together.

  ‘I’ll summarise it for you later,’ she says, sensing my impatience though I suspect not the reason for it.

  ‘It’ll make a huge difference to our operations,’ Wolf pushes.

  ‘Gem’ angles her body a bit, turning away from me, giving me a chance to escape.

  ‘I’ll look into the feasibility. The problem is going to be short-term. We’ll need to make sure the systems are protected during the transfer of data. You handle some of our most sensitive work—a data breach would be unacceptable.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that, too,’ Wolf carries on—and I am dismissed, it would appear.