Fuck.
I fake a smile.
Who in the hell does this asshole think he is?
“I said sit. Back. Down.”
Well, I say go fuck yourself, you giant condescending twat. I raise an eyebrow as he glares at me, and I smile sweetly. Then, with deliberation, I walk toward the door.
He narrows his eyes and then recovers and goes back to his speech. “As I was saying,” he continues.
I go into the corridor that leads out of the room, just out of his sight, and listen to his speech.
For ten minutes, I fume in silence, unable to concentrate on anything he’s saying.
Just the sight of this man brings out a temper in me that I never even knew I had.
I peek around the corner and watch him walk back and forth on the stage. His voice is deep and commanding. One hand is in the pocket of his expensive suit trouser pocket; the other he moves around in the air with animation as he talks.
He’s handsome and has this powerful edge to his personality.
He’s comfortable taking center stage; in fact, he’s probably comfortable on every stage.
The crowd is silent as they all hang on his every word. They take notes and laugh on cue. The women all look up at him in awe, wanting him, and the men all want to be him.
Me . . . I just want to punch him in his pretty-boy face.
I hate that everything comes easy for him. He was born into this entitled family. Wealthy beyond measure and charismatic as all hell. It’s just not fair that he is ridiculously handsome to add to the mix.
I get a vision of him and the girls he must have falling at his feet. He must be a real player—probably has five girls on the go at a time.
I go over our last conversation that we had over the phone.
“I wanted to see if you would like to have dinner with me on Saturday night,” he asked.
“You’re asking me out on a date?”
“I don’t like the way we met. I would like to start again.”
“You have got to be kidding. I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth. Money and looks don’t impress me, Mr. Miles.”
“Our meeting was nothing personal, Claire.”
“It was very personal to me. Go and find a bimbo to wine and dine, Tristan. I have no interest in dating a cold, soul-sucking bastard like you.”
That was so cool.
I find myself smiling goofily into space. He asked me out. Tristan Miles asked me out, and I know it was just so that he could try to schmooze his way under my radar, but damn it felt good knocking him back.
“Claire Anderson.” I hear a voice from the stage.
Huh?
I look up to the stage in horror. Wait . . . did he ask me something?
How can he see me?
He’s moved and is now on another stage and in my line of sight.
Shit.
He holds his hand in the air, palm up. “Please share.”
“I beg your pardon.” I frown. “I didn’t hear the question.”
A trace of a smile crosses his face as his eyes hold mine.
“I asked everyone to recall a time when they felt satisfied. A time when they were really proud of themselves.”
“Oh.” My eyes widen.
“And, judging by your grin, I’m assuming you recalled something amazing.”
I stare at him.
“Please.” He rolls his hand out in an overexerted way. “Let us share in your pride.”
Asshole.
I glare at him. Is he for real?
He puts both hands into his suit pockets and begins to pace. “We’re waiting, Claire,” he says in a condescending tone. I feel my underarms heat with perspiration as everyone in the room waits for my answer. Holy shit, this man is infuriating.
“The last time I felt really satisfied was when I refused a date with a cold, soul-sucking bastard. Even if he was the last man on earth,” I announce.
Our eyes lock, and he raises an eyebrow.
Game on, asshole . . . don’t fuck with me.
“Ah . . . but, Claire, how sad that the best thing you recall about your own life experiences is one that revolved around another. I think that says a lot more about you than it does him. I want a real answer this afternoon. Reflect on it until then.”
He smiles out at the audience, completely unfazed.
I step back, infuriated. What in the actual fuck does he think I’m going to learn from reflecting on what kind of person I am? I know who I am, and I’m completely happy with her.
This conference is just so typically him.
“And besides.” He gives me a slow, sexy smile as he continues to pace back and forth across the stage. “You’ll probably be begging that soul-sucking bastard to ask you back out one day . . . not that he ever would.”
The crowd laughs, and he moves on to his next victim. “You, the girl with the long blonde hair. What is your proudest memory? And I want you to really dig deep on the answer.”
