Just One Night...: Fiancée For One Night / Just One Last Night / The Night That Started It All. Trish Morey
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hours after her clothes line had turned up its toes. A sign? She sure hoped not. If it was, it wasn’t a good one.
No wonder she was edgy.
And no wonder this strange sense of foreboding simmered away inside her like a pot of soup that had been on the boil so long that it had thickened and reduced until you could just about stand a spoon in it.
Damn.
She shot a warning look at a cloud threatening to block out the sun and gave the old rotary clothes hoist a spin, hoping to encourage a breeze while cursing the fact that right now she probably had more hope of controlling the weather than she did reining in her own illogical thoughts, and there was no chance of controlling Melbourne’s changeable weather.
And then she stiffened her jittery spine and headed back to the house, trying to shake off this irrational urge to do a Rip Van Evelyn and go to sleep until Leo Zamos was safely and surely out of her city.
What the hell was her problem?
Simple, the answer came right back at her, catching her so unawares she forgot to open the back door and almost crashed into it instead.
You’re afraid of him.
It stopped her for a moment. Stilled her muscles and cemented her bones with the certainty of someone who had good reason to fear.
Ridiculous, she chided, her mind swiftly writing off the possibility, her breath coming short as she finally forced her fingers to work enough to turn the door handle and let herself in. Leo Zamos was nothing to her but the best hourly rate she’d ever been paid. He was a meal ticket, the ticket to renovating her late-nineteenth-century bungalow she affectionately referred to as the hovel, a ticket to something better in her life and getting it a hell of a lot sooner than it would ever happen otherwise. She just wished she didn’t have to spend her renovation money on appliances now, before she even had an idea of what she’d need when the final plans came in.
She glanced upward at the strips of paint shredding from the walls of the laundry and the ivy that was creeping inside through the cracks where sixty years ago her grandfather had tacked it onto the back of the bungalow, and told herself she should be grateful for Leo’s business, not a jittery bundle of nerves just because he was in town. Their arrangement worked well. That was all that mattered. That’s what she had to concentrate on. Not some long-ago dusty memory that she’d managed to blow out of all proportion.
After all, Leo Zamos certainly wasn’t wasting any time fretting about her. And in less than forty-eight hours he’d be gone. There was absolutely nothing at all to be afraid of.
And then she pulled open the creaking laundry door and heard a deep rich voice she recognised instantly, if only because it instinctively made her toes curl and her skin sizzle, “…find me a woman for tonight…” and the composure she’d been battling to talk herself into shattered into a million pieces.
She stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the phone as the call terminated, emotions warring for supremacy inside her. Fury. Outrage. Disbelief. All of them tangled in the barbed wire of something that pricked at her skin and deeper, something she couldn’t quite—or didn’t want to—put a name to.
She ignored the niggling prickle. Homed straight in on the fury.
Who the hell did Leo Zamos think he was?
And what did he think she was? Some kind of pimp?
She swooped around the tiny kitchen, gathering dishes and piling them clattering into the sink. Oh, she knew he had his women. She’d arranged enough Tiffany trinkets and bottles of perfume to be sent to his countless Kristinas and Sabrinas and Audrinas over the last two years—and all with the same terminal message—
Thanks for your company.
Take care.
Leo
—to know he’d barely survive a night without a bed-warmer. But just because he was in her home town it didn’t mean he could expect her to find him one.
Pipes groaned and hammered as she spun the hot water tap on fruitlessly, until she realised she needed to boil the kettle first to have any hope of hot water. But finally the sink was filled with suds and the tiny room was full of steam. She shoved her hands into rubber gloves and set upon attacking the stack of dishes and plastic cups, all but hidden under the froth and bubbles.
It had been lucky the machine had cut him off when it had or she might have been forced to pick up the receiver and tell him exactly what he could do with his demands—and that would be one sure way to terminate an income flow she had no way of replacing any time soon.
But, then, did she really want to work with a man who seemed to think it was perfectly acceptable asking his PA to organise him a night-time plaything? Maybe she should just call him herself. Remind him of the duties she had agreed to undertake.
Except that would require talking to him…
Oh, for heavens sake! On impulse she swiped at a tea towel and dried her gloves as she crossed the small living area towards the answering-machine, jabbing at a button before she could change her mind, her brain busy being rational. She dealt with his correspondence all the time, even if mostly by email. Surely she wasn’t about to go weak at the knees at the sound of his voice?
And then the message replayed and she heard the weight of expectation in his pause as he waited for her to pick up—expected her to pick up—before his message. “Listen, I need you to find me a woman for tonight…”
And this time her outrage was submerged in a tremor that started in a bloom of heat that radiated across her chest and down her belly, tingling as it shot down her arms and legs. Damn. She shook her hands as if to rid herself of the unwelcome sensations, and headed back to finish the dishes.
So nothing had changed. Because his voice had had the same unsettling effect on her from the very first time she’d heard him speak more than three years ago in a glass-walled boardroom fifty floors above Sydney’s CBD. She recalled the way he’d swept out of the lift that day, the air shifting in currents around him in a way that had turned heads and caused more than one woman to stumble as she’d craned her head instead of looking where she was going.
He’d seemed oblivious to his impact, sweeping into the boardroom like he owned it, spicing the air with a mix of musk and wood and citrus and radiating absolute confidence in himself and his role. And no wonder. For whether by sheer force of his personality or acute business acumen, or maybe the dark chocolate over gravel voice that had soothed everyone into submission, he’d successfully brought that deal to a conclusion that day, bringing together an over-eager buyer and a still unconvinced seller, and had had them both smiling as if they’d each got the better part of the deal.
She’d sat in the far corner of the room, taking minutes for her lawyer boss, while another part of her had been busy taking inventory of the man himself even as his rich voice had rippled through her and given birth to all kinds of wayward thoughts she had no business thinking.
Was there anything the man lacked?
Softness, she’d decided, drinking in the details, the thick black hair, the dark-as-night eyes, the strong angles of jaw and nose and the shadowed planes and recesses of his face. No, there was nothing soft about his looks, nothing at all. Even the lips that gave shape to that smooth-as-sin voice were fiercely masculine, a strong mouth she’d imagined as capable of both a smile as a cruel twist.
And then she’d looked up from her notebook to see him staring at her, his eyes narrowing, assessing as, without a move in his head, their focus moved down, and she’d felt his gaze like the touch of his long-fingered hand down her face and throat until with burning cheeks she’d wrenched her eyes away before she felt them wander still lower.
The rest of the meeting had passed in a blur and all she remembered was that every time she had looked up, it had seemed as though he was there, waiting to capture her eyes in his simmering gaze. And all the while