She sipped her margarita, needing to loosen up her taut nerves, hoping a good slug of alcohol would do it. Having worked up the courage to deliver the next line, she plunged on. “You said money adds a value to everyone.”
He sipped his drink, silently weighing the thrust of her statements before laying out his interpretation of them. “Are you telling me you have a primary need for money, and if I bring enough to the table, it will open the magic door?”
“An urgent need,” she corrected him. “So the question is, Quin, how much are you willing to give to get me back into your bed?”
“Give,” he repeated, eyes narrowing. “We’re not talking about a loan?”
“No.” Her chin lifted belligerently, silently defying whatever he was thinking of her. It didn’t matter. Only the chance of a positive outcome mattered. “We’re talking about an outright gift. And it has to be available to me tomorrow,” she spelled out unequivocally.
“And when will you be available to me, Nicole, assuming that I accept your proposition?”
Her heart was pounding at the possibility he would accept. She hadn’t really believed it enough to work out how she would manage her side of the deal. What was possible for her, given her other commitments? She had to keep him away from her mother’s home at Burwood.
“Where do you live now, Quin?”
“I have an apartment at Circular Quay.”
Getting public transport to Circular Quay was not a problem—a twenty-minute train trip from Burwood. With a heavy sense of irony, she said, “I could warm the hearth of your home on two nights a week for…” What would be a reasonable offer for the money involved? There had to be a time limit.
“For as long as I want you,” he pushed.
“No!” That would be handing control to him. “For three months,” she quickly decided, not caring what he thought of it, intuitively knowing she couldn’t risk more. Three months was as fair a bargain as she was prepared to offer.
“Twenty-six nights…” he said musingly, his eyes smoking with memories of sexual highs with her.
Panic galloped through Nicole. She hadn’t done the maths, just grabbed at a time limit. Could she sustain objectivity with Quin for that long, hold the line she had to hold?
It was impossible to recant now. Quin would instantly pick up on how vulnerable she felt about it. Besides, he himself might baulk when it came to the cost of those twenty-six nights with her. No doubt he could get a high class callgirl to satisfy his every desire for much less.
“How much money do you need, Nicole?” he asked, coming straight to the point.
Her own eyes issued a mocking challenge as she replied with the total figure of the debts to be paid. “Seven hundred and thirty-six thousand dollars and fifty-five cents.” The numbers were deeply imprinted on her mind from having been so terribly plagued by them.
Quin digested them without so much as a flicker of an eyelid, maintaining a poker face as he checked on what she’d said before. “And you need it tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“Or what will happen?”
She shook her head. “That’s private. This is a take it or leave it proposition. You say yes or no.”
“Spend tonight with me while I consider it.”
“No! I’m not giving out freebies, Quin. I won’t spend a night with you until you give me my value in money and it has to be given tomorrow.”
“Your value…” he drawled derisively.
“You used those words,” she fiercely reminded him, her stomach churning with the anticipation of imminent humiliation. “Yes or no,” she repeated.
His eyes glittered with plans of his own as he reached out and took her glass from her, a glass that was empty although she couldn’t recall having drunk all its contents. She saw that his was empty, too, as he placed both glasses on the bar. So this mad encounter was at an end, she thought, steeling herself to turn her back on it.
“I’ll give you my answer after you dance this tango with me,” he said with a relish that sent warning tingles down her spine.
Nicole was given no time to respond, no time to resist. Her hand was captured by his and strongly held as he pulled her after him, onto the dance floor. The band had only just started up again. No other couples had begun dancing. Quin swung her into the centre of the empty floor, then lifted her arms, arrogantly positioning the initial embrace for the traditional start of the tango.
Her body arched back in instinctive resistance as he assumed the dominant role, his strong legs forcing hers into the salida, the basic walking pattern, which Quin turned into a physical—sexual—stalking, igniting a volatile energy in Nicole that sizzled with the need to challenge him, fight him, beat him at his own game.
It was more than a matter of pride to match his perfectly executed figure-eights, his turns, twists and sweeps. Every chance she had she threw in some fancy embellishments to the hooks and kicks, challenging him to meet her creativity, beat it if he could. It goaded