‘This way.’ She gestures to another elevator and this time, when the doors ping open, she doesn’t follow behind me. Instead, she simply swipes her card and presses a button then offers one more brittle smile as the doors clip shut.
I hold my breath, feeling like I’m spinning on some kind of merry-go-round.
The doors open and the merry-go-round speeds up because, whatever this place is, I feel as though it’s a palace high up in the sky.
I step off the elevator, my eyes moving quickly through the space. Double height ceilings, more marble here, white and glossy, world-class artwork, designer furniture and views of Sydney that are unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
One whole wall of the penthouse is constructed from glass and as I stare at this incredible apartment a door opens and Holden steps in.
My heart begins to hammer, slamming into my ribs like it has some kind of vendetta against the rest of my body.
Now, in the middle of his penthouse, I feel all kinds of uncertain. It’s one thing to know a guy’s a billionaire, and sure, he had the private jet, but somehow this just feels so much more real because it’s a language I speak. I know what property costs. I know what Sydney costs.
I process all those thoughts in the space of a few seconds, but when he steps into the room and closes the door I can think of nothing but Holden.
First of all, it’s winter and he’s just been out on the balcony wearing only a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. Is he crazy? Secondly, he looks good enough to eat. Tanned and virile, his short dark hair serving to emphasise the strength of his face, his eyes locked to me in a way that heats my blood.
‘Cora.’ He says my name like it’s an incantation. Or maybe he says it with disbelief, like he didn’t think I’d actually come. I move deeper into the apartment, looking for somewhere I can put my clutch down and deciding on a little side table. I lay it on the edge then unravel my scarf and place it there too. I’m conscious of his eyes on me the whole time and my body responds predictably.
‘The security to get up here’s kind of intense.’
He nods, his expression unchanging. ‘It’s necessary.’
‘But why here? You didn’t have a bodyguard on the flight.’
He moves closer, his hands reaching for the shoulders of my jacket, holding it so I can shrug out of it. This is familiar. Slower than last time, but no less urgent. If anything, there’s a sort of restraint about him, as though he’s willing himself not to pounce on me.
‘My jet is a safe space. Staff are rigorously screened. Ordinarily.’
Was that why he was so surprised at how easily I’d got on board? A pang of something like remorse shifts through me. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘Generally, I can operate beneath the radar, which makes this kind of security unnecessary. But here in the casino there’s a chance of being targeted.’ His hands linger on my shoulders, his touch like heaven. ‘I hope you weren’t offended.’
‘Not at all. Just interested.’
His thumb begins to stroke my collarbone, moving over the dress so it pulls a bit and somehow the added tactile experience of the dress underneath his thumb on my skin makes my body tremble. My stomach squeezes and my nipples pucker almost painfully.
‘Interested, huh?’
I feel his subtle shift in conversation and nod. ‘Very.’
‘Me too.’
Needs wash over me. I close my eyes for a moment as if I can brace for this, and when I open them he’s reaching for me, lifting me over his shoulder so I can only laugh.
‘I can walk, you know.’
‘Yeah, but I can walk quicker.’
It speaks of a breathtaking urgency—familiar, once more—and I stop smiling because I feel it too, I feel this desperate need pushing me to him, just like last time we were together. I flush as I remember the stairs and the way we made love there.
I’m barely aware of the layout of the penthouse. The enormous entrance way and living room I stepped into feeds into a long, wide corridor. Marble underfoot, white walls, the frames of world-class paintings. We pass several doors, some shut, some open, none easy to see through, before he rounds a corner and enters a darkened room. I’m conscious of another glittering aspect of Sydney, this time looking back towards the CBD, so it’s all high-rises and lights.
Just inside the door he eases me to the ground, but the second my feet hit the carpet he’s reaching for the bottom of my dress and lifting it up my body, his impatience igniting a fierce volcanic eruption within me because I can’t say I’ve ever needed anything like I need Holden.
But maybe he was right this afternoon. Perhaps it’s not him I need so much as the wilful obliteration of memories that feel so much more real now that I’m back in Australia.
The dress is a caress as he drives it up my body. I’m not wearing a bra. The fewer clothes you wear the better. For both of us.