The Complete Red-Hot And Historical Collection. Kelly Hunter

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      He grabbed his sneakers, shoved his feet inside them, yanked on the laces.

      ‘Well, you’re done—all sorted, all serviced with time to spare—and now I’m going.’

      ‘Scott…’

      But he was out of the room, and her curse was floating behind him.

      ‘Scott—wait,’ she said as she got off the bed, impatiently shedding her ruined dress, wrenching up her bra.

      The door slammed before she was even out of the bedroom.

      He was gone.

      Eyes swimming, she walked over to the dining table, picked up the parcel he’d left there. Opened the brown paper. Removed a…a plaque? Yes, a simple metal plaque. Black type on dull silver. Two words: Castle Cleary.

      Her swimming eyes overflowed.

      To hell with Play Time, Scott thought savagely as he got into his car. And to hell with being made to feel like a male prostitute with an allocated time slot.

      Not that the whole blindfold experience hadn’t been intense. He’d been insane with need by the end of it. So needy it had made no sense to run out when he did. She would have serviced him even without the blindfolds.

      Serviced him.

      And didn’t that say it all?

      She would have serviced him. The way he’d serviced her.

       Scott Knight, Escort Service, at your beck and call.

      So what? his sane self asked.

      It was perfect, wasn’t it? Exactly what he’d wanted? A sex contract. Month to month. No strings. No emotions. Complete control. No pretending they were forever. No need to call her unless it was to schedule a hot bout of sex. No deep and meaningful conversations. No conversations at all, lately—not with Lorelei, not with Officer Cleary. And not with Kate.

      And today not only no speaking, but no looking either!

      Just feeling—which was a good enough euphemism for just sex.

      Just sex.

       Perfect.

      And he was a freaking idiot not to just take that and run with it.

      Scott pulled out his phone. Stabbed the buttons.

      Play Time, my house, Tuesday, 7 p.m.

      Half a minute later, back came a reply.

      Fine.

      ‘Right,’ he said out loud to his face in the rearview mirror.

      But something about his face wasn’t normal. He looked like a freaking psycho killer!

      Well, to hell with that too! He was not going to see that every time he glanced in the rearview mirror on the drive home. He’d have a crash if he had to see that.

      He had to calm the hell down.

      Cursing, he banged out of the car, strode across to the marina, focused on the boats.

      Which made him feel even crazier. And just miserable again.

      Kate had had her first sailing lesson yesterday. With Brodie. How had it gone? What had they talked about? Fireside chats aplenty with Brodie, for sure. Because Brodie was easy to talk to—easier than Scott. Easier, kinder. Better all round.

      Everything inside Scott clenched—including the growl that he wouldn’t let loose from his chest.

      And then he put his face in his hands—because the sight of the boats was suddenly unbearable.

       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      KATE WAS PREPARED for the Monday morning What the hell was that kiss about? calls from Willa and Amy. She offered up a perfectly nuanced laugh as she blamed the lethal combination of Scott’s beer and her Manhattans, positioning it as a Dirty Martini Barnaby moment gone a step too far. And if the girls didn’t sound exactly convinced, at least they let the subject drop.

      She was less prepared for Deb’s darting, anxious eyes as she kept a steady flow of peppermint tea—her favourite stress remedy—pouring into Kate’s office—while very carefully not asking about ‘that nice Scott Knight’. Not that Deb had to ask; Kate was convinced she had psychic powers.

      And she was not at all prepared for her mother’s visit on Tuesday morning.

      Madeline Cleary swept into Kate’s office the way she swept through life: grandly, wearing a caftan, hot-pink lipstick and high heels.

      She took a seat, fixing Kate with one of her don’t mess with me stares. ‘Okay, Kate, what’s this Deb’s been telling me?’

      Deb! Psychic and traitor!

      ‘“This”?’ Kate asked, closing the door sharply—knowing it would drive Deb crazy not being able to listen in, which served her right.

      ‘Scott Knight,’ her mother said.

      ‘He’s an architect.’

      ‘Well, isn’t that lovely? Much more interesting than a barrister. But not really the pertinent fact at the moment, is it, Kate? Don’t bother with any of your legal obfuscation. Just tell me what’s happening.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Okay, then bring him to dinner on Sunday and I’ll ask him instead.’

      ‘That won’t be happening. It’s not like that with us. I mean the…the family thing. It’s just…just…’ The words trailed off and she shrugged.

      Her mother looked at her—very long, very hard. ‘It’s just that he’s the one, perhaps?’

      Kate tried—failed—to laugh. ‘Nothing that romantic.’

      ‘So make it romantic.’

      ‘You can’t make these things happen.’

      ‘Not if you’re pussy-hearted. Which, of course, is not the way I raised my daughters. I raised lionesses.’ She leaned forward. ‘Kate, remember when I tried to dissuade you from going into family law?’

      Eye-roll. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Not because I don’t like lawyers—’

      Another eye-roll. ‘Although you don’t!’

      ‘But because you’re so tender-hearted. I knew you’d be running yourself СКАЧАТЬ