Page 48 of The Proposition (The Billionaires Club)

He tucks me under his arm, kisses the top of my head and leads me towards the house with a chuckle. ‘My cousin’s been helping me.’

‘The one you sent the car to?’

He nods.

‘Good, because from here on in, that second deckchair has got my name on it—I’m going to enjoy spending the summer watching you sweat shirtless and get splinters I can kiss better.’ I lift his hand to my mouth and press a kiss over his fingertips.

‘Is that right?’ he says, his mouth twisted in that way that makes my blood sing and my insides clench in anticipation. He leads me through the demolished kitchen and down the hall to the cooler rear part of the house. He kicks open the last door. It’s a bedroom, a single camp bed is pushed up against one wall, and Cam’s tuxedo from last night hangs from a rusty nail on the back of the door.

I turn, already mentally undressing him as I undo the buttons of my blouse, making it clear what I propose we do with the rest of the night.

‘What about my beer?’ He pops open his fly and heels off his work boots, his heated stare tightening my nipples to hard peaks.

I smile at my man. ‘It’ll keep. Let’s take a moment.’ And I kiss him, flopping backwards onto the narrow mattress and tugging him down on top of me.

EPILOGUE

Cam

THE NEW YORK M CLUB’S ballroom is packed with partygoers, every member dressed to the nines and in festive spirit. It’s the biggest gathering of immense wealth and beautiful, glamorous people I’ve ever seen—twice the size of the Masquerade Gala in Sydney—but I only have eyes for one woman.

My woman.

I watch her talking to Imogen Carmichael, her exquisite face animated and her eyes dancing with the reflection of a million fairy lights scattered throughout the ballroom. She carries herself with the same grace and poise as the first time I saw her, perched on a stool at the casino in Monaco, only now she’s relaxed. She smiles more, laughs more, and waking up with her every morning is a privilege I’ll never take for granted.

She’s taken her first holiday in five years. As promised, she’s spent the summer sitting on that tatty deckchair watching me work on the cottage while she drinks my beer. She even comes surfing with me sometimes. The only time she complains is when I put my shirt back on. She told me yesterday that my working semi-naked helps her to think.

She catches my eye, winds up her conversation with Imogen and slinks my way, so by the time she reaches my side the only thoughts in my head are how quickly I can get her out of here so I can love her the way I want to.

‘What are you thinking about?’ She slips her arm around my waist and tucks her body into my side. ‘Tell me now, because I think I know that look on your face.’ She presses her lips to my neck with a sexy little hum.

I smile down at her and bend low to press an all too brief kiss on her lips. ‘I was wondering what you think about when I’m shirtless.’

Her eyes dance. ‘Well, duh, the same thing half of Sydney thinks about—ways to get you out of the other half of your clothes, of course.’ She laughs, rises up onto her tiptoes and kisses me back. ‘You know you’re becoming quite the celebrity, right?’

She’s talking about the changes I made to the construction company I once worked for after I bought it and the training school I set up to give apprenticeships to youngsters who need a break in life.

‘Well, you showed me how to let go of my resentment. I think he’d approve of how I’m using it,’ I say of my father, the remorse in my voice causing Orla’s eyes to shine with love and support.

‘Of course he would. Opening new hosp

ital wings you’ve sponsored, delivering brand-new equipment to the local surf lifesavers, planting trees. You’re always splashed on the front of some newspaper or magazine these days, usually shirtless. I think he’d prefer it if you wore a shirt though.’ She pouts, mock censure on her beautiful mouth.

I roll my eyes but I can’t help smiling at her teasing. ‘I was shirtless one time, Orla. One time. And that was only because I was trying out the surfboards.’

She laughs, a lovely tinkling sound I never grow tired of hearing. ‘Oh, don’t worry. If I had this body,’ she runs her hand over my abs and up to my chest, ‘I’d want to show it off all the time too.’

I put my arms around her waist and hold her close. ‘You’re doing just fine with the body you’ve got. Trust me.’

Our exchange turns heated, X-rated, non-verbal communication passing between us in that way couples do when they know exactly what the other is thinking.

‘Want to get out of here?’ she asks, her voice smoky with lust. ‘I have a surprise for you.’

‘Yes.’ It’s a no-brainer. The chemistry, the bond we share, shows no signs of letting up; if anything it gets stronger every day. And I have a surprise for her too.

My Christmas present.

The cottage is almost finished and it’s hers. I signed over the deeds today and the key feels heavy in my pocket. Excitement joins the slug of potent, almost incapacitating desire I always feel in Orla’s company, desire made stronger by whatever is putting that gleam in her eyes, because I know she’ll always keep me on my toes.

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