The Dare Collection December 2019. Clare Connelly

Чтение книги онлайн.

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘IMOGEN? THERE’S A Mr Rothsmore here to see you.’

      Oh, my God. In the midst of studying the floor plans for a new school Chance will be funding in a couple of years, I jump so hard I bang my knee against the edge of my desk. Pain radiates through me. I ignore it, scrambling for the receiver of my desk phone.

      ‘What did you say?’ My voice comes out completely different.

      ‘A Mr Nicholas Rothsmore,’ says my loyal assistant—a woman to whom I offered a job after we met in a shelter for battered women that Chance was involved in supporting; she speaks slowly, as if I might have misunderstood. ‘He has a membership enquiry.’

       Oh, my God.

      ‘I’m in the middle of something,’ I demur, wincing, because The Billionaires’ Club is founded on three tenets: exclusivity, privacy and exceptional customer service. My door is always open to members. ‘I only have a few minutes.’

      ‘I’ll send him in.’ She disconnects the call and I stand up quickly, my mind spinning. I have about ten seconds to get my thoughts in order.

      I’m wearing a cream suit made up of a pencil skirt and a fitted blazer, with a lemon-yellow silk camisole beneath. No bra and my traitorous nipples are already straining against the soft fabric in anticipation of the fact he’s about to be here in my office, my sanctuary. I look around quickly for anything that could give me away.

      I’ve had a manicure since the ball—the nails that were bright pink are now a muted beige. I took great care that night to remove any identifying jewellery. My lips were painted bright red whereas now they bear just a hint of gloss, and my long hair tumbles in waves over one shoulder. I pull on it and then remember my eyes…that he remarked on.

       Crapola.

      I swing around behind my desk and grab my handbag, lifting my oversized Jackie O–style black sunglasses out and pushing them onto my face right as Emily opens the door.

      ‘Mr Rothsmore,’ she announces, a slightly bemused look crossing her face as she sees me in my disguise.

      My voice! Oh, crap. He’s heard me talk. No, he’s heard me scream, over and over. Argh!

      ‘Thank you, Emily.’ I spent a lot of time with my grandparents, just outside St Louis, so the southern drawl isn’t much of a stretch.

      Her bemusement increases. ‘Would you like anything to drink?’ she prompts.

      ‘We won’t have time for that,’ I say, still in a voice that hums with the Deep South. ‘I’ve only got a few minutes.’

      Emily’s trying not to laugh. Crap.

      At least Nicholas doesn’t look any the wiser.

      ‘Well, if y’all change your mind,’ she says, with a wink at me right before she pulls the door shut behind her, leaving me alone with sex god Nicholas Rothsmore in the middle of my Manhattan office. I’m grateful the lenses of my glasses are darkly reflective, so I can stare at him without him having any idea.

      He’s wearing jeans today, low-slung and faded, with a long-sleeved black T-shirt. It’s snowing out, so I imagine he’s left a jacket somewhere, and I imagine it to be distressed leather, something that goes with this billionaire-bad-boy-about-town look.

      I manage not to drool, but my tummy is clenching with serious lust.

      ‘Imogen.’ His voice is crisp, professional, but that doesn’t matter, I hear it filtered through lips that have kissed me all over, sucked my nipples until pleasure exploded through me, and I find myself unable to push those memories away. My breasts ache now and heat fires low in my abdomen.

      He crosses the room, extending a hand for me to shake, and my pulse shoots up a thousand notches; my body temperature skyrockets.

       Act natural. Act natural.

      I skirt around my desk, holding my own hand out, and I realise my fingers are trembling, just a little but enough for me to feel incredibly self-conscious. He doesn’t appear to notice as he shakes my hand.

      ‘Ignore the glasses,’ I explain a little stiltedly. ‘I had an operation.’

      An operation? On what? My corneas?

      If he thinks it’s a weird excuse, he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he presumes I had a big weekend and am wearing sunnies to cope with the hangover.