Later that afternoon, exhausted from the heat and the
amount of walking she’d done and back in the cool comfort of the suite, the first thing Darcy noticed was the music. The display on the stereo told her it was Birdy. And then there was champagne on ice and the roses. Had to be three dozen. Long stem, black-red, in full bloom and fragrant. There’d been flowers when she’d arrived as well, but nothing like this extravagance. No card, but no guesses needed.
She should pack, but a rainwater shower or another soak in the bath would be fantastic. She could ring for her butler, and he’d have to take a direct instruction to get her a new room. She should go, because the suite was so deeply seductive it did something to her sense of propriety. She should run screaming, because the idea of dressing up for Tara and then letting him strip her was so far beyond seductive as to be insanity.
She stood over the bath. It was the size of her eleven year old Honda Civic hatch, but her ordinary room would no doubt have running water. In the dressing room she searched for her wheelie bag. Packing would take five minutes, clearing the room another two. Check-out time on the suite was now. She could be safely back in her comfort zone and unpacked again before Tara arrived.
In the other room Birdy had given way to Missy Higgins. The songstress sang about unashamed desire and having nothing to hide. Darcy went back to the bathroom and ran the bath. Even with the taps running full bore, that bath would take a while to fill up, but suddenly there was no hurry.
The dress was one of those you could wear to a casual lunch, or dress up with hair, heels and jewellery for evening. With her hair out, with the flat heels and no bling she’d look cool and collected, but not like she’d tried too hard.
Not that she need to try for this man. He’d probably be happy if she wore the hotel robe. He’d wanted her rumpled, and needing a shower and a toothbrush after a ten hour flight in her comfy jeans, a t-shirt from Target, and his three sizes too big jacket.
But he made her nervous. That blend of nervous carved out of excitement, anticipation and anxiety. And fear.
He’d want to take her to bed tonight. She’d let him, but what did that make her, lucky or the dictionary definition of a slut?
This time would be different. Apart from the setting being the polar opposite. This time she’d have questions and expect answers. Starting with his name and finishing with how in hell she could get to see him again.
8. Knowing
“See a person's means. Observe his motives. Examine that in which he rests.” — Confucius
Outside the Palace Suite, he paused. He half expected her to let him stand at the door all night. He had his own swipe key. But despite how keen he was to see her again, letting himself in would be just wrong. Not that caring about rights and wrongs was high on his agenda. He’d left the agenda well and truly behind.
He pressed the bell and waited. Rested against the doorjamb and closed his eyes, remembering what she felt like in his arms. How her mouth tasted, how she made a criminally hot little gasp when he’d played his fingers inside her that had him straining to keep things from going too far. He’d had enough of that though. If she let him in there’d be no holding back.
He planned a quick seduction, and a long night of making her breathless, of forgetting the world and all the elements of it he needed to control.
If she opened the door.
He heard the slide and click of the lock and straightened up. She was standing in doorway in a simple green dress, her golden hair all tangling down round her shoulders and over her back. A lick of lipstick that wouldn’t last the greeting he wanted to give her.
“God, you’re gorgeous.”
She laughed and waved a hand to usher him in. “You’re not terribly discerning. You’d like me in a towel.”
That made him cough. He’d made it into the lounge room. He turned back to her. “I’d fucking love you in a towel. Is that your opening offer?”
She stopped in the entrance hall. “No!” Hands up, eyes wide. “No. My opening offer is an exchange of pleasantries.”
“Sure. Nice weather. Hot and steamy. It’ll be hot and steamy tomorrow too. Your turn.”
She laughed again. She came into the room and sat on the white sofa, pointed to the single chair next to it. “No. I want us to talk.”
He sat on the sofa beside her. “I don’t have a problem with that. There are things I want to say to you and I want the lights on.”
She stood, stepped up to the big glass coffee table and poured two flutes of champagne. “You’re deliberately trying to provoke me.”
“That’s a distinct possibility.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Lois, you can call me anything you want, but for God’s sake do it over here.” He stroked his hand over the soft white suede. He knew he was acting predatory. Not to would be a lie.
She regarded him over the rim of the flute. “I want to know your name.”
“Do you?”