The Dare Collection December 2019. Clare Connelly

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      I love to swim. I was on my college team, and it’s one of the few activities I regularly make time for. There’s something about it I find meditative and calming, and I find being underwater, away from noise and other people, is also an excellent opportunity for deep thinking. I have at least three quarters of my ideas while submerged in my apartment complex’s huge swimming pool.

      Usually, I wear a one-piece, a habit that’s a hangover from my college team days.

      But for tonight, I’ve chosen a barely there string bikini, bright red. It felt bizarre pulling it out of the drawer given the weather—we’re in the midst of a cold snap that feels as if it’ll never end.

      But his premise has intrigued me.

      More than I wanted it to. I had a huge afternoon with some investors in the charity and I had to concentrate—almost impossible with my phone buzzing in my pocket and the memories of a few nights ago shifting against me.

      I’m wearing the bikini beneath a black jersey dress and a floor-length trench coat, with a pair of gold stilettos. My hair is pinned into a bun high on my head, loose and casual.

      The buzzer sounds and I move towards it. ‘I’ll be right down.’

      ‘Okay.’ Even that single word made up of two syllables, spoken through telephone cabling at a distance of forty odd floors of concrete, has the power to double the speed of my pulse.

      I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder, moving quickly to the elevator.

      Mr Silverstein looks at me thoughtfully as I click my way across the marbled lobby.

      ‘Good evening, Miss Carmichael.’

      ‘Hi, Mr Silverstein. Keeping warm?’ I nod to the inclement weather—it’s dark now, but the glass has a frost to it showing that the temperature is arctic.

      ‘As warm as can be, ma’am. Out again?’

      I nod, my eyes darting to the revolving door. I see his dark car parked right outside. My heart soars. ‘Yeah.’

      ‘Take care, miss.’

      I smile, because for the first time in years, I’m doing exactly that. Taking care of myself. My needs. My wants. Things I hadn’t even realised I felt or needed to tend to. And, sure, in three weeks there’ll be the Christmas gala ball and this will end, and my time with Nicholas Rothsmore will be like an island in my life, girt by water and isolation on all sides, but it will still be there—a month of hazy, heady sex, of total indulgence and hedonism, a secret, joyous letting down of my hair.

      ‘Goodnight.’

      He opens the door for me and I don’t look back.

      Nicholas steps out of the car as soon as I appear on the pavement, his eyes crinkling at the corners with the force of his smile. ‘Did you bring your swimming costume?’

      ‘Did you expect me to be wearing only a swimsuit?’ I tease. ‘It’s kind of cold, or hadn’t you noticed?’

      He pulls me to him abruptly, suddenly, jerking my body to his and wrapping his arms around my midsection so I’m tight to his hardness, contoured perfectly. ‘Is it?’

      Heat belies my statement. I feel it as surely as if the sun had burst out from the other side of the earth, channelling the heat of a few weeks ago, in Sydney.

      He releases me just as abruptly, but not before he’s placed a quick kiss on my forehead—just enough to send need lurching through me.

      ‘You look beautiful.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      He opens the back door to his limo and I step in, noting there’s a small box of my favourite champagne truffles on the back seat.

      Once we’re in and the car is moving, he hands them over.

      ‘For me?’

      He grins. ‘Second date.’

      ‘Ah.’ I take them, dipping my head forward with a smile. ‘Perfect.’

      ‘Never date a guy who doesn’t bring you truffles.’

      ‘Duly noted.’

      ‘How СКАЧАТЬ