Undressed by the Boss (Mills & Boon By Request) (40 page)

Those legs … he’d caressed those legs, kissed them, nibbled them, had them hold him in a vice-like grip, had explored
every gorgeous inch of them, and he clenched his hands into fists to stop from reaching out and touching her.

‘Yeah, well, I came into a lot of money because some crazy, spontaneous, sexy guy bought all the unsold pieces from my last collection and, seeing as I love to do spur-of-the-moment things, I thought I’d blow a major part of my earnings on a first-class upgrade.’

While her mouth curved into its signature sassy smile, uncertainty flickered in her beautiful green eyes.

Despite her bravado in showing up here like this, the woman he loved was nervous. And she had no need to be. She’d taken this gigantic step in following him and he would never let her down.

‘I’m glad you’re here.’

Her mouth drooped in disappointment and he cursed, grabbing her hand to anchor himself, his thoughts.

‘That didn’t come out right. Guess I’m so blown away by you being here I can’t think straight, let alone put into words what I’m feeling.’

‘Then let me.’

She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his, a gentle, sensual kiss that had heat searing his body from his head to his feet and concentrating on the bits in between.

He needed little encouragement to deepen the kiss and as she grabbed at the front of his shirt, bunching it in her fists and dragging him closer, he lost it, crushing her close, tasting her, caressing her, unable to get enough. Never enough.

The sound of a discreet little cough penetrated his lust-hazed mind and he pulled back reluctantly, raising his gaze to meet the hostess’s rather bland one, as if she’d seen it all before.

‘Champagne?’

Beth laughed, a joyous sound that made his heart sing, not in the least embarrassed as she reached across him. ‘Love one, thanks. Professor?’

‘Thank you,’ he said, noting the spark of interest in the hostess’s eyes as she looked him over, probably wondering if he was really a professor whisking a student off for a little lovin’ South American style.

‘She thinks we’re having an affair.’ Beth smirked at him from behind her flute, her green eyes sparkling.

‘Well, she’s mistaken. We’re in a relationship.’

‘Yes, we are.’

She held his gaze and he sighed in relief, eternally grateful she’d changed her mind.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, she said, ‘I owe you an explanation.’

‘You don’t owe me anything.’

He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, loving it when she rested against him for a moment before straightening.

‘Actually, I do. You’ve been incredibly patient and I’ve behaved like a brat. I want us to start afresh and to do that you have to know what you’re getting into with me.’

‘Okay, shoot.’

Draining the rest of her champagne, she placed the flute on the console rest before laying a reassuring hand on his leg.

‘I’ve never been involved in a relationship before.’

‘Ever?’

She shook her head, blonde hair cascading around her shoulders like the finest gold.

‘It’s all a bit Freudian, actually. My parents had the perfect relationship. You know, the real soul-mate thing, and
as a kid I wanted something exactly like it but that all changed when Mum died.’

‘Why?’

He laid his hand on top of hers, hoping his soothing touch was all the incentive she needed to keep going no matter how painful.

‘She was the love of my dad’s life. He shut down emotionally when he lost her, then tried to make up for it by beginning a never-ending quest for something else to fill the void. I just happened to be along for the ride. Having me around was never enough.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Beth raised her gaze from where she’d been focussed on their joined hands, admiring the strength in Aidan’s and how perfectly hers fitted in it.

‘I am too. Everything I’ve done since he died, how I’ve lived my life, the choices I’ve made, were all shaped by him. Or not wanting to be like him, to be precise.’

‘But you’re nothing like your dad if he shut down. You’re bright and bubbly and live life on full throttle.’

‘Yeah, but somehow the “life’s short, play hard” motto didn’t work when I met you.’

‘Why?’

He frowned and she reached up to smooth it away. ‘Because I was terrified of how you made me feel. You’re the guy I’ve dreamed of meeting my entire life, the guy I want to stick around with for the long haul. The guy who makes me dream of that house with the attic and the oak tree and the old tyre hanging from it. The guy who loves adventure as much as I do but who I was scared of losing because of it.’

‘That’s not going to happen.’

He captured her hand as it left his brow and drew it towards his mouth where he placed a slow, lingering kiss on her palm.

‘You’re not going to lose me.’

‘I meant by you travelling around, putting your needs ahead of mine—’

‘That’s not going to happen. We’re a team, a partnership. The gallery is just the start.’

He nibbled his way up towards her wrist, his lips hot against her throbbing pulse as he nibbled the skin over it.

‘I better not lose you.’ She smiled as he nipped at her wrist. ‘You know, I hear archaeology is a dangerous profession. You could fall down one of those giant big holes you dig while searching for some relic. You could get crushed by an ancient ruin tumbling on your head. You could—’

‘Fall even harder than I already have,’ he murmured, silencing her with the type of kiss she could only dream about.

‘Fall?’

‘In love with you.’

Her breath caught as the warmth of his smile reflected in his eyes, bathing her in the reassurance she so badly needed.

‘I love you too.’

She cupped his face in her hands, holding him, beseeching him to understand what it meant for her to verbalise her feelings out loud. ‘And if you’re willing to take a risk on an extroverted, fun-loving metal sculptor with a shoe fetish, I’m all yours.’

‘No risk.’

He captured her hands and slowly slid them down his torso till they rested over his heart, the steady beat another reminder of how good this guy was for her.

He would show her the world and a million different ways
to enjoy it; she would build a home for them when they tired of travelling.

He’d feed her thirst for adventure, she’d feed his soul with fabulous reasons to come home.

Yin and Yang.

Two perfect halves making a whole.

‘No risk at all. We’re a sure thing.’

‘Too right,’ she said, sliding her hands out from under his to delve into her bag. ‘By the way, I got you a little going-away present.’

