The Millionaire's Proposition

‘Now, are we doing the ground rules before or after I get my orgasm?’

‘Before,’ Kate said, any thought of backing away from their agreement obliterated by the heat of his words, the wild rush of desire that bolted through her.

‘Then let’s do it fast. Before I explode.’

The air was thick with lust as she guided him to the dining table, handed him the pages she’d prepared for their signatures.

‘So we’re—what?’ he asked. ‘Signing a contract?’

She nodded. ‘With a contract we’ll both know where we stand, what we can expect. It keeps things uncomplicated.’

Scott laughed, but didn’t refuse, so Kate started running through the clauses. She didn’t even make it through the first one before Scott cut her off.

‘Katie—you want a contract, then a contract it is. But it’s a sex contract—not a prenup or a business merger. And it’s not even legally enforceable, as we both know. So can you just give me the basics? Then I’ll sign—there’s no way I won’t—and we can move on to implementing it. Because if I have to go much longer without touching you I am going to go insane.’

SYDNEY’S MOST ELIGIBLE …

The men everyone is talking about!

Young, rich and gorgeous, Rob, Scott, Brodie and Luke have the world at their feet and women queuing to get between their sheets.

Find out how the past and the present collide for them in this stylish, sexy and glamorous new quartet!

These sexy Sydney tycoons didn’t get to the top by taking the easy way—the only thing they love more than a challenge is a woman who knows her mind!

So let the fireworks begin…!

HER BOSS BY DAY … by Joss Wood Available January 2015

THE MILLIONAIRE’S PROPOSITION by Avril Tremayne Available February 2015

THE TYCOON’S STOWAWAY by Stefanie London Available March 2015

THE HOTEL MAGNATE’S DEMAND by Jennifer Rae Available April 2015

You won’t want to miss any of the fabulous books in this sizzling mini-series!

AVRIL TREMAYNE is happily settled in her hometown of Sydney, Australia, where her husband and daughter try to keep her out of trouble—not always successfully. When she’s not writing or reading she can generally be found eating—although she does not cook!

Check out her website: www.avriltremayne.com. Or follow her on Twitter: @AvrilTremayne and Facebook: www.facebook.com/avril.tremayne

The
Millionaire’s
Proposition
Avril Tremayne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Peter Alati—best brother ever.

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SCOTT KNIGHT TOOK one look at the redhead standing over at the punchbowl and almost swallowed his tongue.

Tall, confident, beautiful…and dyspeptically cynical, judging by the look on her face. He liked every single thing in that package.

So…exactly what was the pick-up etiquette associated with divorce parties? Were they like funerals—no hitting on attendees unless you wanted to look like a slimeball?

He pondered that while he took another look at the redhead.

Strictly speaking, of course, this was a little more than a divorce party; it was a celebratory segue to Willa’s new committed relationship with Rob. Scott wouldn’t normally have advocated a jump from one hot pan right into another—even when the guy in the second pan was Rob, who was several thousand light years ahead of Willa’s ex, Wayne-the-Pain—but he was suddenly cool with it if it lifted the party out of the funereal stakes and opened the way…

The redhead turned to the punchbowl for another dip. Scott noted that her body was divine. And he stopped worrying about anything other than getting his hands on it.

He headed over to the punchbowl with great purpose, grabbing a beer on the way—punch being way too girly for him. ‘What’s that quote about divorce…?’ he asked, tilting his head towards her—but it was a rhetorical question.

She turned before the words had finished leaving his mouth and a slap of undiluted lust walloped him. She was even better close-up. A scorching mix of opulent looks, with slanted grey eyes, wickedly arched dark auburn brows, regal cheekbones…and a top-lip-heavy mouth painted blistering red.

She didn’t bother answering. Clearly knew she didn’t have to. Knew he was already caught. He could tell by the way she waited, all self-possessed confidence, for him to continue, with the mere hint of a smile on her insanely sexy lips.

‘Jean Kerr, it was,’ he continued. ‘“A lawyer is never entirely comfortable with a friendly divorce, any more than a good mortician wants to finish his job and then have the patient sit up on the table.”’

The sexy lips parted in surprise…and then the corners tilted up, just a little. She looked fascinated. He took that as a sign—a good sign—that his opening conversational gambit had hit the mark. She was with him. Yes!

She took a slow sip of her punch and examined him. Down, up. ‘Are you in the market?’ she asked, and the smokiness of her voice had his libido purring like a tomcat on the hunt.

Mmm-hmm. She’d not only caught him, she was well on the way to hog-tying him and dumping him in a babbling heap at her feet. And he wasn’t complaining.

Scott gave her his I am available for sex immediately smile, which he liked to call his Number One smile, because it seemed to be the one that got the most use.

‘Why, yes, I do happen to be in the market,’ he said.

She laughed. Throatily gorgeous. ‘I meant the divorce market.’

‘I’m not married, if that’s what you’re asking. Or engaged.’ Little step closer. ‘Or partnered in any way, shape or form.’

She made a little moue with her luscious lips. ‘Shame. Would have been fun.’

Scott wasn’t often taken by surprise, but Cool-Hand Red had managed it with five little words. Why was his singledom a shame? Did she only do married guys?

‘Still could be,’ he said, rallying fast as he figured that simply couldn’t be true. ‘Fun, I mean.’

‘With no money involved?’ Little regretful sigh. ‘I don’t think so.’

What the hell? She not only preferred married men, but they had to pay? This was so not Willa’s scene. It wasn’t his scene either, and he’d thought he was up for most things—except for all that hardcore S&M business. Inflicting pain—and receiving it—thank you but no! Not his cup of tea.

She put down her punch, reached into the small and sparkly emerald-green evening bag draped via a chain over her shoulder, took out an elegant silver card case, flicked it open one-handed and handed him a plain, crisp white business card.

