The Deal / Turn Me On. Clare Connelly

      On Friday, I meet with the gala caterers to do a small tasting of the menu, as well as the wines, and go over the running of the night, explaining when we’ll serve which courses and why.

      It’s a busy day, and I’m glad for that, glad that by the time six o’clock rolls around I’ve barely had time to stop, let alone think about Nicholas.

      Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve barely stopped thinking about him but in a ‘back of my mind’ kind of way. But as I lather myself in the shower then towel off before smoothing oil over my hairless legs, all I can think about is the next few hours and the certainty that soon his hands will be where my hands are.

      My pulse fires at just the thought. When I slip on the lingerie he sent me, my body is already a field of live wires so my breasts tingle and my stomach twists.

      I stare at myself in the mirror, still nowhere near ready, but wanting to stay just like this. Not to go out so much as to stay in. I wish I hadn’t agreed to date him, only to sleep with him. Except I’m actually a little excited to see what a guy like Nicholas has planned.

      And sex is happening.

      I just have to wait a few more hours.

      Is this completely crazy? I don’t get involved with members. Even though The Billionaires’ Club is my creation, my baby, and I’m prominent in the community, there’s a distance between me and everyone else. I have to oversee things, to make sure it goes smoothly. I have to run the business side of things and manage membership difficulties.

      I can’t be seen fooling around with someone in the club.

      This has to stay private. And it has to be brief. He said he’s going back to England in a month, but that’s no real impediment to us seeing each other. I mean, the club has rooms all over the world; we host events everywhere. He attends most of them, like all of the members. So I’m bound to see him again, often enough that we could keep this going on a semi-permanent basis.

      And then what?

      I see him slinking off to the Intimate Rooms with someone else? I hear along the grapevine he’s getting married to Lady Asher Cumber-something-or-other?

      Because that’s how this plays out.

      And if I don’t retain a bit of control here, I’ll get hurt. I might seem, on the outside, as if I have everything ordered in my life, but loneliness is pervasive and powerful, and the temptation of being one half of a pair might lead me to forget the sense in all this.

      I’ll have to be clear with him from the outset, and clear with myself too. With a small smile curving my lips, I think of the tattoo above his heart and reach for a pen. I am my own. I write the words hastily on the back of a store receipt and stick it to my dressing table mirror.

      It’s a good incantation. I’m going to say it often. Just in case.

      It’s snowing again and cold out. With no idea what we’re doing or where we’re going, I dress with versatility in mind. A pair of slim-fitting black leather trousers paired with a silk shirt with long, bell sleeves that falls off one shoulder and is a dirty gold in colour. I like it because the colour flatters my skin, the softness of the fabric hugs my curves and makes it pretty obvious I’m not wearing a bra, and when the sleeve drops over one shoulder, you can see the hint of lace from the camisole he sent me.

      I take a few minutes to style my hair, curling it with my wand so it falls in big loose waves over one shoulder. Make-up is simple—as always—just a slick of mascara and the bright red lipstick I wore the night we fucked in Sydney.

      My heart is pounding like a bird trapped in a too-small cage.

      There are still twenty minutes to go. Waiting is killing me.

      I pace through to the kitchen and pour a Chardonnay, press play on my phone so soft piano music connects to the speakers that are wired through my apartment, filling the space with beautiful, calming jazz. It helps, but I’m still looking at the clock every ten seconds.

      ‘This is ridiculous,’ I groan, pacing across the lounge for my handbag. On a whim, I swap it for a small gold clutch that matches my shirt and opt for my faux fur coat, wrapping it around my shoulders as I pace back to the kitchen.

      Shoes! I need shoes.

      Damn it.

      I can only laugh at myself and my state of nervousness as I survey my extensive collection of stilettos. Again, with no idea what we’re doing, I should probably choose a shoe for all occasions.

      But as I remember the way he looked at my stilettos that night in Sydney, a wild impulse has me pulling out one of my favourite pairs. Supple leather, a pointed toe, and a heel so high and spindly it’s a wonder they don’t snap in two, gives me a few extra inches in height and a mega-boost in confidence.

      I add a couple of bangles on a whim, and have three big gulps of wine then stand perfectly still and wait. I breathe in, I breathe out, I empty my mind, I still my trembling—all the tricks the psychologist taught me right after Abbey died, after I’d started having panic attacks.

      I don’t have the attacks any more but I still get flushes of anxiety, especially when I have to speak at an event. No one would ever know—I pride myself on presenting the image of a calm and collected entrepreneur, but in no small part my success at faking a confidence I don’t feel comes from this arsenal of stress-management techniques.

      My buzzer rings.

      My heart leaps to my throat.

      I spin and stalk across the lounge, adrenalin pumping through me as I lift the phone off the cradle. ‘Hello?’ Just a husk.

      ‘Miss Anonymous?’

      My smile is broad and instinctive. ‘I’ll be right down.’