The Millionaire's Proposition. Avril Tremayne

of undiluted lust walloped him. She was even better close-up. A scorching mix of opulent looks, with slanted grey eyes, wickedly arched dark auburn brows, regal cheekbones…and a top-lip-heavy mouth painted blistering red.

      She didn’t bother answering. Clearly knew she didn’t have to. Knew he was already caught. He could tell by the way she waited, all self-possessed confidence, for him to continue, with the mere hint of a smile on her insanely sexy lips.

      ‘Jean Kerr, it was,’ he continued. ‘“A lawyer is never entirely comfortable with a friendly divorce, any more than a good mortician wants to finish his job and then have the patient sit up on the table.”’

      The sexy lips parted in surprise…and then the corners tilted up, just a little. She looked fascinated. He took that as a sign—a good sign—that his opening conversational gambit had hit the mark. She was with him. Yes!

      She took a slow sip of her punch and examined him. Down, up. ‘Are you in the market?’ she asked, and the smokiness of her voice had his libido purring like a tomcat on the hunt.

      Mmm-hmm. She’d not only caught him, she was well on the way to hog-tying him and dumping him in a babbling heap at her feet. And he wasn’t complaining.

      Scott gave her his I am available for sex immediately smile, which he liked to call his Number One smile, because it seemed to be the one that got the most use.

      ‘Why, yes, I do happen to be in the market,’ he said.

      She laughed. Throatily gorgeous. ‘I meant the divorce market.’

      ‘I’m not married, if that’s what you’re asking. Or engaged.’ Little step closer. ‘Or partnered in any way, shape or form.’

      She made a little moue with her luscious lips. ‘Shame. Would have been fun.’

      Scott wasn’t often taken by surprise, but Cool-Hand Red had managed it with five little words. Why was his singledom a shame? Did she only do married guys?

      ‘Still could be,’ he said, rallying fast as he figured that simply couldn’t be true. ‘Fun, I mean.’

      ‘With no money involved?’ Little regretful sigh. ‘I don’t think so.’

      What the hell? She not only preferred married men, but they had to pay? This was so not Willa’s scene. It wasn’t his scene either, and he’d thought he was up for most things—except for all that hardcore S&M business. Inflicting pain—and receiving it—thank you but no! Not his cup of tea.

      She put down her punch, reached into the small and sparkly emerald-green evening bag draped via a chain over her shoulder, took out an elegant silver card case, flicked it open one-handed and handed him a plain, crisp white business card.

      ‘“Kate Cleary”,’ he read. And then, ‘Oh…’ Wince. ‘Ouch.’

      Another of those throaty laughs. ‘Divorce lawyer. Willa’s, in fact. And she’s not only sitting up on the mortician’s table, she’s leaping off it and twirling across the floor with a dance partner. And I’m very comfortable with that. Now…what’s that other quote about divorce?’ She raised a mischievous eyebrow. ‘Ah, yes. Zsa Zsa Gabor. “He taught me housekeeping; when I divorce I keep the house.”’

      He laughed. Delighted, relieved, intrigued—and horny. ‘That explains how Willa got the house—who would dare say no to you?’

      ‘Lots of people dare—but there can only be one winner. And I like the winner to be me.’

      Scott’s inner purr became a growl as his libido kicked up a notch.

      ‘Scott Knight—architect,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘And expert inserter of foot into mouth.’

      She took his hand in a firm, cool grip. Two mid-level shakes—not wimpy, not crushing. Perfect.

      ‘Nice to meet you, Scott Knight,’ she said. ‘And you’re more than welcome to roll out the lawyer jokes. Who knows? There may even be one I haven’t heard.’

      ‘Ouch. Again. I’m going to need stitches.’

      She retrieved her punch glass. ‘Well, I have a needle and thread.’ Sipped. ‘And a stapler too, if you prefer it a little…rougher.’

      His eyes skimmed her the way hers had him. She was covered from neck to mid-thigh in snug black. Plain, plain, plain—and off-the-chain sexy. Naked arms and legs. High heels in nude. The little green handbag. Her red hair loose and gorgeous. And the lips—good God, the lips.

      He felt a little shiver of excitement as he caught her scent. Tuberose. His favourite.

      ‘You look like a tearer, not a repairer, to me,’ he said, plucking the words more for their innuendo value than anything else. The only important thing was staying near her. He’d talk about knee replacements if that would keep her close.

      ‘That’s because I am,’ she said. ‘“Ball-tearer” is the complete phrase, I believe.’

      ‘You’re not scaring me.’

      ‘What am I doing?’

      ‘You know what you’re doing, Kate Cleary. You know very well. So let’s cut to the chase. Are you hooked up with anyone? I mean, anyone I couldn’t take out in a Rubik’s cube tournament, obviously.’ He held his breath, waiting for the answer. No, no, no, please.

      ‘Is that your speciality? The Rubik’s cube?’

      ‘Well, I’m better with the cube than I am at hand-to-hand combat—although for you I could get a little gladiatorial. Certainly with you I could.’

      ‘Then how fortunate that I am, indeed, single. So…do you need me to demonstrate my Rubik’s cube abilities?’

      ‘Exactly how limber are you with those nice, long, slim fingers?’

      ‘Eleven seconds—limber enough.’ The tip of her tongue came out, ran across her plump red top lip. ‘But I can go slow.’

      Scott’s nostrils flared with the scent of her, the triumph of it. He edged closer, until they were almost but not quite touching. ‘I’d like to see you go fast…and slow.’

      She raised that eyebrow again. And, God, he knew—just from that—she would be awesome in bed. He was going to have to find out. Maybe tonight…

      She tilted her head back. And there was a challenge in that. ‘That’s going to depend.’

      ‘On…?’

      ‘What you’re offering.’

      He was about to suggest they consider an early departure to negotiate the ‘offer’ when—dammit—Willa materialised, with Rob beside her. Okay, maybe she hadn’t materialised—maybe she’d walked quite normally across the floor and he’d been too busy gagging with lust to notice. But, whatever, the interruption was so ill-timed he wanted to punch something.

      ‘Kate, I’m so glad you’ve met Scott,’ Willa said, all warm and thrilled and happy. ‘He’s not likely to be a client, though—he’s the confirmed bachelor of Weeping Reef!’

      Scott only just held back the wince. Because that made him sound either gay or like a player. Rob, at least, had the grace to wince for him and clap the hand of sympathy on his back.

      Kate couldn’t possibly think, even for a second, that he was gay. Not after the conversation they’d been having.

      On the other hand… A player? Yeah, he admitted to that. But he liked to do his own warning off of women who had happily-ever-after in their sights—with charm and skill and softly negotiated ground rules that meant everyone had fun right up until the goodbye. He didn’t need his friends making public service announcements to scare away prospective bedmates before he even got to the first kiss.