The Complete Red-Hot And Historical Collection. Kelly Hunter

the other end of the line—and I heard how you dealt with it.’ Scott reached for her hand, brought it to his mouth, kissed it. ‘All class.’

      Kate, uncharacteristically flustered, had to swallow twice before she could force herself back into banter mode and once more to actually find her voice.

      ‘And poor Anais is oppressed how, exactly?’ she asked—and was relieved the question had come out light and amused.

      ‘All right, you got me,’ Scott said, rueful. ‘Anais is not oppressed. In fact, she tried to oppress me!’

      ‘You? Oppressed? Puh-lease.’

      ‘She did! Bondage and discipline. Ouch. Evil. I cried like a baby.’

      Kate couldn’t help it. She laughed. ‘So that’s what I have to do to keep you in line, is it?’

      ‘No. I told you—I’m not into all that. All you have to do to keep me in line, Katie, is redirect your soft spot where it’s needed.’

      ‘And where would that be?’

      ‘Well, to me, obviously. Haven’t you been listening? I’m oppressed.’

      ‘You need a little more oppression,’ Kate said dryly, and when he laughed, sounding boyish and completely irresistible, she found herself wanting to kiss him again.

      She decided a subject-change was required for her own sanity.

      ‘So, what are the chances of Silverston taking the prize tonight?’ she asked.

      Scott waited a moment. ‘Did you look it up?’

      ‘Well, yes, of course. What kind of slave would I be if I didn’t know what award my master was up for? Creative Residential. Five finalists.’

      ‘I’m not expecting to win.’ He sounded offhand—but his hands had tightened on the steering wheel.

      ‘Why not?’ she asked.

      A shrug, but no answer. Just one of those smiles that she thought he must have stacked up like a jukebox—pick one and play it.

      ‘I hope the food is good, because I’m starving,’ he said. ‘What’s the bet it’ll be smoked salmon out of a packet, followed by overdone steak with three vegetables on the side, then chocolate mousse?’

      Which, of course, was not an answer. And it seemed she wasn’t going to get one, because Scott kept the conversation flowing around a host of boy subjects—which Kate suspected had been deliberately chosen—for the rest of the drive.

      Sports results—please, kill her—action movies, gory television shows.

      By the time they arrived at the five-star hotel where the event was being held, Scott had a new jukebox smile pasted on—a smile that said I’m here! No big deal!

      But it became obvious very quickly to Kate that his arrival was, in fact, a very big deal—to everyone except him. As pre-event cocktails were served outside the ballroom people made their way to Scott in a steady stream, drawn as though by a magnet. But although Scott smiled, chatted, shook hands, kissed a score of female cheeks, he held everyone at bay…and they didn’t even realise he was doing it. He was effortlessly, carelessly charismatic, and people clearly wanted to be in his orbit, but he was essentially untouchable.

       What the hell…?

      Kate remembered what he’d said that day in her office. I don’t get hurt. She was starting to believe it was true. To get hurt you had to be close to someone. And dial-a-smile Scott wasn’t close. To anyone. The question was: why not?

      ‘Bored?’ Scott asked her, leaning in close.

      ‘No. Why?’

      ‘You were staring off into space.’

      ‘Oh, just…thinking. But not bored.’

      ‘Well, I’m bored. Slave or not, I’m going to have to think up a way to reward you for sacrificing your night to this tedium.’

      ‘Just win the prize,’ she said.

      Instantly his eyes shuttered. ‘Hmmm.’

      That was all he said. Hmmm.

       What the hell…?

      ‘Have the organisers already notified the winners?’ Kate asked, puzzled. ‘Is that why you’re so sure you’re not going to win?’

      ‘No. It’s not—No.’

      ‘Then…what?’

      One of those dismissive shrugs. ‘I just don’t.’

      ‘Don’t what?’

      ‘Win. That’s the way it is, Katie.’ He looked over her shoulder. ‘Ah, the doors are opening. Let’s go in and try not to…’ His eyes widened, his voice trailed off. Then, ‘Damn,’ he said under his breath. ‘He is here.’

      Kate turned to see what he was seeing. ‘What? Who? Oh! He looks like—’

      ‘Me.’

      ‘Only—’

      ‘Taller.’

      ‘Well, yes, but—’

      ‘Better-looking.’

      ‘I was going to say “older”.’

      His eyes zoomed to her. ‘Are you going to tell me he’s more age-appropriate for a thirty-two-year-old? Because if you are—don’t. I’m not up to another discussion about my age.’

      Kate could only blink. She seemed to be thinking What the hell? a lot tonight but…well, what the hell…?

      His eyes roamed behind her again. ‘Oh, for the love of God!’

      Kate turned again as Scott’s lookalike descended on them.

      ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

      ‘My brother. His house is one of the finalists.’

      That was all he had time to say before he was enveloped in a bear hug.

      ‘Scottie!’ his brother boomed out.

      Scott stiffened, before giving his brother an awkward pat on the back.

      Edging back as fast as he could, he took Kate’s elbow and brought her closer. ‘Kate—my brother Hugo.’

      Hugo? As in Play Time? The word that would stop Scott in his tracks? What the freaking hell…? This evening was turning out to be very…instructive.

      The resemblance between the two men wasn’t as strong close-up. Hugo was like a more refined version of Scott. His eyes were brown, not green. And he spoke with a slightly British accent—very different from Scott’s Aussie drawl. Kate thought the accent was an affectation until Hugo confessed, with the fakest attempt at self-deprecation Kate had ever heard, that he’d been to medical school in England.

      He looked more conservative than Scott—from his sharp, perfect haircut to his traditional black-tie get-up. Hugo was more talkative, more…accessible. But there was something missing. That indefinable something Scott had in spades—that mix of charm and wit and sexy intrigue. Hugo was obviously smart. He was good-looking. A little stuffy, maybe, although he seemed like a decent guy. But nobody would rush to Hugo’s side the way they rushed to Scott’s.

      Kate was on the point of filing that description away when Hugo raised the subject of the award, with a look at Scott that could only be described as pitying—and Kate’s hackles rose, sharp and hard. Okay, description revised. Hugo was not a decent guy; Hugo was a bastard.

      ‘So—Creative Residential! Who would have thought we’d end up competing again, Scottie?’ Hugo asked, with a heavy clap on Scott’s back. ‘I