The Dare Collection December 2019. Clare Connelly

tensing with the gesture. ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’

      Something switches inside her, and the nerves are gone. She sits a little straighter, reaching for the champagne glass without sipping it in what I now recognise is a prop technique. She likes to hold something. To stop herself fidgeting?

      Her fingers curve around the stem. ‘Go on,’ I prompt, matching her gesture, pulling my own soda tumbler towards me.

      ‘This whole dating thing.’ She pauses, a furrow on her brow. ‘We need to discuss it further.’

      My lips quirk but I take a drink to hide the smile. I don’t think she’d like to feel as if I’m laughing at her. And I’m not, really, more just thinking how cute she is like this—trying to bring her impressive business mind to a social agreement.

      ‘Okay, so discuss it.’

      ‘I’m serious,’ she murmurs, her eyes forcing mine to hold hers.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘I was thinking, earlier, about how crazy this is and I think we need to have some more rules in place.’

      ‘Rules?’ I jerk my brows without meaning to. ‘Out of nowhere, I’m thinking of a headmistress and I’ve got to tell you, Imogen, it’s very hot.’

      She grins, leaning forward and pressing her hand to my shoulder. ‘Maybe later, Mr Rothsmore.’

      Oh, crap. Role play. With her? Suddenly, she has about a thousand upper hands as I start to imagine her in all sorts of costumes and can barely think straight.

      ‘My business means everything to me,’ she says, her smile slowly falling from her face. ‘It’s not just… It isn’t just something I’ve worked really hard to build. It means a lot. To a lot of people. And part of that is my image. I really can’t have anyone find out about us.’

      ‘We’ve already dealt with this.’

      ‘I know.’ She nods a little jerkily. ‘But what we didn’t talk about is what happens after.’

      After? ‘In a month?’ I never think more than a day ahead. Even planning to see her until I leave was somewhat paradigm-shifting for my mentality. Planning beyond that is not something I have the skillset for.

      She nods. ‘We’ll see each other again. It’s inevitable.’

      ‘So?’ I lift a brow. ‘That’s kind of fun.’

      ‘No.’ It’s like a whip, cracking across me. ‘I don’t want this to be something that goes on, where we see each other in Monaco and decide to pick up where we left off.’ A moue of disapproval shifts over her lips. ‘That’s messy and inelegant and definitely leaves room for discovery.’

      Her summation is adamant, but she has a very good point. I could see me spying her from across the room at an event and finding an excuse to drag her into a hallway to have some fun, only to be seen by a passing member. It’s risky.

      ‘We need a line in the sand,’ she goes on carefully, as though she’s thinking on the fly. ‘The Christmas gala should be our last night together. After that, we’re civil, polite strangers. If you see me at an event, you say “hi”, and keep moving.’

      There’s nothing in her suggestion that worries me. I know what my future holds and it is far away from Imogen Carmichael and this wonderful world she’s created.

      ‘Fine.’ It’s easy to agree to that.

      Seeing her obvious relief dents my pride a little.

      ‘Okay.’ Her smile is bright. ‘So privacy and a hard stop point.’ She nods. ‘Good.’

      ‘You forgot the third rule,’ I say, unable to explain why something is firing in my chest that feels a lot like impatience.

      ‘Did I? What’s that?’ She’s businesslike again, focussed on me and what she could have missed.

      ‘A whole lotta fun in between.’ I swoop my head down and kiss her, swallowing her surprise and laughing deep in my throat. Yeah, this is going to be fun all right.

      He kisses as if it’s a sport and he holds all the world records in it. He kisses as if his sole purpose for being is getting me off. He kisses as if he were meant to be doing this.

      I surrender to him, lifting a hand and curling it in his shirt, clutching onto him in case he gets it into his head to stop what he’s doing. I don’t want him to stop. Beneath the table, I lift one leg a little, onto his knee, and his hand curves around the leather, keeping it hooked there, his tongue duelling with mine as he kisses me harder, his other hand lifting to the back of my head and pushing through my hair, holding me right where I am.

      I have no intention of going anywhere.

      My head spins, afterwards, when he lifts away from me. He really is the quintessential English nobleman, so handsome, so swarthy and fancy yet masculine all at once. There’s something cultured and inaccessible about him that even someone like me, who grew up with Hollywood royalty and can generally move in all circles, finds intimidating yet fascinating.

      ‘Are you hungry?’

      Am I? ‘I think I was when I was at home but, I’ve gotta say, Nicholas, you have a habit of pushing such considerations way down my list.’

      He laughs. ‘I’m glad.’

      I reach for his hand, putting mine over it without really thinking about it—funny how such a gesture can become natural so quickly.

      ‘So England, huh?’

      Something sharp crosses his expression. Something very un-Nicholas that makes me feel concern for him, or worried for him. Something.

      ‘Yes.’

      Okay, there’s definitely something here. Curiosity shifts inside me. ‘You’re not looking forward to going home?’

      He lifts his shoulders. ‘It’s home,’ he says after a moment. ‘I always knew I’d move back, eventually.’

      ‘How long have you been in New York?’

      ‘Five years.’

      ‘That’s right.’ I remember reading this in his file. ‘You came here after—’ I stop what I’m saying, but not in time. His eyes zip to mine, his expression dark.

      ‘After my fiancée left me at the altar?’

      I grimace. ‘Sorry.’

      He flips his hand over and squeezes mine, then reaches for his drink. ‘It was for the best.’

      It’s a comment designed to move conversation on, to shut down worry and any further line of enquiry. I don’t succumb to it. ‘Why?’

      He takes a drink. ‘We weren’t well suited.’

      I don’t know much about his fiancée. I can’t even remember her name.

      ‘Saffron,’ he supplies and I realise I’ve spoken my thoughts aloud.

      ‘She’s not in the club?’ Though our membership has grown, I know every member by name and sight and there are no Saffrons. We have a Pearl and a Cinnamon, though.

      ‘No. It’s not her thing.’ His smile is indulgent.

      ‘No?’

      ‘No.’

      Hmm. Another closed door. I don’t really like closed doors. ‘Why not?’

      ‘Apart from the fact she ditched me in front of five hundred of our nearest and dearest?’

      ‘But why? Why did she dump you?’

      ‘That’s the billion-pound question,’ he drawls,