The Complete Red-Hot And Historical Collection. Kelly Hunter

stood there like a block of granite, silent.

      ‘Right,’ she said, and swallowed. ‘Right.’ She looked blindly around, head spinning. ‘Right.’ Was the blood draining out of her? That was what it felt like. ‘Saturday is the twenty-eighth of February. End of contract. We’ve had one session this week—Sunday. And we have tonight. We’ll make this the last one, because I’m not inclined to negotiate any extras for the week. Cadit quaestio—a settlement for our dispute has been reached. Sex—once more—and the issue is resolved.’

      ‘It’s not resolved.’

      Agony twisted through her. He didn’t love her, but he wouldn’t let her go either. ‘What more do you want from me?’

      ‘I want… I want…’ His hands were diving into his hair again. But no more words emerged.

      Kate took an unsteady breath. ‘Well, given everything you’ve just said to me, and all the things you can’t seem to say, I finally know what I want. I want out. I’m saying no to the rollover option. No to everything.’

      ‘You can’t do that.’

      ‘Now, you see, you should have read the contract when I told you to. Because I can do that. I am doing that. I’m not going to turn into one of those bitter people I see in court—hating you, trying to punish you because you don’t love me or need me the way I love and need you. If you don’t love me then I don’t want you.’

      ‘You do want me. I know you do.’

      Kate started removing her clothes.

      ‘What the hell—? Kate, what are you doing?’

      ‘Getting undressed.’ She was down to her underwear in record time. ‘I’m taking back my “Hugo” and we’re restarting Play Time. As I recall, it was a dining experience you offered me—you bent the fifty-fifty rule to get it…clever you. So I’ll get on top of the dining table, you can put those whoopie pies all over me, and then—’

      But whatever she’d been about to say was whoomped out of her as Scott grabbed her by the arms. ‘You’re not lying on top of anything except my bed.’

      She greeted that with a nice, brittle laugh. ‘How conservative of you.’

      ‘Yes, I am conservative. And I’m over all this Play Time stuff. I don’t want you on your knees in alleys, or stripping for me like a hooker, or blindfolding me like we’re in a B&D room, or any other kooky stuff.’

      ‘That’s exactly what you wanted—why do you think I was giving it to you?’

      ‘Well, I don’t want it now. Got it, Kate?’ He shook her, once. ‘Got it? I. Just. Want. You. As agreed. In bed. Okay?’

      ‘As agreed,’ she repeated. And the tears came. ‘No, Scott, it’s not okay.’

      ‘Why not? Why not, dammit?’

      ‘Because I love you. And loving you hurts like hell.’

      He let her go, stepped back as though she’d struck him.

      ‘Come on, Scott. Look on the bright side. You never liked all those rules. Anais is going to make you a much more beneficial friend.’

      ‘I don’t want Anais.’

      ‘And after tonight I won’t want you. So here I am, offering you one last time. Take it…or leave it.’

      ‘They’re the only two options?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Then I’m taking it. Get on the table, Kate. Let’s say goodbye in style.’

       CHAPTER NINETEEN

      SCOTT KNEW HE would never forget the sight of Kate lying on his dining table, letting him take her as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

      He’d been so sure she would stop crying. That he could make her stop crying with the power of his depthless passion for her. But even as she’d succumbed to his body, as she’d soared with him into orgasm, her tears had kept coming…slow and silent.

      Scott had been frantic. Scooping her off the table afterwards into his arms, holding her against his shaking body.

      Wordless, she’d tried to leave. But he’d whispered that he wanted more, that he needed more. So she’d let him carry her upstairs to his bed. He’d kissed her for what felt like forever. But the tears had just kept coming. And even hating himself for her pain and his own desperation, he hadn’t been able to let her go.

      He’d watched her as she slept. The frown on her face. The tear tracks. The divine mouth, swollen from the way he’d devoured her.

      She hadn’t spoken one word to him—not since that last, ‘Take it…or leave it.’

      And he’d taken it, all right. Taken, taken, taken. Hoping, selfishly, to sate himself at last. Hoping he would wake up and not want her any more. Hoping he’d be able to let her go in the morning.

      But when he’d woken she was already gone and he’d had no choice to make; she’d made the choice for both of them.

      He hated his bed—because she wasn’t in it.

      So he went downstairs.

      Where he decided he hated his house—because she wasn’t there.

      In the dining room were the girls’ glittery boxes, waiting to be filled with whoopie pies. But the whoopie pies were nothing but a heap of broken biscuit and smeared cream on the floor, surrounded by shards of shattered plate. The plate he’d shoved off the table in his urgency to get to Kate.

      As he looked at the mess and remembered how joyful he’d been, waiting for Kate to arrive, it hit him that what he hated most of all was his life—because she’d walked out of it.

      And ringing in his ears, over and over, were her words. ‘I would move heaven and hell to have you.’

      That was just so…her. Direct. Laying the argument out. Fighting to win. The way she always fought. To the death. To win the prize.

      To win…the prize…

      His breath hitched as he repeated that in his head. Fighting to win the prize.

      The prize—her prize—was…him.

      His heart started to thump. Loud, heavy, dull.

      Why was he so scared about being her prize when she was everything that was wonderful? When she wasn’t scared to claim him even though he wasn’t anything wonderful at all?

      But wasn’t that exactly it? That time on her terrace, when they’d talked about love, she’d said that real love—of any kind—gloried especially in a person’s flaws. She’d told him last night that she wanted to be imperfect…with him. She wanted them to just…be.

      She knew everything. Chantal, Brodie, Hugo, his parents. Knew about all the times he’d lost. Had been with him when he’d finally won. She’d seen the very worst of him—because, God, he’d shown it to her—and she loved him anyway. He didn’t have to be perfect. He just had to…be.

      Eyes stinging.

      She’d said she would move heaven and hell to have him.

      Chest aching.

      That had to make him the best man in the world. Not second-best—the best.

      Sweat ran down his back.

      There might be smarter men, funnier men, better-looking men, more successful men, easier men—but not for Kate.

      Breaths coming short and hard.