Biting on the inside of her cheek to stop from laughing, she handed him the small black foil-wrapped parcel, which he turned over several times, prodded and shook before slowly pulling on the gold ribbon binding it.

‘Hurry it up. We’ll be in Rio by the time you open it.’

‘Haven’t you heard the old saying good things come to those who wait …?’

The rest of what he’d been about to say died on his lips as the wrapping fell open to reveal a matching pair of exquisite amethyst silk scarves, which he picked up and slid through his fingers, the slow, sensuous movement causing heat to flow through her body as he stared at her with desire.

‘Does this mean you want to tie me up?’

‘For ever,’ she murmured, tugging on the scarves, bringing him close enough to kiss.

‘Sounds like a plan.’

And as the plane taxied down the runway, they made a few more.

‘Six months on the road at digs, six months in Melbourne for you to sculpt?’

‘Deal.’

‘We keep the gallery and use it to showcase our talents?’

‘Deal.’

‘We give this relationship a trial before doing the “till death do us part” thing?’

‘No deal.’

Hating the momentary panic flaring on his face, she said, ‘Who needs a trial? Some smart guy once said we’re both adventurers. So how about it? You in this for the long haul?’

‘With you by my side I’m up for anything.’

‘Really?’

She sent a pointed glance at his groin, raising an eyebrow.

‘You’re killing me, Fancy Feet.’

‘Not yet, but it’s a long flight, Professor,’ she said, draping a blanket over his lap and sliding her hand up his thigh.

He clamped a hand over hers, laughing when she struggled and the blanket became a tug of war.

‘I can get used to this.’ He angled in for a swift kiss, which disarmed her completely. ‘Travelling together, having
fun
together …’

‘I’m all for fun.’ She tugged the blanket back over both of them and snuggled into him, more content than she’d ever been. ‘And I’m also all yours.’

‘Right back at you.’

And as Aidan hugged her close, the plane soared skywards and Beth hummed ‘Love is in the Air’ under her breath she knew without a shadow of a doubt that some risks were worth taking.

All the way.

As a child,
ANNA CLEARY
loved reading so much that during the midnight hours she was forced to read with a torch under the bedcovers, to lull the suspicions of her sleep-obsessed parents. From an early age she dreamed of writing her own books. She saw herself in a stone cottage by the sea, wearing a velvet smoking jacket and sipping sherry, like Somerset Maugham.

In real life she became a schoolteacher, and her greatest pleasure was teaching children to write beautiful stories.

A little while ago, she and one of her friends made a pact to each write the first chapter of a romance novel in their holidays. From writing her very first line Anna was hooked, and she gave up teaching to become a fulltime writer. She now lives in Queensland, with a deeply sensitive and intelligent cat. She prefers champagne to sherry, and loves music, books, four-legged people, trees, movies and restaurants.

For Beth, the heroine of my heart.

T
OM RUSSELL
stood
BY
his father’s grave and surveyed the rolling pastures. The morning was fresh with smells of earth and grass. All the way to the boundary fence the grass sprang tall, its lush green enriched by its contrast with the flat brown stubble of the farmer’s on the other side. His private creek, fed by the mighty Hunter, was awash, little waterfalls gurgling down its pebbly path, the willows on its bank glowing with new greenery, soaking their privileged toes.

Horse country. Heartland of the Russell newspaper dynasty. And now it was his.

If he could hang onto it.

He drew the crumpled paper from his jeans pocket and smoothed it out. Though he knew them by heart, the spidery words sprang out to gut him afresh.

As always when he reached that line, Tom crushed the letter in his fist and shoved it back into his pocket. The irony of it.

Another woman.

That was always his father’s solution.

As if there could be a woman to replace Sandra. But he could rebuild his inheritance. He could use what was left to claw it all back. In the meantime, he could trade on his reputation and his finance skills to keep what was left of the corporation ticking over. Marry it off to the highest bidder, if necessary. Keep the cash flowing, pay the salaries … Pay the bequests to his stepsisters.

It could be done. It
could.

If he could keep his father’s last act a secret. All he needed were weeks. Just a few more weeks …

M
ARCUS RUSSELL
was dead. Tom, his brilliant, ruthless son, had taken charge of his empire. On the Friday morning of the memorial service, two weeks after the old media magnate had been buried under a Hunter Valley gum tree, cathedral bells rang out across Sydney Harbour, summoning the rich and powerful to pay their respects.

In the dressing room of his hotel suite, Tom Russell gave his reflection a critical last glance. His charcoal suit was cut with the required elegance, enhancing the athletic power of his well-made frame. Likewise, his ebony shirt of finest Italian fabric, his pearl silk tie and hand-stitched shoes. If his blood pressure was slightly elevated, the tense little beat in his temple was contained. His steel-grey eyes held the usual degree of sardonic assurance, his harsh, tanned face the control.

No one would guess the nightmare he was living.

He held out his hands and accorded them grim approval. Steady as a rock.

With his raven hair cut crisp and close, he was as groomed, sleek and polished as any of the race of highflying billionaires he belonged to.
Used
to belong to. And would again.

He clenched his lean hands. If—
if
he could keep the lid on.

* * *

From her desk at the
Sydney Clarion’s
newsroom, Cate Summerfield could see the Russell yacht, its flags at half-mast, embarked on a graceful honour lap of Sydney Harbour.

‘Just look at that,’ Cate glowered, narrowing her green eyes. ‘It’s probably worth enough to feed Africa for a decade.’

The schooner bowed to the swell, its white sails billowing against the glittering blue. It had been reported that Tom Russell had outfitted the luxury vessel into a floating hospital, so the waves could lull his dying father to sleep on the days he could find no rest.