Red-Hot Summer: The Millionaire's Proposition / The Tycoon's Stowaway / The Spy Who Tamed Me. Kelly HunterЧитать онлайн книгу.
it was physically impossible to get a word out of her clogged-up throat. Which made a phone call impossible.
Okay, she would email.
Got your note, Scott.
I’m babysitting my nieces, Maeve and Molly, on Saturday night. I’m free Sunday if that suits?
Kate
There. Cool, businesslike. Contract-worthy.
Three hours later, back came a two-word response: No problem.
And Kate released a big, sighing breath.
Right.
Good.
Good…right?
Because Valentine’s Day actually sucked. If Kate had a dollar for every now-divorced couple who’d managed either their proposal or their actual wedding on February the fourteenth, she’d be retired already! Valentine’s Day was all about spending too much on wilted roses and eating overpriced restaurant dinners.
Stupid.
The worst possible day for scheduling a date with a sex-only partner.
Valentine’s Day? As if!
Kate went to her kitchen, looked again at the calendar stuck on her fridge.
Yep, there it was. February the fourteenth. With a nice big red heart on it, courtesy of whoever printed stupid refrigerator calendars. A big red heart. A love heart.
And, to her absolute horror, Kate’s eyes filled with tears.
Kate had a hectic day of meetings, followed by a catch-up with the girls for drinks after work, and by the time she clambered into bed that night, she was sure she was over the whole weepy Valentine’s Day phenomenon that had blindsided her.
So when she woke on Saturday morning to find that depression had settled over her like a damp quilt, she went the whole tortured-groan route. What had happened to her brain during that awards dinner on Thursday night to have resulted in her losing all her common sense?
Sex-only partners did not celebrate Valentine’s Day. Sex-only partners scheduled sex on days like the fifteenth of February. A perfectly legitimate, much more appropriate day for having no-strings sex with guys who left two-word notes on your kitchen counter.
A two-word note. And a two-word email. That encapsulated her relationship with Scott very nicely—two words: sex contract.
Imbued with a burst of damn your eyes energy, Kate got out of bed and on the spot decided to clean her apartment. An activity that was not some kind of displacement therapy twisted up in her need to wash that man right out of her hair, but a simple household activity. A spring clean—just in summer.
She got underway with gusto.
Gusto that lasted approximately fifteen minutes.
Which was how long it took for the first memory to sneak in.
Kate was wiping down the dining table—and there in her head was the memory of that first night… Scott reaching across to hold her breast…and then the whole dining chair thing. Ohhhhhhh.
It was like a switch, throwing open the floodgates—because the memories started pouring in, room by room, after that. Plumping up the couch cushions—that night when he’d thrown the cushions off and dragged her on top of him… Cleaning out the fridge—Scott, coming up behind her, hands all over her… Bathroom—three separate shower scenes.
Her bedroom—holy hell. So vivid it was painful. And the most painful of all that last time… Scott drawing her gently down onto the bed…kissing her as if he wanted them to merge.
Okay, enough cleaning.
She hurried to the laundry to dump the housekeeping paraphernalia, only to be hit by another memory. Oh. My. God. Had she—? Yes, she had! She’d had sex with Scott Knight in every single room of her apartment—including the damned laundry room! What normal person had sex in the laundry room? Sitting on top of the washing machine, with the vibrations adding a little extra hum to proceedings as you wrapped your legs around—
Arrrggghh.
She had to get out of the apartment. Maybe even sell the apartment.
She took a cold shower, changed into I am not in need of antidepressants clothes and hurried out of the building.
The boats were what she needed. Up close and personal. Escape. So she crossed the road to the marina and breathed out a sigh of relief as she reached the jetty. The boats would float her stress away as they always did—on a tide of dreams. Adventure. Possibilities.
One day she would hire a sailing instructor and she would learn… She would learn…
Uh-oh.
Her eyes darted from yacht to yacht…and on every deck she could picture Scott Knight eight years ago, young and free, teaching people to sail. Scott as he was now, teaching her to sail.
One of those now-familiar tortured groans was ripped out of her and she turned her back on the boats.
Coffee—she needed coffee.
She hurried to the marina cafe and was horrified when Dean the barista’s eyes popped at her as if she was a crazy person. ‘You okay, Kate?’
What the hell did she look like?
‘Fine, fine, fine,’ she said reassuringly—before realising that two more ‘fines’ than were strictly necessary did not denote ‘fine’. ‘I just need coffee, Dean.’
‘Really? Because you seem a little wired.’
Forced smile. ‘Really, Dean. Just the coffee.’ Subtext: Give me the damned coffee and shut up.
But as she took her coffee to one of the tables and sipped, Dean kept giving her concerned glances from behind the coffee machine. As if she had a neon sign flashing on her forehead: Beware of woman losing her marbles. Thank heaven her coffee of choice was a nice little macchiato. If she’d had to put up with a cappuccino’s worth of Are you okay? looks she might have gone over and slapped Dean!
As it was, she could chug it down quickly and flee back to her apartment. Where she would look up the official definition of ‘pathetic’! Just to be sure she wasn’t.
Fifteen minutes later she had the dictionary open, her finger running down the column…paternalism…paternity…paternoster…
Aha!
Pathetic: arousing pity, especially through vulnerability or sadness.
In other words, Kate Cleary: sexless on Valentine’s Day. The usually imperturbable Dean, the barista, had instantly clocked her out-of-character vulnerability. And she didn’t need a dictionary to know that she was arousing pity—in herself!
How very…well, pathetic.
Although at least she could dispute the ‘sad’ part of the definition. Because she was not sad. She was sexually frustrated! Completely different from sad. Not that two whole nights without sex was going to kill her. She’d gone way longer than two nights before! Waaaaaay longer. She wasn’t a nymphomaniac! Or…hell! Was she a nymphomaniac?
Nylon…nymph…nymphalid…nymphette… Nymphette? Good Lord—nymphette? Nympholepsy…
Nymphomaniac: a woman who has abnormally excessive and uncontrollable sexual desire.
Ohhh, crap. Maybe she was a nymphomaniac. At her age! That was just…sad.
Oh, God! Sad!
She was a fully-fledged pathetic nymphomaniac.
Kate