One Wicked Week. Nicola Marsh

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

       CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

       CHAPTER NINETEEN

       CHAPTER TWENTY

       CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

       CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

       About the Publisher

       CHAPTER ONE

      BROCK NURSED A double-shot whisky as he stared blindly at the twinkling lights of Melbourne thirty-five storeys below. The muted chatter of fellow patrons at the Rochester Hotel’s exclusive bar mingled with the melodic tinkling of a pianist tucked into the farthest corner. White noise to him. He didn’t hear any of it because his heart was pounding so damn loud.

      She’d be here shortly.

      Jayda York.

      His nemesis.

      Stupid that even though it was six years since he’d last seen her on graduation night, he still thought of her as the enemy. Not through any fault of hers. She had no frigging idea that he couldn’t wipe the memory of what they’d done that night out of his head.

      She’d made his life hell for the four years of their IT degree at university: once again, not really her fault. Entitled, condescending and aloof, she’d been way out of his league. It hadn’t helped that he’d wanted to fuck her so badly he’d hardly been able to walk straight most days. Then she’d lowered her guard on grad night and he’d been the schmuck to comfort her.

      Comfort. Yeah, right.

      ‘Mr Olsen, can I get you another drink?’

      He glared at the waiter before realising he’d downed his whisky while musing the power Jayda had held over him.

      He nodded. ‘Thanks. Make it another double.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      The waiter headed towards the sleek chrome bar that lined the opposite wall and that was when Brock saw her. His heart bucked as it had ten years earlier on the first day of uni when she’d slid into the seat next to him.

      ‘Fuck,’ he muttered, dragging in a breath and blowing it out, hating that laying eyes on her could elicit the kind of visceral reaction that made his gut churn and his cock thicken.

      She hadn’t caught sight of him yet. Good. It gave him time to calm the hell down and study her. She wore a simple black dress, long sleeves, high neck, past her knees. She’d always favoured dark colours at uni, as if she wanted to hide something. As it turned out she did; her revelation the night she’d revealed so much of herself had shocked him. Her confidence had been a sham, her superiority a ruse. He’d misjudged her for four long years.

      She wore her signature towering heels, adding several inches to her height. They’d been incongruous at uni, those ridiculous heels. He’d thought they were yet another designer accessory to flaunt her wealth, never imagining she wore them to elongate her legs and take the focus off the rest of her body.

      He’d done his best to prove to her exactly how luscious her gorgeous body was that one, fateful night. She hadn’t believed him, considering she’d bolted in the dark of night and shunned all contact since.

      Until now.

      He couldn’t wait to hear this business proposal she had for him. So he could shoot it down and walk away as he should’ve done six years earlier rather than being a sucker for her sob story and being dragged further under her spell.

      He’d done the right thing, relegating her to a memory after that night—albeit a scorching one that ensured he could never forget her no matter how many women he bedded—but seeing her now, her shoulders pulled back in defiance, drawing attention to those magnificent DDs he’d had the pleasure of exploring with his mouth and hands in great detail, made him wish it hadn’t been six long years since he’d last seen her.

      She caught sight of him at that moment and he raised a hand in a casual wave. A faint blush stained her cheeks as she strode towards him, long purposeful steps designed to show no fear. But he saw exactly how nervous she was as she approached, gnawing on that full bottom lip, a telltale sign she was rattled. He’d observed her doing it all through uni and it had driven him crazy because he’d wanted to do the same.

      He stood as she broached the remaining few feet between them, glad he’d worn his favourite tailored sports jacket. His head might be fine with only dredging up the occasional memory of that one sizzling night together but his body had other ideas. He’d been hard from the first moment they’d locked gazes across the bar.

      ‘Thanks for meeting me, Brock.’ She hesitated for a fraction before leaning in to brush a kiss on his cheek and damned if his cock didn’t throb.

      She smelled the same, a heady combination of jasmine and rose, a perfume made especially for her apparently. It had clung to his sheets for two days until he’d told himself to wake the hell up and washed them. It had done little to eradicate that rich fragrance from his memory and he’d avoided gardens with roses ever since.

      ‘No problem,’ he said, making a mockery of his hollow greeting when he pulled out her chair and she brushed against him. The contact was minimal, for the briefest of seconds, but enough to short-circuit his brain and make him want to bury his face in the cascade of blonde hair flowing halfway down her back.

      Her floral-scented shampoo was as addictive as her goddamn perfume and he reared back, glad she couldn’t see his reaction to her proximity.

      It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’d assumed six years apart would’ve rid him of his one-sided attraction. He’d cursed his inability to keep his hands off her on grad night, and for the simple fact he couldn’t get her out of his head for months after she’d snuck out of his grungy flat.

      He’d lusted after her for a long time during those interminable coding lectures in their undergrad degree, never anticipating when he finally got his hands on her that the sex would be stupendous. For those few deluded minutes when they’d cuddled afterwards, he’d actually considered letting a woman into his life for the first time.

      And the last, as it turned out.

      He didn’t need to emotionally invest in anyone. Coding, he understood; women, not so much. He’d slept with his fair share since Jayda. Initially to eradicate her memory, later because he could: validation for how far he’d come from the poor geek. Wealth certainly had its perks. Women noticed tailored clothes and handmade Italian shoes and a twenty-thousand-dollar watch. He enjoyed the spoils of his hard work, knowing