Unfinished Business: Bought: One Night, One Marriage / Always the Bridesmaid / Confessions of a Millionaire's Mistress. Robyn Grady
until he’d won, she’d let him have this small victory. She opened her bag and found her pen and notebook. She wrote her address on it.
‘Fine. Be here at nine tomorrow morning. You can wash my car.’ Ultimately she’d be the winner. He could clean her car. But that was it.
He took the paper. Carefully folded it and put it in his breast pocket. His smile was small but satisfied. Genuine this time and more attractive than any he’d bestowed on the audience. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
* * *
Blake pressed the buzzer right on eight fifty-eight a.m. The door opened in less than a minute. She wore loose linen trousers and a plain shirt and looked as if she’d been up for hours. On a Saturday morning you’d have thought a woman like this would be lying in and being loved. But he was stupidly glad she wasn’t. He felt tight inside as adrenalin surged through him. Round one was about to begin. His desire to defrost this ice queen was motivation to win.
He watched her gaze skitter over him, saw pink lightly colour her pale cheeks.
She still wouldn’t quite look up into his face. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name last night.
‘Blake McKay.’
‘Pleasure to meet you, Blake. I’m sorry if I was unappreciative of your determination to see this through. My name is Cally Sinclair.’ Her automatic politeness irked him. It was so obvious she didn’t particularly want him there, and yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it. Ordinarily Blake preferred plain speaking. But he could play it her way for now.
‘Enchanted, Cally.’ He reached out and took her hand. The pleasure, at this point, was all his. But he was determined to have her appreciative in no time. The fact was, she fascinated him. He wanted to see her eyes go from disapproving to desirous. He wanted her to admit to the attraction that was making his heart race as he touched her.
She snatched her hand back. Not so politely. ‘I’ve put my car on the drive for you. The garage is open. You’ll find anything you need in there. Once you’re done, you can go.’
Really? He had no intention of leaving after a half-hour car polish. What this stuck-up society miss needed was a good, hard—he pulled back his flare of anger.
‘Damn expensive carwash.’
She ran another eye over his tee shirt and jeans. ‘Feel free to hose off the drive after.’
The door shut in his face. So much for the polite act.
Little minx.
He knew she was attracted to him. Saw it in her eyes. But she was fighting it, denying it. Normally he couldn’t care less. But he was attracted to her too. And more importantly she needed to be taught a lesson. She thought him a gigolo? Her words had burned, and brought back the memory of the time when he’d been used. He’d had no idea of the shallowness, the synthetic structure of Paola’s world. He was quite certain Cally’s world was equally shallow and not one he intended to hang out in for long. She was clearly spoilt and whether there was anything beneath that brittle society air he didn’t know.
But he was going to find out.
He looked over her car. Blake, like many men, knew cars. And cars told a lot about their owners. This owner, he decided, was undoubtedly loaded. You’d need more than a few pennies to buy this baby. He checked the mileage—even more to buy it new as she most likely had. But it wasn’t flashy. A stylish silver bullet. Not overly large but powerful within a sensuously curved form. Not unlike the lady owner herself.
She kept it well prepared, well organised, tidy. But she was also someone who liked comfort, who liked the feel of things. The state-of-the-art stereo, soft leather seats and the faint scent of berries hinted at someone who liked to employ all the senses.
He did the interior of the car first. It needed a clean as a cat needed a dog. But Blake was a perfectionist and as always he’d do a damn good job. And she had paid for it, after all. He found polish and leather cream and worked it over methodically, comprehensively, every last inch.
Forty minutes later it was time to do the exterior. He whipped his tee shirt off over his head to let the sun heat his skin. The inside of his body was already on fire. Burning resentment, desire, curiosity. He found the wax and rubbed it on, liking having the physical activity to burn off the energy her presence coiled in him. She was a little dynamo.
He heard the door slam and turned, hose in hand, to watch as she headed towards him, her legs moving quickly. Her breath was coming short and fast, there was pink in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled.
‘Can’t you keep your shirt on?’
She fidgeted, still looking anywhere but at him. Her glance flicked to the surrounding houses. She was worried about what the neighbours would say? She looked to him finally and he’d have sworn the colour in her eyes deepened. Huge dark pupils stared up at him, surrounded by the rich dark coffee colour, and he wanted to drown in them. He blinked, broke the bond, and saw her cheeks were even pinker.
‘No, it’s hot out here.’ He held the hose low, and flicked it a little so a jet of water splashed at her feet. ‘Wanna get wet?’
Silence throbbed. For a beat or three she stared at him. Her mouth parted a fraction, then closed. Her lips pressed tight together. She turned away, her answer, when it came, more clipped than her high heels as they moved across the concrete. ‘Certainly not.’
He called after her. ‘May I get a drink?’
A pause in the staccato of the shoes. ‘Of course.’
How anyone could deliver a reply with such finishing-school politeness and yet such defiance in her face, he didn’t know. And damn if he didn’t enjoy it.
Cally marched indoors wishing she could be rude enough to suggest he drink straight from the hose. She flustered her way to the kitchen. What to get the man? She was the one who needed long, cool and refreshing, not strong, hot and amazing. She needed a shower. Just past ten in the morning and she was more breathless and bothered than if she were attempting a circuit class at the gym.
Water, juice, lemonade?
Ice. Lots of ice. She turned to go to the freezer and there was nothing but bare, bronzed chest in front of her. She stared—at the defined abs, at the brown nipples, at the dusting of hair that arrowed down into the jeans, at the wall of heat before her. Oh, my. He’d followed her into the house and was up close. Very close.
‘Like what you see?’ Dry humour laced his tone.
She said nothing.
The pause grew. ‘Want what you see?’ Less of the dry tone this time, a husky note of surprise.
Painfully wrenching her superglued eyes away, she stared at the glass in her hand and wondered what it was for.
Then she registered his questions—a good five seconds after he’d asked. Like? Want? Not able to answer honestly, she said the first thing that entered her head. ‘I’ve made soup for lunch.’
There was another pause. Then, ‘Why, thank you. I’d love some.’
Oh, hell. Had she just asked him to lunch with her?
‘But water would be great for now.’ He nodded to the empty glass in her hand.
The way she lost all thought compared to the confident way he handled himself was embarrassing. She walked round him to the fridge and challenged, ‘You’re so cool, aren’t you?’
He grinned and leaned against the centre island bench. ‘I guess. My nickname in my teens was cucumber.’
‘You were that cool even at school?’ She opened the fridge and leaned in, taking her time so the cold air might help her think straight.
‘That might have been it or …’ he answered lazily.
‘Or what?’ She poured water from the bottle, keeping the door open with her