I feel my blood pressure rise. Perspiration begins to bead on my forehead, and I want to march down and kick Mr. Fancy Pants straight up the ass and knock him off the stage.
Damn him . . . can I not have one fucking week away from life and forget who I am?
Why the hell is he here?
Over the next hour, Tristan Miles holds the audience captive, and I stare into space as I imagine myself torturing him to a grizzly death.
I should have stayed in my seat. Not only do I have to listen to his crap—I now have to stand up for it. I’ll just look stupid if I walk out now.
Wind it up already.
He’s only here today, and then he goes back to New York, I remind myself. I’m so annoyed with myself that I gave him the satisfaction of saying he wouldn’t ask me out again anyway.
How uncool can a person be?
God, he’s probably happily married by now . . . to a supermodel or an Instagrammer.
Ugh, I hate this guy. He turns me into an idiot.
“There will be a short recess now. Morning tea is catered in the lounge, and then we will go into our goal workshops. We set our goals on the first day and then again on day five to see how much you’ve grown.” He looks at his watch. “See you in the Boronia Room in half an hour from now.”
I exhale heavily and make my way down to the lounge for morning tea. Everyone is chatting and happy. I make myself a coffee, grab a slice of chocolate cake, and then stand in the corner and take out my phone. I google massage parlors in this area.
Screw this; I’m out of here.
My only goal for today is to get a massage and drink two liters of champagne.
I sip my coffee and click on the list that comes up.
Tristan walks into the room, and all heads turn. He has this powerful aura that surrounds him; you can’t help but look his way. His dark-brown hair is short on the back and sides, with a bit of length to it on the top. It has that perfect just-fucked look.
His posture is straight, and his jaw is square and strong. He has the biggest brown eyes I have ever seen. His eyes find mine across the room, and he holds me to attention. His stare is potent; I can feel the heat of it on my skin. Electricity bounces between us, and I snap my eyes away angrily.
Damn him for being good looking.
“Hello.” A male voice comes from beside me. “Mind if I join you?”
Oh, it’s the man I met at reception yesterday. What was his name again? “Not at all.” I smile. “Please.”
“I’m Nelson. We met yesterday.”
“Yes. I remember. Hi, Nelson. I’m Claire.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll say.” He chuckles. “Mr. Miles picked on you a bit in there.”
“Oh.” I sip my coffee, wishing the earth would swallow me up whole. “Did he? I didn’t notice.” I try to act casual.
“I mean, I’m not one to openly fawn over someone, but,” he gushes, “have you read his portfolio?”
“No.” I sip my coffee and glance up, straight into the gaze of Tristan. Our eyes lock for a few seconds, and then one of the five women clambering around him says something, pulling his gaze from me, and I snap my eyes away.
“He’s got six degrees and speaks five languages,” Nelson continues. “Has an IQ of one hundred and seventy. That’s even higher than a genius; that’s like a mentalist.” He nods, as if he is relaying some life-changing information.
“Wow.” I fake a smile.
Oh please, give me a break. I widen my eyes . . . big fucking deal. Go away, Nelson; you’re annoying, and I want to google massages. I’ve got better things to do than talk about mental smart assholes.
Get drunk, for one.
“I’m not actually feeling well,” I lie.
“Oh really?” Nelson’s face falls. “Are you okay?”
“I have a migraine.”
“Oh no.”
“Yes, I always get them when I fly. It’s so annoying. I’ll be fine, but I might have to lie down, so if I go missing this afternoon, you’ll know where I am. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“Of course, yes.” He thinks for a moment. “I’ll let them know.”
Three hours later, the strong hands go up the center of my spine and then slowly slide down around my naked hips.
The room is darkened, the relaxing music has a deep sensual beat, and the smell of the masseur’s aftershave is doing things to my lady parts.
Pierre’s hands slide up my back. He drizzles hot oil, and it gives me a thrill as I close my eyes.
Now . . . this . . . is more like it.
“Is this all right?” he asks in his strong French accent.
“Perfect,” I breathe.
Oh man, this is more than perfect; this is spectacular. I’m doing this every day.
Screw the conference.
