The Dare Collection December 2019. Clare Connelly

      ‘She was like a bird in an aviary,’ he says, after a moment. ‘Beautiful, smart, funny, but completely defined by who she was, who her parents were, by what was expected of her.’

      ‘And that’s marrying someone like you?’

      ‘Yes.’ He dips his head forward. ‘She hated it. I didn’t realise how much until she left me.’

      ‘Hate it or not, it’s still a pretty shitty thing to do.’ I wince. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘No, you’re right. I think she knows that. The problem is, she did love me, but she hated what marrying me would mean more.’

      Something makes my voice a little high-pitched. ‘And you loved her?’

      His eyes are swirling with emotion when they meet mine. ‘I did, or I thought I did. I don’t know. I have to tell you, the whole thing turned me off love and marriage for life.’ His laugh is husky.

      ‘So you’re a dedicated bachelor?’

      ‘I wish.’ He rolls his eyes and he’s Nicholas Rothsmore, playboy, careless sex god, once more, so I relax, relieved I haven’t sent him into some kind of grief spin by making him talk about his ex. ‘I have been recalled to the manor.’ He grins, showing me he’s joking, only there’s an edge to his words.

      ‘Rothsmore Manor?’ I tease.

      He shakes his head. ‘Actually, our country seat is Becksworth Hall.’

      Somewhere I remember reading that. ‘It sounds very grand,’ I tease.

      ‘Oh, it is.’

      ‘Like something out of Pride and Prejudice?’

      ‘Pemberley has nothing on Becksworth.’

      I laugh. ‘Tell me about it.’

      ‘Not much to tell. If you’ve seen one grand country home, you’ve seen them all. Ancient, huge, imposing, miles of windows, stables, a lake for trout fishing, strawberry patches for summer picnics.’

      I can’t help my sigh. ‘That sounds idyllic.’

      ‘In some ways.’

      ‘Not in others?’

      But he’s done being questioned.

      ‘What about you?’

      ‘What about me?’ My turn to sip my champagne and buy time. It’s delicious. Crisp and fruity all at once, with enthusiastic bubbles that tickle my mouth as I swirl it around.

      ‘You’re from New York?’

      ‘God, no, I wish.’ I laugh. ‘I’m a Cali Girl. Can’t you tell?’

      His eyes sweep my face, my hair, my golden skin and he grins. ‘Now that you mention it…’

      Heat fires in my veins, as hot as any day on a Malibu beach.

      ‘So why New York?’

      ‘I like it here.’

      He reaches forward and tucks my hair behind my ear. ‘It seems a little unfair for you to demand me to open the wounds of my past and you not tell me about something as simple as a geographical shift?’ He says it in a way that’s light-hearted but I feel his will of iron beneath the words.

      Only he doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand that my move to New York was bound up in the wounds of my own past. How linked it all is to Abbey and a need to flee LA.

      I don’t realise I’m frowning until he reaches over and rubs his finger across my lips.

      ‘It made sense, for the business,’ I obfuscate. And I think he knows I’m not being completely honest, but he lets it go.

      ‘Where’d you get the idea from?’

      ‘For The Billionaires’ Club?’

      He dips his head once in a sign of encouragement.

      ‘From a friend of mine—an actress, who was complaining about even the best bars being paparazzi haunts, and wanting to just get away. To have somewhere to let her hair down without having it splashed over the papers the next day.’

      ‘I would imagine a lot of actresses live for the attention of the paparazzi.’

      ‘You’re wrong,’ I say quickly. ‘That attention can be used to build an image, sure, but it’s a double-edged sword. And not being able to escape that hounding, it’s horrifying. Everyone deserves to be able to switch off their “persona” and just be themselves for a while.’

      He’s watching me in a way that gives me goose bumps and makes my head feel light, because he’s looking at me as though he sees the real me, deep inside who I am, beyond my own ‘persona’.

      ‘You’re speaking from experience?’

      ‘Sort of. Not really. I like to fly beneath the radar as much as possible, but my parents, on the other hand…’

      He waits, encouragingly, as if he doesn’t know about them. And maybe he doesn’t. I forget sometimes that I’m out of the East Coast bubble.

      ‘My mother’s an actress. Or was. Now I guess she’s a socialite. She never met a camera she didn’t like.’

      Wow. I sound so bitter. So serious. And I am—God knows I carry a lot of resentments but I usually do a much better job of hiding them. It’s hard to hide things from Nicholas.

      I force a smile to my face. ‘The club was only meant to be for a few people, but it just took off. I started with a single venue here in Manhattan but…’

      ‘You found a gap in the market, and the market rose to meet it.’

      It sounds so cynical when, actually, it wasn’t at all. ‘I studied business at college—I thought I’d get a job out this way but, once I got here, I found I didn’t really want to spend my time working hard to make rich people even richer.’ I smile to take the sting out of the statement. ‘Then, the club took on a life all of its own.’

      ‘And you have your charity too, right?’

      My smile now is natural. ‘Chance, yeah.’

      ‘It does something for kids?’

      ‘Excuse me, sir?’ a voice calls from beyond the curtains.

      ‘Yes?’ Impatience curves Nicholas’s expression.

      The curtains open and the waiter reappears, placing a platter on the table top. ‘Compliments of the chef.’

      Oysters—one of my favourites—with a variety of toppings, and caviar atop thinly sliced cucumber. It breaks the serious mood that had descended on us, and I’m glad. Glad for the reprieve. We promised each other a whole lot of fun and talking about broken engagements and my parents is hardly fun.

      Beneath the table, I brush my hand over his knee. He turns to look at me slowly, but that doesn’t stop the slash of heat that steals across my body.

      Dating was his idea and I really liked it but now all I want is to be back in bed with him, exploring the desire that fogs the air around us.

      I am hungry only for Nicholas Rothsmore.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      I’M NOT SURE if it’s the champagne I’ve been drinking, or the incredibly decadent Belgian mousse we shared after dinner, or the fact we’re walking hand in hand through New York with the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge twinkling in the background, snow dusting down from an inky black sky, and Christmas lights twinkling overhead, but suddenly I feel as if I’m floating.

      ‘So, is this a normal first date, Nicholas?’

      His