That’s not Holden’s speed and nor is it mine. Or, rather, it’s not on my agenda right now. For the first time in a long time I’m facing the truth of what I want in life. I’m not running any more.
It’s time to settle down and let myself be who I am—and that’s going to take all my focus. I’m not interested in getting involved with any guy—not even one as sinfully hot and undoubtedly talented as Holden Hart.
* * *
The baby is a baby. Little with pink skin and tufty black hair, eyes that are dark—when they’re open, which isn’t often.
‘She sleeps a lot,’ Grace says almost apologetically, but then I look at my sister-in-law and see the smile on her face and I realise it’s less apology and more doting.
I nod, try to smile, because it’s expected of me, and wonder when I can leave. Perhaps Jagger senses my mood because he brings me a Scotch, handing it to me before stepping over to Grace and wrapping an arm around her, drawing her to his waist. I look away, my eyes hitching to the view of Sydney beneath us. Their obvious joy is weird to observe, but it’s not because I resent their happiness. Here, in the midst of their domestic bliss, I feel the most like an outsider, the least like a Hart, that I have since I learned the truth.
The baby—Felicity, named for the happiness she brings to their lives—makes a noise, then another, and Grace reaches for her, lifting her out of the bassinet and drawing her against her chest, breathing her in as though Felicity holds the meaning of life in the fluff on top of her scalp.
‘Want to hold her?’
It’s one of those questions people ask when they think the answer is a foregone conclusion. Grace is walking towards me, holding the baby out. I stare at her, momentarily lost for words, then lift my Scotch glass by way of explanation. ‘I’m good. Hands are full.’
Grace pulls a face and her voice is gentle, encouraging. ‘She’s tougher than she looks. You won’t hurt her.’
I shrug, turning away from them, striding towards the balcony.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I hear Jagger murmur. ‘It’s just Holden.’
I stiffen for a moment, contemplate saying something, or doing something different, but hey, he’s probably right. This is really just what I’m like, now more than ever.
Sullen.
Cross.
Antisocial.
Except with—
Don’t do it.
I don’t want to think about Cora. It’s been three nights since I got to Sydney and, thanks to the Roosevelts deal and a major commercial lease agreement with my Sydney casino, I’ve been working too much to let my mind go back to the flight. To remember the way she came, moaning my name over and over, the way she straddled me and took me deep, burying me inside of her.
Sex helps me feel whole again, it helps me forget, but sex with Cora did more than that. It temporarily obliterated my sense of time and place so I barely remembered I used to be a Hart, let alone that it was all a lie.
Cora is like a drug, the hit from being with her every bit as heady as any ecstasy could render.
And I’m in hardcore withdrawal right now. I want more of her. Not because of her but because of how she makes me feel, which I’m pretty sure makes me a douche for even thinking about calling her.
I’d be using her. Using her to get high. Using her to forget.
So?
It’s not like she wouldn’t be getting anything out of it. I know how much she enjoyed being with me. Why wouldn’t she sign up for another night or three? What’s the big deal?
Or could I get the
same rush from someone else? If I went into the casino tonight and spent some time in the bar, found someone else to take home?
I frown, catching my reflection in the mirror. I do this a lot. Frown. Stare. Brood. Ordinarily, sex with a random woman would hit the spot, but not right now. It’s specifically Cora I want to get high on, Cora I want to see again.
And before I can second-guess myself I pull my phone from my back pocket and type out a message to my head of security.
Find out where Cora Andersson is staying. She was working as flight crew on the way over to Sydney.