The Dare Collection November 2019. Anne Marsh

a panther. I’m hit with a wave of his body heat, the scent of his fresh, manly sweat and undertones of pure, sexy Cam. Damn, he’s worth waiting for and he knows it.

      He grips my chin, his thumb swiping my bottom lip, and then he tilts my face up to his kiss, which is slow and thorough, as if he’s relearning how our mouths slot together. I suck in a breath—unbelievably I’d forgotten how good he is at kissing, how it’s almost a full-contact sport—all strong, demanding lips and probing tongue. How he dwarfs me, one hand practically swallowing my entire jaw and half my face, and how, when he pulls away, his eyes glassy with that now familiar desire, I want more. Want it never to end.

      How can I crave him again? How do I have any more orgasms left in me? How can I convince him to say yes?

      He pulls away, not unaffected by our chemistry—I see it in his eyes—and now I’m looking forward to this party, to proving him wrong, to showing him I’m worth his time.

      ‘Give me ten.’ His voice is husky, his breath warm on my wet lips.

      I nod, too scared to trust my own voice because of the lust raging through my bloodstream.

      I’m not surprised to see him driving the low-slung, sleek sports car he bought last night, even if it does look as if it belongs in some futuristic movie. The sight of him behind the wheel makes me wish I was someone who employed dirty tactics. I want to ride him right there in the front seat.

      ‘So this is your new car?’ I say as he lifts my suitcase into the back. My stomach sinks a little when I see his solitary brown leather messenger-style bag next to it. No suitcase.

      ‘Yes. It’s a supercar, remember, a Python—custom-made.’

      ‘Is everything super-sized with you?’

      He waggles his eyebrows and I laugh.

      ‘I’m glad you appreciate the finer things in life,’ he says. He’s talking about himself, so I shake my head in mock disgust, although I’m smiling.

      ‘So what are you going to do with it?’ I ask about the car.

      ‘We’re going to take it for a little test drive.’ He opens my door, and I slide in.

      ‘Shouldn’t you have done that before you made such a rash purchase? What if the wheels fall off?’

      ‘I’ll get it fixed,’ he shrugs. ‘You wouldn’t worry if you’d seen the race yesterday. It hugs the road like a dream, and wait till you hear the soft purr of the engine.’ He winks as if nothing fazes him and a pang of longing shoots through me at his easygoing outlook.

      I watch him stride around the front of the car, wondering anew at how he amassed such wealth at such a young age. I had my trust fund to help me out when I first started my own company. But I take full credit for what I’ve built since. I may not be any good at relationships, I may not have the belief of my father, but money I can make.

      He joins me in the car, and, as if he’s read my mind, starts the conversation. ‘So, what do you do that sees you travelling for work?’ he asks as he guns the engine, pulls away from the M Club and heads towards the harbour, Port Hercule.

      I love the way he drives, the way he handles the wheel with the same masculine self-assuredness with which he handled my pleasure last night, everything about him exciting new areas of my body and mind until I’m aching for him to agree to my proposition. ‘I’m in finance. I’m CEO of an investment multinational.’

      He shoots me an assessing look, something akin to disbelief in his eyes.

      I lift my chin and try not to take it personally.

      ‘So you make money for people?’ he says.

      ‘Yes, lots of money, otherwise I’d have no clients. I’m very good at what I do and it’s true what they say—money makes the world go round.’

      He shakes his head and I wonder what’s upset him about my profession. Most people I meet ask me for investment tips, but Cam looks as though I’ve said I drown puppies for a living.

      ‘What is it? Do you think women can’t be at the top of their field?’

      He shoots me an incredulous look. ‘Of course not—that you would suggest such a ridiculous thing shows how little we know each other. I was merely wondering just how good you are at your job.’

      ‘Come to Zurich with me and we can work on getting to know each other,’ I push, ever the opportunist. ‘I’ll even give you some free pointers—the markets are in flux at the moment, but there are always opportunities if you know where to look.’

      ‘Mmm…’ he says, sounding bored. ‘If you were good at losing money for clients, I might be tempted.’

      I can’t tell if he’s joking—he looks a little annoyed, his jaw thrust forward, lips pressed together. But he can’t be serious. His gambling last night, the large tips, shouting the entire casino a drink…that was one thing. But losing money?

      ‘Why would anyone want to lose money they’d worked hard for?’ I could understand my brother’s casual attitude to the company’s turnover, having stepped into our father’s ready-to-wear shoes, but not even he would willingly risk his affluent lifestyle. I wince at my spiteful thoughts. It’s not my brother’s fault our father has old-fashioned values that make no sense and are completely disloyal.

      ‘They wouldn’t,’ says Cam. ‘Not real hard work—blood, sweat and tears.’ He’s still borderline hostile at this turn of the conversation.

      I should steer clear of anything personal. Clearly my mention of money is some sort of issue for him, perhaps explaining why he didn’t seem to care about his losses at the casino last night.

      ‘What’s the difference between real hard work, as you put it, and what I do?’ His comments skate too close to my own touchy subject. No one works harder than me. ‘Everyone wants to be successful, and putting in the hours is how it happens. Isn’t that how you made your money?’

      His beautiful mouth twists in earnest now, a sneer of disgust. ‘Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that—I apologise if I offended your work ethic earlier. I’ve always worked hard, too, until recently. I…’ He swallows, seeming to battle with something momentous, but then he recovers just as quickly.

      I hold my own breath, waiting.

      ‘Six months ago I came into an obscene inheritance—more money than anyone needs, to be honest.’ He pulls into a parking spot, flashes me his live-for-the-moment smile and kills the engine as if closing down the line of conversation.

      Intrigue sharpens my vision. Easygoing Cam has hidden depths. Demons. He hides them well behind that carefree persona. For some reason, he seems to be doing his best to offload the money he inherited, even lose it. It seems preposterous to someone in my field.

      But this new information certainly explains the chip he seems to have on his shoulder, explains his casual attitude to gambling and extreme acts of generosity—the drinks, the car, replacing my outfit with the best money can buy.

      ‘I’m sensing you don’t want to talk about this any more than I want to drink shots off someone’s stomach aboard this yacht, but is it a problem for you…the inheritance?’ Prying lies outside the terms of my proposition, but I can’t help myself. Perhaps I can help him with some investment advice. Of course, he hasn’t said yes, so the point may be moot. I might never see him again.

      He ignores my question, jumps out of the car and swings open my door. Reaching for my hand, he guides me from the low seat.

      I ignore the sinking feeling in my chest and press on. ‘Most people would embrace such a life-changing gift.’ But I’m quickly coming to understand Cam isn’t like most people, in many respects—his two-fingered gestures at convention,