The Dare Collection November 2019. Anne Marsh
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daily damage on my self-esteem. At least I don’t have to prove a damn thing to the man.
Of course she’s driven by success, of course she needs the success. Somehow it’s all tied up in her self-validation. But to what degree? Could she loosen the reins, live a more balanced life and still be herself?
I scrub a hand through my hair, gutted that my instincts about her, about our differences, were spot-on the money. I proved myself correct at the dog sanctuary. I’d expected her to be more delighted. Of course, she embraced the visit, even hefting in a sack of dog food like it weighed no more than the designer handbags she loves. But I spied the sneaky looks at her phone, the way she checked her watch as if she had somewhere else to be. She couldn’t relax, couldn’t take off her CEO hat for even a couple of hours.
Not that it should matter. I should focus on the end game, focus on the trip we’re taking together, focus on having a good time at my father’s expense. Isn’t that why I agreed to come along for the ride?
But my aimless bender no longer holds the same appeal, not now I’ve met Orla.
I snag a beer for myself and return to the bathroom with her glass of wine, my own personal dilemmas tucked neatly away behind my smile. Orla looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her, and I suffer a sharp pang of regret at how hard I pushed her to divulge personal details earlier, especially when I’m such a closed book, literally changing the subject every time she probes a bit too close.
I place the glass on the side of the bath and pull up a chair, taking a long draw of my ice-cold beer.
‘Cam, stop spoiling me. I might get used to it and chain you to my bedpost.’
I grin—I wouldn’t put it past her. At least we work sexually. No problems on that score.
‘I wouldn’t complain, as long as I get to see this sensational body naked every day.’
Without moving from her relaxed wallow, she holds out her hand for my beer. I hand it over, my eyebrows raised in mock censure. She’s taken to stealing a sip every time I open a bottle.
‘What?’ she asks, tilting the bottle to her pursed lips for a swallow. ‘I’m just trying them out until I find one I love. Don’t be stingy.’ She takes a second swallow and hands the beer back with a contented sigh.
I grin, my insides on fire for her and the way she makes me feel, like the best version of myself. ‘I don’t care. You can drink all my beer. It’s just…funny.’ Funny, sexy, comfortable. ‘Who’d have thought when we met in that casino that the stunning, classy woman drinking single malt alone would like a regular old beer in the bath?’
‘You should never judge a book by its cover, Cam. Haven’t I proved there’s more to me than the uptight princess I know you had me pegged for the first time we met?’
I laugh, heat for her burning out of control. She gets me as much as I get her. I want to be a better man when I’m around her. I want us to fit outside the bedroom. But could we? Seriously?
I place the beer bottle on the floor. ‘Drink your wine, princess.’ I wink, trailing one hand along her soapy thigh, down her slender calf. At her soft sigh, I lift her foot from below the surface of the water so I can press my thumbs into the sole of her foot, one after another in a slow, rhythmic massage, because I want to touch her. All the time.
Her head lolls back on the edge of the bath, and her toes curl. ‘Mmm…you are so good at that—another skill to add to the list. Is there nothing you can’t do?’ she says without opening her eyes.
‘I feel the same way about you.’ Having her by my side, persuading her to travel in style and play hard, and the way she’s embracing the sexual adventure too—we understand each other. Just her presence makes me feel like I’ll figure out my own dilemma over the money. Like it’s not as big a deal as I’d fanned it up to be. Like anything is possible.
The pretty constant resentment and bitterness I’ve had since the summons to the solicitor’s office back in Sydney wanes. If only I could bottle the Orla feeling.
‘A good foot massage will help you sleep,’ I say, my mouth twitching because I know as soon as she leaves this bath I’m getting lucky, despite her long day. When we returned from the dog shelter she was visibly deflated to find all the purchases I’d made, including the intimate M Club gift, cleared away, out of sight. She mentioned twice at the opera that I’d promised her a reward for her patience. She’s so fully embracing her sexually adventurous side; I wanted to strip her there and then. But I promised her a night at the opera and a relaxing bath, and I’m a man of my word.
She looks up, her eyelids heavy but in that turned-on way that tells me she has other plans before sleep. ‘What if I’m not tired? What if I feel like squeezing a little more enjoyment out of the day?’
I hide my smile. I’ve created a monster.
‘I thought you’d rescheduled your meeting for seven a.m. I don’t want you to be too exhausted to enjoy the slopes tomorrow.’
‘Cam…’ Her eyes stray closed as if she’s enjoying my foot massage, but there’s a hint of warning in her voice. ‘You’ll be using that vibrator on me before we sleep. No getting out of it. Or I’ll use it myself and force you to watch.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I say. ‘Such hardships I have to endure as your plaything…’ I release her foot and lift the other one from the water, subjecting it to the same treatment.
After a few seconds she reopens her eyes, which had fluttered closed on a contented moan the minute I pressed my thumbs to her instep.
‘Cam?’
‘Yes, Orla.’
‘Have you ever been in a serious relationship?’ She takes a sip of wine and watches my face from over the rim of her glass. This is payback for my bout of curiosity earlier. But I couldn’t stay silent any longer. She works practically twenty-four-seven. Her travel schedule is punishing—I know she’s allowed me to add a few days here and there for extras, but what’s the point of visiting all these countries if you’re too busy to enjoy what they have to offer? What’s the point of earning the kind of money she makes when she’s never in one place long enough to spend any of it?
I allow her foot to sink back below the surface of the water and reach for a sponge and a bottle of body wash. ‘Not really. I’ve had girlfriends off and on. But I’m in no hurry to settle down.’
‘So you’ve never been in love, then? Never met your perfect woman?’ With any other woman I’d assume she was fishing. But not Orla. She’s made it clear she’s done the marriage thing. Done it and failed. Effectively crossed it off her list.
‘Not sure I believe in love—I watched it all but destroy my mother, so, like you, I’m pretty sceptical.’
Her smile is small, her eyes searching. ‘See—I told you we’re perfect for each other.’
Yeah, perfect but temporary. The clock is ticking on our arrangement. By the time we reach Sydney I need to have some sort of definitive plan outside of using our sexual relationship to help me forget, because going back to pretending the inheritance doesn’t exist isn’t an option and spending it will take three lifetimes…
Orla sobers, her eyes searching. ‘What happened with your parents?’ Her voice is low, whispered, as if I’m already giving off an injured-animal vibe.
I suck in a deep breath and stand, moving behind her to slide the soapy sponge over her shoulders and the back of her neck, which is exposed, her hair piled up in a messy topknot.
I’m literally hiding, but I need cover. Talking about my mother, the grief and anger when I think about how she pined for my father, still tightens my throat so I feel like I can’t breathe.
‘My father left her for greener pastures. I was three.’
I hear her gasp, but I ignore it and slide the sponge around first to her clavicle