Her Enemy With Benefits. Nicola Marsh
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crazy.
She blinked, hoping it would vanish.
Nope, still there. Lord only knew what Patrick would make of that glint.
She tried to concentrate on applying foundation, mascara, eyeshadow and lip gloss, she really did, but every time she focussed on the mirror a snippet of last night would flash into her head.
Courtesy of her shaky hands she’d gone through two applicators and a mascara wand already, and she resembled a clown.
Muttering a few choice curses under her breath, she gathered up her make-up and stalked towards the bedroom. The light might be crappy in there, and her clown face could worsen, but she’d take the risk. She’d rather apply make-up in the tiny oval mirror tacked onto the wardrobe door than use the bathroom one.
Maybe she could call a glazier today and have him remove it?
Then again, Patrick had promised to bring a box of condoms next time, and her newly discovered inner vixen really had had a lot of fun watching…
Realistically, she shouldn’t want a repeat. Sex with Patrick would be phenomenal but wrong. A giant complication just waiting to happen.
But she’d felt so good last night—alive in a way she hadn’t in a long time.
The chronic fatigue syndrome symptoms had drained her mentally, emotionally and physically, particularly the latter, and it was her need to reassert her fitness that was driving her to follow through with Patrick.
Nothing like a sex-a-thon to give a girl a workout.
Okay, so she was making light of the situation, probably making excuses to go through with it too, but Patrick had made her feel sensational last night and she wanted to feel that good again.
The post-orgasmic endorphins had lasted a long time after he’d left, and for the first time in ages she’d had the energy to unpack the rest of her cases, clean the kitchen and rearrange her DVDs and books.
She’d bounced around the apartment, humming eighties tunes and shimmying between cleaning, feeling so good she could have run a marathon.
How long since she’d felt that invincible?
Logically, sex with Patrick might be a disaster. Physically? She’d help him haul that box of condoms over pronto.
Patrick needed neutral. A neutral playing field where he could work alongside Sapphire without the constant urge to rip her clothes off.
Last night had only worsened his lust for her. A small part of him had hoped it would ease. Yeah, right.
He should have known better than to believe his delusional self-talk that a quickie with Sapphire would soothe him.
A guy didn’t do what he had done with Sapphire last night and get it out of his system. Not to mention the added tension of knowing she was up for more. A whole box-worth more.
He didn’t get it. It wasn’t as if he’d been hung up on her in the past. He’d enjoyed baiting her at school, made it his mission to get a rise out of her because he’d wanted to ruffle her uptight exterior. Sure, he’d had the odd fantasy about her—what teenage guy hadn’t?
Sapphire was an attractive woman now. It figured that he’d want to have sex with her. The part he hadn’t figured out was why it was pounding through his brain until it was all he could think about.
He couldn’t afford distractions—not with so much at stake. But the thought of using a box-worth of condoms pleasuring Sapphire Seaborn couldn’t be denied, and he’d damn well better get control of his libido before he botched this business opportunity before it had begun.
‘Hey, Rick, the models are ready.’
Patrick glanced up at his right-hand man and best bud, Serge. Though they’d ripped a path through Europe’s party scene together when Patrick had needed the distraction, while Serge continued to live the high life Patrick now opted for more sedate pursuits: like making his fashion house dreams come true.
They’d grown apart over the years but Serge was still a good manager, and it helped having someone he could trust on his side. He couldn’t say that about many people.
‘Thanks, but Sapphire’s not here yet. Give us five.’
‘No worries.’ Serge spoke into a bluetooth clipped near his right ear before slipping onto the chair next to him. ‘What’s up?’
Great. Just what he needed. Serge’s legendary interrogation. He had no intention of telling anyone about Sapphire—not when they’d be working together. But he and Serge had told tall tales over beers too many times to count, and the guy could read him like the latest bestseller.
‘Not much.’ Patrick pointed towards the stack of documents in front of him. ‘This is taking up all my time.’
‘Bull.’
Patrick sat back, folded his arms and feigned ignorance. He only succeeded in making Serge laugh.
‘Work never fazes you. You took on that spring showing in Paris and hit it out of the ballpark.’ Serge tilted his head to one side, studying him. ‘Nah, this isn’t about work. This is about a chick.’
Patrick didn’t want to discuss Sapphire with Serge but he hated dishonesty.
‘That Paris gig? What we’re doing here has to nail that a hundred times over and you know it.’
Serge smirked. ‘I also know whoever this chick is, she must be special for you to be this rattled.’
Thankfully Sapphire’s arrival put paid to any further ribbing from Serge but it disconcerted him in a whole other way.
She’d gone for masculine chic today: crisp white shirt, fitted ebony pinstripe pants suit, designer loafers, hair slicked back, dramatic make-up. It didn’t detract from her femininity. He’d seen exactly how womanly she could be last night.
What her mouth had done to him…
His gaze found its way to her lips—their sheen, their fullness—and he instantly hardened.
He heard Serge’s hissed breath of surprise as she strode towards them and he knew the feeling. When Sapphire Sea-born walked towards a man he wanted to meet her halfway.
‘She’s a stunner,’ Serge muttered under his breath, earning a glare from Patrick that probably increased his friend’s speculation.
Let Serge think what he liked. He wasn’t getting one snippet of information about Patrick’s private life here in Mel-bourne. Patrick had moved on from the carousing of the past and intended focussing on things that mattered. Namely: wowing Fashion Week. And bedding Sapphire. Not necessarily in that order.
She barely glanced at him when she reached them, focussing a dazzling smile on Serge instead. ‘Hi. Sapphire Sea-born.’
Serge grinned like the predatory male he was and snagged her hand, raising it to his lips. ‘The pleasure’s all mine, mademoiselle.’
When Serge kissed her hand, Patrick had to clench his to stop from slugging him.
‘You’re French?’
Serge nodded and, luckily for him, released her hand. ‘Oui.’
‘He’s as Anglicised as you and I,’ Patrick said, shooting him a frown. ‘Only uses the accent to win friends and influence women.’
‘It’s charming.’
Figured. What was it with females and European accents?
‘Serge was just leaving to organise the models for a quick demo if you’re ready?’
Sapphire finally looked at him, her gaze imperious, the tilt of her head snooty. ‘Sure, let’s get started.’
She made it sound as if he’d chastised her unnecessarily, when in fact he’d wanted