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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 smi
le. ‘Perfect.’
‘Never date a guy who doesn’t bring you truffles.’
‘Duly noted.’
‘How are you?’
His question, so simple—just a basic function of civility and etiquette—etches through me because of the way in which he asks it. As if he really cares about the answer.
‘Good. Busy day. You?’
‘Less busy than it should have been, thanks to some very distracting fantasies I struggled to ignore.’
My ego bursts, higher than an eagle. ‘Lovely.’
