The Deal. Clare ConnellyЧитать онлайн книгу.
charity—strait-laced, professional, no-nonsense. I’m the woman everyone wants to talk to and I only have eyes for him.
He looks the same as always. Disastrously handsome, confident, cocky, hot, and, now that I’ve felt his body up close to mine, I can’t look at him without feeling a rush of desire, a slick of heat between my legs.
He’s talking to Minette Gray, the daughter of a Mexican mining magnate who’s launched a successful Hollywood career for herself. She’s stunning, with a mane of long, silky black hair and skin like crushed onyx, eyes that glisten and bright red lipstick. I look at them and for a second I’m transfixed by what a striking pair they make. In the background, beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lights of Sydney sparkle like something out of a movie. I shift my gaze to them, refusing to acknowledge the sharp stab of jealousy that hits me out of nowhere.
Nicholas Rothsmore is a Player with a capital ‘P’. Isn’t that why I chose him to be my very casual, very temporary lover?
I needed someone who’d be good in bed, discreet and wouldn’t particularly care about my ‘no questions asked’ demand for hot, anonymous sex.
Check, check, check.
Her laugh reaches me across the room and I jerk my eyes back to them on autopilot. He’s leaning closer, whispering in her ear.
Shit.
I spin away, pushing down the unwelcome sense of possessiveness that steals through me, focussing on business. That’s what I’m good at. It’s who I am.
My eyes skate across the room. There are Hollywood A-listers, Grammy-Award-winning singers and musicians, Tony-Award-winning stage actors, royalty, sultans, billionaires, media tycoons. Anyone who’s anyone is here, and a tingle of pride shimmies through me because this is all because of me—and all for Abbey.
I think of my best friend, as I often do, of the way she died, the pain she felt, and I square my shoulders. I might have sacrificed a personal life but it’s been worth it.
Nicholas Rothsmore was fun, but that’s over now.
I pull my phone from my clutch and load up The Billionaires’ Club app that runs the forums. Miss Anonymous has a profile with a picture of a stiletto—I have a predilection for heels. She’s served her purpose now. I’m done with Miss Anonymous, done with the future Lord Rothsmore.
I click into the brief bio and scroll to the bottom, where a red button invites me to ‘delete profile’.
I click and she’s gone. Miss Anonymous has had her fun and now it’s time to get on with my life.
If cities were animals, New York would be a gazelle. Fast, nimble, elegant, stunning. I stare down at this adopted city of mine, contemplating the first solo Saturday night I’ve had in…for ever.
It’s been a week since Sydney, and I’ve been flat out closing the Hewitson merger, but that’s done now. Usually, I mark my business triumphs with the kind of partying that would make my grandparents roll over in their graves.
Champagne, women, music.
I frown, surveying the empty penthouse. Only the kitchen lights are on, so it looks somehow more cavernous than normal.
I won.
This deal has been in the works for three years. Three years of meetings, negotiations, hard slog and now it’s with the lawyers and I can relax. And celebrate.
Out of nowhere, I close my eyes and remember what I was doing this time last week. I remember her pale body splayed against the dark sheets of the Intimate Rooms in the Sydney base of The Billionaires’ Club and my body is tighter than granite, aching, not just for sex but for her.
Miss Anonymous.
I was right that not knowing her name was part of the appeal, but now the not knowing is driving me crazy. Because I want to see her again.
I want to fuck her again.
A smile lifts my lips, because I don’t just want to fuck her, I want to have her every which way until she’s incoherent with pleasure.
In one month, I turn thirty and England beckons. Lord Rothsmore awaits. In one month, I’ll become the man my parents want me to be—or something more like him, anyway. But for the next four weeks I’m still a free agent, and I know just how I want to spend it.
Determination fires my step. I stride indoors, the temperature change marked. My cell phone is across the room. I lift it, loading up the app and selecting our private message conversation.
Except it’s no longer a conversation with an exchange of words. My comments remain but hers are gone. Italics proclaim These messages have been deleted.
I hadn’t expected that. Why?
Okay, that’s weird. But it doesn’t change how I feel and what I want.
‘Fancy round two, Miss Anonymous?’
I figure her American accent makes it likely she lives here in the States. I can get my helicopter to my jet and travel anywhere. The minute I think it, I realise how desperate I am to see her again.
Even though I’ve spent the last five years fucking my way around the world, I freely admit last weekend was the best sex I’ve ever had. There was something so illicit and hot about it.
Her mask, her hair, her body…
I groan into the night air, looking back at the screen.
Message undeliverable
What?
With a frown, I click out of our message chat and surf to her profile instead. It doesn’t come up when I type ‘Miss Anonymous’. Adrenalin shifts in my gut.
I go to the list of members using the app and scroll through it slowly, my eyes looking for the stiletto she used as a profile picture. Which makes me think of the sky-high shoes she wore as I ran my hands over her clit, feeling her pulsing beneath me as she exploded with pleasure, and I’m so close to coming at just that memory.
I have to find her.
But where the hell is she?
She can’t have left the club. It’s not like that. The entry process is gruelling and elaborate. No one signs up and leaves.
So?
Her profile might have been anonymous but it must have been created by a legitimate member of the club. Even the online avatars are vetted. So who the hell is she? And where did she go?
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