Crap. This is—way more complicated than it should be. What the hell have I done?
I stare back at myself from the mirror, accusation in my eyes—eyes that tell me I’m a dumbass for going to the bar instead of choosing a safe way to find out what I could about her. I could have made an appointment in a professional capacity, masqueraded as an investor or a potential client. But it wouldn’t have changed a thing.
We would have ended up fucking on her desk instead of her dinner table, but the outcome would have still been the same. There was something about Avery and me that just demanded answering.
I’ve been with enough women to know when there’s a different kind of spark. Not just desire or attraction but like a lightning bolt of ‘must have’ need, and we both felt that. Okay, maybe it was more just about getting laid for Avery. Maybe any other guy in the bar would have done, or maybe not.
I honestly think that our fucking would have been inevitable. So what, jackass? Does that absolve you of all guilt? I don’t think so. For crying out loud. I’m here to find out what I can about this woman, to suss out if she knows anything about her impossibly wealthy family, not to get my rocks off.
I push my hands through my hair distractedly. Is there any way I can still achieve what I set out to do? Or has sleeping with her made it impossible?
And can I actually do that, anyway? Isn’t it a massive betrayal to dig into her personal life after what we’ve just done?
It’s not like it meant anything. She basically dismissed me while I was still inside her. If I was careful not to let it happen again? A wry grimace shifts on my face, because I think that could be almost impossible. If we’re in the same room together I’m going to want her.
Besides which, Avery is clearly of the ‘wham, bam, thanks for that’ persuasion. She’s probably not even going to want to see me again. Which means what? I stick around now, find out what I can and get out? Leave it to another one of their lawyers to explain all this to her?
I groan, shaking my head, because I’ve well and truly fucked up here, muddying the waters of what was already a delicate situation. ‘Thanks a lot, asshole,’ I say to my dick. ‘Last time I let you call the shots.’
If only.
Okay. I’m not comfortable with what I’ve done. Clearly I’ve let down my friends and I’ve done something that borders on duplicitous with Avery, given what I know about who she is, and I’m pretty sure she has no clue about that. But I don’t have a magical winding back time device. I did this—we did it. It was consensual, hot sex between two adults. But it was also a mistake, and it shouldn’t have happened. Now that it has, though, I have to work out a way to achieve what I came here to do without letting Avery feel used and hurt. Hurt? I almost laugh out loud. That woman has ice in her veins. I doubt hurt is something she’s capable of experiencing. Still, I don’t want to be an asshole to her. I have to tread carefully.
Managing difficult situations is a strength of mine and I have no intention of letting this one get the better of me. One way or another, I’ll figure out how to fix this. And it all starts with talking to the Harts. Because sending me here to spy on her was wrong. They were blindsided by the revelation that their dad had a daughter none of them knew anything about, but that doesn’t make it right to keep that from Avery. She deserves to know the truth. That certainty hits me like an anvil between the eyes—I wish I’d seen it sooner but, now that I have, there’s only one way to handle this.
* * *
‘A Mr Barrett Byron-Moore is here to see you, Avery.’
I jerk so hard in response I bang my knee into the underside of the desk. ‘What?’ I reach for my coffee on autopilot, taking a long drink and, unbidden, memories of that night careen into me. It might have been four days ago but I can remember every look, every touch, every breath and sensation as though it were happening right now.
I remember his mouth against me, his tongue so damned skilled, I remember the pleasure building, then the frustration as he diverted to another part of my body, then the sheer, dizzying relief when he returned to my sex, bringing me right back to the brink of a huge orgasm.
Then stood up and calmly told me he’d get dressed.
Okay, maybe I deserved it. I’d been abrupt—even more so than usual—but that’s what I do. Besides, men don’t usually complain. I think it’s kind of a relief to be told they can go. No hugging required. No What’s your number? We should do this again. Blah-blah-blah...bullshit-bullshit-bullshit necessary. I’m a big girl, I can read the tea leaves just fine.
‘He’s here in Reception. Shall I send him in?’
Crap. Should she? I shake my head, but of course my assistant can’t see that. ‘Um...’ Um? What am I, nine? ‘Give me a moment.’ I hang up the receiver as I stand, straightening my shirt. I tend to wear the same thing every day—a white blouse and faded denim jeans. Hey, if it’s good enoug
h for Zuckerberg and Jobs, then it’s good enough for me. I hate the expectation that because I’m a woman I should dress a certain way or be obsessive about fashion. The thing is, I love nice clothes but, here at work, I don’t want to think about what I’m wearing and I don’t want to be seen as a clotheshorse. So I wear what I wore when I was a one-woman band, pulling Moatsy together, doing the coding, getting that first raft of investors. Every day I choose a different necklace though. Today, it’s a chunky green beaded choker and I lift my fingers, toying with it so it jangles, an unusual indecision arresting me.
This is so completely not like me.
But, then again, this has never happened before. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy again after he’s left my place. Damn it! This is why I don’t tell them who I am, nor what I do. I don’t like to be tracked down. Leave no glass slippers, remember?
I grimace, shaking my head, wishing I felt purely annoyed instead of this burgeoning excitement snaking through my belly. Excitement? Why? What exactly do I want?
I quash the adrenaline and compress anything but annoyance from my expression. Because I didn’t invite him here, I didn’t give him the impression he’d be welcome and I have no idea why he’s come but I clearly need to get rid of him again. And quickly.
I pull the door inwards and my nerves skitter at the sight of him. Gone is the suit. Today he’s wearing a polo shirt and shorts, so I see more of his flesh than I was expecting. Even his feet—in flip-flops—are weirdly, unexpectedly erotic.
I grip hold of my annoyance. ‘Come in.’ The words are curt, as if to imply the exact opposite—go away.
But his grin is slow and relaxed, pricking me with renewed desire. Like I haven’t been thinking about how freaking great he was in bed since he left my place the other night.
‘Thanks.’ His accent! How had I forgotten it? He grabs two Starbucks cups and, as he passes, holds one out to me. I contemplate not taking it, but where coffee’s concerned I rarely say no.