Red-Hot Summer: The Millionaire's Proposition / The Tycoon's Stowaway / The Spy Who Tamed Me. Kelly Hunter
that Kate was Scott’s woman.
Jessica and Kate were hugging now. Okay—this was officially out of control. Even Jessica knew Kate?
‘It wasn’t the mojitos that were news at Fox,’ Jessica said. ‘It was one very particular martini.’
The blush was back on Kate’s cheekbones. ‘The less said about that the better,’ she said with a theatrical shudder.
Scott was suddenly desperate to hear the story. ‘You don’t like martinis?’ he asked—only to have Willa, Amy and Jessica burst out laughing.
He looked at Rob, who gave him a don’t ask me shrug.
‘It was a dirty martini,’ Amy said, putting him out of his misery. ‘Bought for her by Barnaby, my arch nemesis at work, who just happened to be drinking at Fox too. Blond, blue-eyed and gorgeous—that’s Barnaby. Thinks he’s God’s gift to marketing. And to women. And to be honest, he kind of is. Just not to Kate.’
Kate shook her head, laughing, as though batting the subject away.
‘It was the way he said “dirty”,’ Jessica put in, helping herself to a glass of punch. ‘It’s one thing being presented with a dirty martini. It’s quite another to have it presented with a slimy pick-up line. “Just how dirty do you like it, baby?” Yep—that would make any woman want to jump you. Not.’
More laughing from the girls as Kate covered her eyes with a hand.
Rob was practically cringing. ‘Seriously?’
Willa kissed Rob’s cheek. ‘Not all men are as evolved as you, Rob.’
Rob turned to Scott. ‘You ever used that one?’
‘Dirty martini? Nope. And, given the reaction Barnaby got, I doubt I ever will. Although in my youth I did once embarrass myself with a comment to twin girls about a Ménage à Trois.’
Jessica’s eyes bugged. ‘Twins? Like…a real ménage à trois? Or is that the name of a fancy-pants cocktail?’
‘It’s a cocktail,’ Scott assured her. ‘And delicious, apparently—because, as it happens, they both ordered one and made very…approving…noises.’ He cleared his throat, all faux embarrassment. ‘As they sipped, I mean.’
‘They ordered one apiece—with a side order of you?’ Amy asked, batting her eyelashes outrageously.
Scott smiled. The lazy, teasing smile he reserved for flirty moments with women he wasn’t ever going to take to bed. ‘A gentleman never tells a lady’s secrets.’
He saw something flash across Amy’s face. Something like…distress? But it was gone so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it. And the next moment she was laughing again.
‘Well, anyway, enough with the “in my youth” talk. If I’ve got my arithmetic in order you’re twenty-seven—one measly year older than me. And I’ll have you know I still consider myself to be in my youth.’
An odd gasping sound from Kate had Scott turning to her. It looked as if she’d spilled punch on her dress, because she was brushing a hand over the bodice. It must have been only the tiniest drop—he certainly couldn’t see any sign of it—but the next moment Willa was ushering Kate to the guest bathroom and Amy was asking Rob what exactly was in the punch, because she’d never seen Kate’s nerves of steel so much as bend before, let alone be dented.
The punch, apparently, was a combination of vodka, white wine, white rum and champagne, with an occasional strawberry waved over the bowl—that did not sound girly! It was a miracle everyone in the house wasn’t stumbling around breaking bits off sculptures, staggering into walls and pitching face-first into pot plants.
But Scott had a feeling the potency of the brew was not the problem with Kate. She’d looked sort of shocky. Surely not because of that harmless ménage à trois talk? She was too sophisticated for that. It would take him two minutes, tops, to explain that away. Which would leave him twenty-eight minutes to charm her out of her panties.
But twenty minutes later Scott hadn’t managed to get near Kate. Every time he took a step in her direction she moved somewhere else. As if she was on guard against him—which was crazy. Almost as crazy as what the sight of her loose-hipped, strolling, rolling walk was doing to his testosterone levels. Sexiest walk ever.
At the twenty-four-minute mark, as he made what felt like his hundredth attempt to reach her and she replaced the stroll with a dash—an actual freaking dash—towards a small group of people whose average age looked to be a hundred and four, he realised she really and truly was on her guard.
Oh, my God.
He was chasing her and she was running away. This had never, ever happened to him before.
And as he watched her, trying to figure out what the hell had gone wrong, the last six minutes of his self-allocated thirty minutes’ seduction time ticked away…and she was gone.
Disappeared. Like Cinderella, but wearing both of her take-me-now shoes.
He fingered the card she’d given him.
Weird. Very, very weird. A mystery. What had he said? Done?
Well, Scott loved mysteries. And challenges. And women who wore red lipstick.
And he was suddenly very certain that this thing between him and Kate Cleary—because there was definitely a thing—was not going to end with a drop of spilled punch and no explanation.
He looked at her card again, noted the address—a block from his city office.
Easy.
KATE LET HERSELF into her apartment, tossed her bag onto the couch, kicked off her shoes, wiggled her toes…and let out a tortured groan that had nothing to do with her sore feet and everything to do with the divorce party.
Which had been a disaster.
She couldn’t believe she’d been smut-talking about a stapler and a Rubik’s cube. As bad as Dirty Martini Barnaby! Flirting with that hot, gorgeous hunk like a horny teenager.
And then to discover that the hot, gorgeous hunk practically was a horny teenager…
She let out another tortured groan.
Not that twenty-seven really was teenaged.
But she was thirty-two, for God’s sake! A my way or the highway woman of thirty-two!
She opened the French doors and stepped onto the expansive terrace of her apartment. She’d chosen the apartment for the view—not the Harbour Bridge in the distance, even though that was her favourite Sydney landmark, but the boats. Something about them, bobbing gently in Rushcutters Bay, soothed her. The escape daydream, she called it. Sailing away from her troubles to a world of possibilities. A world of adventure…
She tried to bring herself back to earth by reminding herself of the time she’d forced the husband of one of her clients to sell his boat and hand over half the cash and he’d cried like a baby. But even the memory of that less than edifying spectacle couldn’t stop her thinking about adventures and possibilities.
And tonight, very specifically, the possibility of an adventure with Scott Knight.
The image of him was so clear in her head. That killer body—tall, broad, strong. The slightly spiky mid-brown hair. The alertness of his cool, pale green eyes. That I’ve got a secret smile that was kind of calculating…and somehow intriguing exactly because of that. She’d wanted to twist him into a sexual pretzel the moment she’d heard his lazy, drawling voice—a voice so at odds with the alert