Sleeping Partners

‘What?’ She knew exactly what he meant but wasn’t about to say so.

‘But who could complain about such beauty?’ he said silkily.

He was flirting with her, creating a mood. She stared at him warily, trying to prevent every muscle in her body from turning to water. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said weakly. ‘Us being here like this. Cass should never have involved you.’

‘Ah, now you’ve brought it up, my proposition. Don’t you want to hear what I’ve got to say? If nothing else, that’s businesslike.’ He tilted his head, surveying her mockingly.

Was he laughing at her? She stiffened, frowning slightly as she said, ‘I thought I’d made myself clear on that score.’

‘I’m willing to finance another assistant, two if the situation calls for it, but clearly there would be more to it than that.’ It was as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘We would need to get down to basic facts and figures—Cassie was somewhat vague—but the way I see it…’ He continued talking for some minutes, his tone cool and steady and matter-of-fact, and Robyn found herself listening to him with growing excitement. She tried to quell it, she really, really tried, but the future he was dangling so tantalisingly was like forbidden fruit—overwhelmingly tempting.

‘Of course all this would depend on my accountant looking over your accounts and so on, but I don’t foresee a problem there. Do you?’ Clay finished just as the waiter brought their first course. ‘I’m sure everything is in order.’

‘I… But—’

‘I said a sleeping partner and I meant it, Robyn. My people would need to see certain details on a regular basis, but I have more than enough to do than interfere in your business.’

The wine waiter was hovering with the wine Clay had ordered and, once they were alone again, Robyn took a deep breath and said steadily, ‘Why, Clay? Why would you be prepared to help me like this? Are you that friendly with Cass and Guy?’

‘I see them rarely but I count them as good friends, besides which—if I can be crass—the amount I’m talking about here is not going to be missed quite frankly.’ His tone was almost apologetic.

She nodded. She could believe that certainly. It was just the thought that she would be beholden to Clay Lincoln, in his debt for sure, that was hard to come to terms with. And it was only in that moment she acknowledged silently to herself that she was seriously considering his offer, the realisation causing her to choke momentarily on a piece of pasta.

Suicide. Mental and emotional suicide one little part of her brain warned fiercely. No—he’d said he wouldn’t be around, that he had no intention of getting involved, the other part argued persuasively. He’d make this offer, set the ball rolling and then hand it over to his minions and that would be the end of that as far as he was concerned.

But this was Clay. She hated him, she had done so for years. So what? that other voice said with silky reason. What had that to do with business? This was something quite separate from feelings.

She took several gulps of wine to dislodge the pasta and tried to get a grip on herself. As far as Clay was concerned this was an easy answer to a request from Cass and Guy; as he’d intimated, the amount he’d put into the business—although massive to her—was a drop in the ocean to him. It would have been a deal made in heaven, the sort of thing that only happens once in a lifetime in the rat race of the business world, if only—and the if was huge—it had been someone other than Clay making the offer.

During the course of the meal several distinguished personalities stopped at their table and exchanged a few words with Clay. He was always careful to introduce her and everyone was very polite, but more than once—especially where the female of the species was concerned—Robyn had the feeling their thoughts ran along the line of, What is he doing with her? Or perhaps she was just paranoid? But she didn’t think so.

The meal was as delicious as Clay had promised and by unspoken mutual consent they concentrated on the good food, Clay’s conversation being as light and amusing as though this were an actual date.

Robyn didn’t want to enjoy herself but it grew progressively hard not to. They finished the meal with a selection of cheeses and coffee and by now the dim lighting, sexy background music and general atmosphere of intimacy ephasised the fact that she was sitting opposite a twenty-four-carat male sex-bomb. He’d always had it—that undefinable something impossible to pin down but which had made certain men millions on the silver screen—but with added maturity the magnetic quality had enhanced a hundredfold.

‘Shall we dance?’

‘What?’ It was a squawk and she was instantly sixteen again, all the gloss and hard-won confidence of the intervening years swept away with just three words.

Her breath caught in her throat as she watched Clay rise to his feet, his mouth curved in a smile and his eyes glittering as he held out his hand to her. She couldn’t do anything else but stand up; it would have been unthinkable to leave him standing there in full view of everyone. Even Clay Lincoln didn’t deserve that. Besides… Her throat went dry as her traitorous brain ruthlessly pointed out the truth. She wanted to know what it felt like to be in his arms, to be held close to him. She had never danced with him, after all.

For the first time in her life she knew what it was to have legs of jelly as they moved out onto the small dance floor, Clay’s warm hand at her elbow. And then he turned her to face him and took her into his arms and her senses exploded.

It was a good job he didn’t expect her to speak because conversation was quite beyond her at that moment, but as it was he merely drew her against him, his fingers splaying on the small of her back as her hands hesitantly rested on his upper arms. He felt and smelt so good—too good, she warned herself.

You’re twenty-eight years old, running your own business, successful, worldly. She kept repeating the words over and over in her mind as they drifted round the floor until her racing heartbeat and the feeling that she was a naïve schoolgirl who didn’t know her left foot from her right began to fade. The trouble was the last few years of relentlessly hard work and effort had meant that even the limited social life she’d had before she’d started her own business had been curtailed, and after the devastating experience with Clay she had never felt really confident of her own attractiveness to the opposite sex.

She had adopted a somewhat distant façade, one of cool friendliness as self-protection, and although she could function beautifully in her chosen career and project a boldness and self-assurance in her work and dealings with clients and contacts, Robyn the w

oman kept very much in her shell. But now that shell was being rattled…

‘Your hair smells of apple blossom.’ His voice was low and throaty and she had to clench her stomach muscles in order not to betray the quiver it produced.

‘Does it?’ As sparkling repartee it wasn’t much, but Robyn was just glad her voice sounded fairly normal when every nerve in her body was in hyperdrive.

‘You’ve grown into a very beautiful woman, Robyn, but then, many men must have told you that.’

‘A few.’ She managed to inject a laughing lightness into her tone now and was inordinately pleased with herself. Okay, so he might be the sexiest thing since sliced bread, and she had no doubt every female between sixteen and sixty in London would love to be where she was right now, but he was just a little too sure of himself! One click of his fingers and he expected the females to line up, did he? Well, not this one. No way, no how. And that held, whatever happened businesswise.