The Complete Red-Hot And Historical Collection. Kelly Hunter

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      ‘Kate…’ he said, and his voice shook.

      Such trouble. And she didn’t need trouble.

      Steeling herself, she smiled back. ‘Lorelei,’ she corrected. ‘And that will be two thousand dollars, Mr Knight.’

      The shock on Scott’s face had her shrinking inside, but she forced herself to hold his eyes.

      And then he smiled again—but it was back to the jukebox, pick a smile and whirl. ‘Your prices are too low. I would have paid five. In fact, I will pay five. Because, as I recall, I booked Lorelei’s services for a full night.’

      ‘We don’t stay overnight, Scott…you and I.’ Uh-oh, the wobble.

      ‘Miss Kitty says Lorelei does. And if you want your five thousand dollars that’s what you’re going to have to do.’ He gave her a boost off his lap. ‘So up you go. Whatever you’ve still got on, get it off. Then get into that bed.’

      The next morning, after Lorelei had belted herself into her trench coat and left, Scott threw down three cups of coffee. He needed the caffeine to get his brain and his body functioning again.

      But it didn’t work.

      Something was bothering him. Very deeply.

      And it was… Well, it was Play Time.

      The whole ‘Lorelei’ thing was eating at him. After that one frenzied bout of lovemaking on the rug, when he’d kissed Kate, he’d felt such an overwhelming burst of joy. Kate…in his arms, in his house, and he’d wanted her so damned much.

      And she’d responded by asking him for her fee.

      So he’d decided to get his money’s worth. All night long he’d been at her, taking her with lips, tongue, fingers, his never-ending hard-on. And she’d met him move for move, always receptive—as ‘Miss Kitty’ expected—never saying no, opening her arms, her legs.

      Everything but her mouth.

      Because he’d tried to kiss her many times, and each time she’d pulled away with a coyly admonishing slap on the wrist, the shoulder, the butt, and a reminder of Miss Kitty’s rules.

      He’d tried to talk to her in those respite periods while they’d recharged their burnt-out batteries. About the child custody case. Her mother’s art. Maeve and Molly, Shay and Lilith, Gus and Aristotle. Even about Deb. But every time he’d been frozen into crunchable cubes by her vacant ‘Lorelei’ stare.

      The end result was that although he could have written his own sex manual after experimenting so comprehensively with Kate’s body during the night, he wasn’t satisfied.

      And the flat fact was he didn’t like Play Time.

      There. He’d admitted it.

      He must be certifiable, but he couldn’t seem to whip up enthusiasm for any more fantasy-land stuff. It was like the sexual version of Brodie’s tattoo—nice in theory, but just not him. He must be more of a Knight than he’d thought. Conservative. Boring, even.

      Did Kate find him boring? In bed? Out of it? Both? Because she was suddenly very interested in Play Time. No kissing. No talking. Just role play. Was Play Time the non-nautical equivalent of a yacht heading to the Whitsundays? Taking Kate away from humdrum in the bedroom?

      He put his coffee cup down with a clatter.

      She’d made him pay for it! He almost hadn’t believed it when Kate had demanded his cheque for five thousand dollars—and then had actually taken it when he’d jokingly written it out, before breezing out of the house.

      A house she hadn’t expressed the slightest interest in.

      And his house was worth some level of interest from the woman he was exclusively sleeping with, dammit.

       Not good enough, Kate.

      He wanted to know what she thought about it. And he was going to force her to tell him. Did she like it? Hate it? Want to change it? What?

      Scott gave her three hours—time to slough off that annoying Lorelei—then called her mobile. No answer. So he called her office.

      Deb picked up the phone—and told him in no uncertain terms he wouldn’t be getting a look-in that day because Kate was in back-to-back meetings.

      Well, he wasn’t going to put himself through the embarrassment of having his call go to voicemail, as had been happening with monotonous regularity. He would email her instead. And if she didn’t respond he would… He would… He would do something as yet undetermined! But something, at any rate.

      Calmly, rationally, unemotionally, he tapped out a message suggesting they catch up for dinner that night and fired it off, knowing she’d pick up the email on her smartphone whether she was in a meeting or not.

      And then he waited, refreshing his emails every thirty seconds, working himself into a lather over the fifty-fifty rule she’d probably insist on when the bill came tonight. Well, screw her stupid fifty-fifty rule—he would be picking up the tab. Like a normal guy who wasn’t a complete arsehole would do when he took a woman out for dinner.

      Refresh, refresh, refresh…

      Come on—respond!

      Fifteen minutes later his phone buzzed.

      Text message.

      His stomach clenched as he reached for his phone. Because he just knew.

      And, yep, there it was.

      Play Time. Sunday. Noon. My apartment.

      Scott hurled the phone across the room.

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      KATE SAW THE Whitsundays girls in their usual corner table at Fox on Friday night, cocktails already in hand, and thought, Thank heaven. A rowdy, uncomplicated girls’ night out was exactly what she needed.

      Jessica, who was facing the entrance, was the first to notice her across the crowded floor of the bar area, and she waved enthusiastically as Kate squeezed her way across the floor.

      Willa slid a Manhattan—Kate’s favourite cocktail—to her as she collapsed into her seat.

      Kate, surprised and touched by Willa’s prescience, kissed her.

      ‘I knew you’d need it.’ Willa’s smile was full of sympathy. ‘How did the case end up?’

      Kate eased the elastic from her hair and ran a tired hand through the strands. ‘Victory for Team Cleary.’

      ‘Fantastic!’

      ‘But it was harrowing, even for a jaded cynic of a lawyer.’

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