His hands roam down my back, and I smile into the table.
My phone rings in my bag. It’s loud and would be annoying to people in the other rooms. “Oh, sorry.” I wince. “It will stop in a minute.”
It rings all the way out and then starts to ring again. Shit. “Sorry.” We wait for it to stop, and it starts again. Damn it, what if something’s wrong back home? “I’m sorry; can you pass me my bag, please?”
He picks up my bag and passes it to me, and I dig around for my phone. I don’t recognize the number. “Hello.” I lie back down.
“Where are you?” Tristan barks. “You are missing the workshops.”
Oh shit. “Umm . . .”
“And don’t even think about lying to me, Claire. I know you’re not in your hotel room.”
I frown at his tone. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? “Excuse me?”
“Where are you?” he sneers.
“I’m getting a massage, actually.”
“What?” he gasps.
“Your lecture was intolerable and completely boring. I have better things to do. Goodbye, Mr. Miles.”
“Claire Anderson,” he begins to scold me, and I press “End Call.” I turn my phone on silent and throw it onto the chair in the corner. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”
Pierre’s strong hands go down over my ribs and then lower to my hip bones, and I feel a twinge of arousal sweep through me.
I smile with my eyes closed. Hmm . . . it really is fun being a bitch.
Pierre’s hands roam over my stomach.
Now this . . . is relaxing.
Tristan
I stand near the bar with my drink in hand. “So then I got another fifty thousand followers from that boost alone,” Saba says.
“Wow, that’s fantastic,” Melanie replies.
I’m standing with four beautiful women, but I’m bored as hell. I fly out first thing in the morning.
My eyes scan the room. Where is she?
“So, Mr. Miles, are you married?”
My eyes snap back to the blonde in front of me. “Please, call me Tristan. And no, not married.”
“A girlfriend, perhaps?” Saba asks.
“No.” I sip my drink. “Very single.”
“Really?” Saba says in a sexy voice. “Me too. Talk about great timing.”
I fake a smile. “It’s always a great time to be single, isn’t it?”
The girls all laugh on cue, and I look around the room. If she doesn’t come tonight, I’m going to be pissed.
“I just broke off my engagement,” Melanie replies.
I look her over. She’s blonde and beautiful—my usual type—and I make myself nod as I act interested.
“I just really want to focus on my goals right now, and my ex just wasn’t moving in the right circles—you know what I mean? He wanted a house in the suburbs with three kids, and I want more from life than that,” she continues. “I want a global empire.”
“Oh, totally,” the girls all agree.
“I had that too with my ex. Why don’t they get it?” one of the other girls says.
Oh fuck . . . get me out of here.
I wave at a colleague. “I’m going to see my friend.” I turn to walk off.
“Tristan,” Saba calls.
I turn back to her.
“Maybe we could do some revision of the notes I took today.” She smiles sexily. “Later, in my room.”
“Ahh . . .” I look between the women.
“I mean . . .” She shrugs. “We could all go over our notes together.” She pulls her fingers through her hair. “The four of us girls and you. Like a group thing.” The girls all smile sexily.
“Could make for a great night,” Melanie whispers.
“I have no doubt.” I smirk as I look among them. “Let’s see how the night goes, shall we?”
I turn and walk over to one of the other lecturers as I hear them giggle behind me. “Hey,” Elouise says.
“Hi.” I sip my drink.
“Let me guess; they’re all throwing themselves at you?”
“No.” I keep a straight face. “What makes you say that?”
“Because I’ve never seen a man so hit on in my life.” She grins wryly. “The women you attract are shameless.”
I chuckle into my drink. Elouise is a psychologist, perhaps fifty to fifty-five years old. She’s at a lot of conferences I go to, as she does the personality-trait testing. She sees a lot on the circuit. “Trust me, Elouise; it gets very boring after a while.” I glance around again and see Claire in the corner, talking with a group of men.
She’s here.
I watch her as she talks.
Her shoulder-length dark hair is full, and she’s wearing a black dress. It’s not showy or sexy. She’s understated. Sensible and undeniably alluring. So very different from the women I’m used to. My eyes roam up and down her body. She’s older than me, but I’m not sure by how much. Maybe a couple of years?
Elouise and I continue to talk, but my eyes stay fixed on Claire Anderson across the room. She’s talking and laughing with a man.
Who is he?
Hmm . . .
I’m going to go and talk to her. “Back in a moment,” I say as I head off in her direction. Just as I approach her, someone calls me.
“Mr. Miles.”
I turn and see an attractive blonde. She already hit on me at lunch. “Oh, hello,” I reply, feeling uncomfortable being in earshot of Claire.
“Melissa,” she says. “We met at lunch.”
“Yes, I remember, Melissa.” I smile.
The man who was standing with Claire walks to the bar, and she glances up, clearly hearing the woman and me.
“What are you doing later?” she asks. “Can we meet up for a drink?”
Claire rolls her eyes and turns her back to us.
Fuck . . .
“No, I don’t mix business and pleasure.” I fake a smile and keep walking to Claire. “Hello.”
She looks up at me deadpan, having heard what was just said. “Hi.” She sips her drink, unimpressed, and turns her gaze straight ahead.
“How was your massage?” I ask.
“Great.” She sips her drink.
God . . . she’s so rude.
“Are you going to look at me while I speak to you?” I ask.
Her eyes rise to meet mine, and my stomach unexpectedly flutters. “What do you want, Mr. Miles?”
I stare at her, confused as to what my stomach is doing. “Tristan. Call me Tristan.”
“No,” she replies flatly. “Calling you Tristan would mean that I want to be on a first-name basis with you.” Her tongue swipes over her bottom lip, and I feel it in my crotch. “And I don’t.”
“Claire.”
“Call me Mrs. Anderson.”
“Why are you being so rude?”
“I’m not being rude; I’m being honest. Would you prefer that I lie?”
Well . . . blow me down.
“Maybe,” I reply.
“It’s so lovely to see you, Tris. Let’s hang out and sing ‘Kumbaya’ around a campfire. I’ve missed your good looks and witty charm,” she replies without missing a beat. She smiles sweetly and bats her eyelashes for effect.
I smirk and clink my glass with hers. “Cheers. That’s more like it. Glad you’re getting into the spirit.”
She moves her chin in a come-here gesture, and I lean in, waiting for what she has to tell me. “Go away, Mr. Miles,” she whispers.
I chuckle, excited for the first time in a very long time. “No.”
Her gaze goes in front of her again. “I see you’re still as annoying as ever.”
“And I see you’re still taking those bitch pills.”
“Ah, yes.” She sighs. “Let’s blame my distaste for you on meds, shall we? There couldn’t possibly be another reason why you repulse me, could there now?”
My eyebrows rise in surprise. Women just don’t speak to me like this. “Repulse is a rather strong word, isn’t it?” I say as I join her in staring straight ahead. “I think the word you meant to use is fascinate.”
Her mouth curls up at the corners, and I know she’s struggling not to smile. “Go away, Mr. Miles,” she repeats.
“Do I fascinate you, Claire?”
“Call me Mrs. Anderson,” she whispers. “And you don’t have what it takes to fascinate me.”
Our eyes lock, and for the second time tonight my stomach flutters.
She has this aura surrounding her, elusive and enticing.
Controlling.
I bet she’d be fucking wild in bed. I get a vision of us together, naked, and I feel the throb of arousal between my legs. I purse my lips to hide my delight.
“Goodbye.” She walks off through the crowd, and I stare after her.
All right . . . I’ll admit it.
That woman is insanely fucking hot.
I watch her walk across the room as I troll my mind for a plan. This is possibly the only place I am going to see her. Hmm . . . what to do.
I take out my phone and call my brother. He answers after the first ring. “Hello, Tris.”
“Jameson,” I say as I watch her strike up a conversation with another man. “Change of plans.”
“How so?”
“I was only going to stay at the conference for the opening day.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve decided that I’m staying on for the week. There is an . . .” I pause as I search for the right wording. “Opportunity . . . that I would like to investigate further.”
“Okay, when will you be back?”
“Monday, next week.”
“Yeah, of course. Listen, I’m in a meeting. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay.” I hang up and put my phone back into my pocket, and my eyes rise to watch Claire Anderson across the room once more.
This conference just got interesting.
Claire
“I’m just going to get a drink,” Nelson says. “Do you want another?”
“Okay, thank you.”
“I’ll be back shortly,” he replies, and I watch him as he walks over to the bar.
He’s a nice guy.
I’m surprised—this has actually been a great night. We had dinner, and then there was dancing. I’ve been chatting with everyone, being sociable. Marley would be so proud of me.
“Ahh, alone at last.” I hear a voice. I glance over to see Tristan Miles standing beside me. Great. I roll my eyes.
“Where did your disciple go?” he asks as he sips his drink.
“Who’s that?” I frown.
“The boring Goody Two-shoes.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so that I don’t smile. He hit the nail on the head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Nelson Mandela or whatever his name is.” He waves his glass in the air toward Nelson.
Unable to help it, I smile. “I have no idea what his surname is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not Mandela, Mr. Miles.”
“I told you to call me Tristan.”
“And I told you to go away.”
“You know . . .” He pauses, as if getting the wording right. “If I wasn’t at a work conference and being professional, I’d have a lot to ask you.”
“Such as?” I question.
“I’m working,” he says as he straightens his tie.
Eager to know what he wants to say, I reply, “Consider yourself off the clock. Anything you say to me will be considered a private matter.”
“Why do you hate me so much?”
“Well, there’s a lot to dislike.”
“Such as?”
“You want my company, Mr. Miles.”
“No.” He sips his drink. His tone makes me think he’s annoyed. “I made an honest offer for your company, and you rejected it. End of story. I haven’t approached you since, and I have respected your wishes.”
Our eyes are locked. I can feel the energy, and it bounces between us. It’s almost as if our bodies are speaking to each other without words. I can pretend not to notice it all I want, but the truth is Tristan Miles is a sensory overload.
Feeling foolish for my over-the-top hatred, I reply, “If you must know, I find you rather annoying.”
His mouth falls open as he fakes shock. “Are you always so coldhearted, Claire?”
I chuckle. “I think we both know who is coldhearted out of the two of us.”
His eyes hold mine, and then he raises his eyebrow. “What about your blood?”
“What about my blood?”
“Does your blood run hot?”
He’s so naughty.
Hmm . . . I hate to admit it, but there is definitely something about this guy.
I smile broadly at his audacity. “I don’t think you need to know about the temperature of my blood.”
“Oh, but a man does wonder.” He sips his drink with his eyes locked on mine. The air swirls between us. “Perhaps we should talk about it . . . outside.” He gives me a slow, sexy smile and then raises his eyebrow. “Off the clock, of course.”
“You want to go outside and talk about the temperature of my blood, Mr. Miles?”
“Yes,” he whispers as his eyes drop to my lips.
I lean in. “Mr. Miles,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“I’m not attracted to you, on or off the clock.”
He puts his lips to my ear. “Liar.”
His breath tickles my skin and sends goose bumps scattering down my arms.
“Will you stop it?” I whisper as I look around, uncomfortable with my body’s reaction to him. Traitor.
His eyes hold mine. “Call me Tristan.”
“No.” I sip my drink. God, I wish I could tip my head back and drain the glass.
“Claire.” He leans in to whisper in my ear again.
“What?”
“Don’t be scared of calling me Tristan.”
I roll my eyes.
“Because one day very soon, I predict that you’re going to be moaning it.”
I smirk. “Are you always this delusional?”
“Just saying.” He gives a casual shrug and then turns and walks off, and I watch him walk through the crowd.
Nelson appears. “Here’s your drink.”
“Thanks.” I take it from him and look across the room to see Mr. Miles arrive at a group of women. They all gush and smile, and then he turns toward me. His dark eyes meet mine, and he gives me another slow, sexy smile before holding his glass in the air toward me, as if to signify the opening of the Olympic Games.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
Jesus, what the fuck does that mean?