‘“Kate Cleary”,’ he read. And then, ‘Oh…’ Wince. ‘Ouch.’

Another of those throaty laughs. ‘Divorce lawyer. Willa’s, in fact. And she’s not only sitting up on the mortician’s table, she’s leaping off it and twirling across the floor with a dance partner. And I’m very comfortable with that. Now…what’s that other quote about divorce?’ She raised a mischievous eyebrow. ‘Ah, yes. Zsa Zsa Gabor. “He taught me housekeeping; when I divorce I keep the house.”’

He laughed. Delighted, relieved, intrigued—and horny. ‘That explains how Willa got the house—who would dare say no to you?’

‘Lots of people dare—but there can only be one winner. And I like the winner to be me.’

Scott’s inner purr became a growl as his libido kicked up a notch.

‘Scott Knight—architect,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘And expert inserter of foot into mouth.’

She took his hand in a firm, cool grip. Two mid-level shakes—not wimpy, not crushing. Perfect.

‘Nice to meet you, Scott Knight,’ she said. ‘And you’re more than welcome to roll out the lawyer jokes. Who knows? There may even be one I haven’t heard.’

‘Ouch. Again. I’m going to need stitches.’

She retrieved her punch glass. ‘Well, I have a needle and thread.’ Sipped. ‘And a stapler too, if you prefer it a little…rougher.’

His eyes skimmed her the way hers had him. She was covered from neck to mid-thigh in snug black. Plain, plain, plain—and off-the-chain sexy. Naked arms and legs. High heels in nude. The little green handbag. Her red hair loose and gorgeous. And the lips—good God, the lips.

He felt a little shiver of excitement as he caught her scent. Tuberose. His favourite.

‘You look like a tearer, not a repairer, to me,’ he said, plucking the words more for their innuendo value than anything else. The only important thing was staying near her. He’d talk about knee replacements if that would keep her close.

‘That’s because I am,’ she said. ‘“Ball-tearer” is the complete phrase, I believe.’

‘You’re not scaring me.’

‘What am I doing?’

‘You know what you’re doing, Kate Cleary. You know very well. So let’s cut to the chase. Are you hooked up with anyone? I mean, anyone I couldn’t take out in a Rubik’s cube tournament, obviously.’ He held his breath, waiting for the answer. No, no, no, please.

‘Is that your speciality? The Rubik’s cube?’

‘Well, I’m better with the cube than I am at hand-to-hand combat—although for you I could get a little gladiatorial. Certainly with you I could.’

‘Then how fortunate that I am, indeed, single. So…do you need me to demonstrate my Rubik’s cube abilities?’

‘Exactly how limber are you with those nice, long, slim fingers?’

‘Eleven seconds—limber enough.’ The tip of her tongue came out, ran across her plump red top lip. ‘But I can go slow.’

Scott’s nostrils flared with the scent of her, the triumph of it. He edged closer, until they were almost but not quite touching. ‘I’d like to see you go fast…and slow.’

She raised that eyebrow again. And, God, he knew—just from that—she would be awesome in bed. He was going to have to find out. Maybe tonight…

She tilted her head back. And there was a challenge in that. ‘That’s going to depend.’

‘On…?’

‘What you’re offering.’

He was about to suggest they consider an early departure to negotiate the ‘offer’ when—dammit—Willa materialised, with Rob beside her. Okay, maybe she hadn’t materialised—maybe she’d walked quite normally across the floor and he’d been too busy gagging with lust to notice. But, whatever, the interruption was so ill-timed he wanted to punch something.

‘Kate, I’m so glad you’ve met Scott,’ Willa said, all warm and thrilled and happy. ‘He’s not likely to be a client, though—he’s the confirmed bachelor of Weeping Reef!’

Scott only just held back the wince. Because that made him sound either gay or like a player. Rob, at least, had the grace to wince for him and clap the hand of sympathy on his back.

Kate couldn’t possibly think, even for a second, that he was gay. Not after the conversation they’d been having.

On the other hand… A player? Yeah, he admitted to that. But he liked to do his own warning off of women who had happily-ever-after in their sights—with charm and skill and softly negotiated ground rules that meant everyone had fun right up until the goodbye. He didn’t need his friends making public service announcements to scare away prospective bedmates before he even got to the first kiss.

‘Let’s leave it at bachelor, shall we, Willa?’ Scott suggested through slightly gritted teeth.

Willa, oblivious, turned to him. ‘Oh, are you not a confirmed bachelor? I thought you said friends with benefits was as far as you ever intended to go? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. At all. Of course.’

Scott stared at Willa, speechless. Rob blew out a not laughing, I promise breath. Kate was biting the inside of her cheek, in the same predicament as Rob.

‘After what happened in the Whitsundays I—’ At last Willa stopped. Blushed very prettily—as Willa did everything.

Scott was still staring, frozen, praying she was not going to finish that.

‘Oh,’ Willa said. ‘Well. Anyway. Kate is the best family lawyer in Sydney, as well as being a wonderful, kind, compassionate—’

‘Thank you, Willa,’ Kate interrupted smoothly. ‘But I’m not quite ready for sainthood.’

Scott, unfreezing, saw the flush of pink that slashed across Kate’s high cheekbones—not pretty, stunning!—and decided it was time to take control of the conversation and get his seduction back on track.

Leaning into Willa conspiratorially, he said, ‘I hear Kate’s also a Rubik’s cube champion.’

Kate choked on her punch, trying—again—not to laugh.

And somehow that made Scott want her even more. He needed to get her away from everyone immediately. Out onto the deck into that particular corner that he knew from previous forays at Willa’s harbourside mansion was very private, screened by a giant pot plant.

But any chance of getting Kate alone was snatched from him by another of the old Weeping Reef gang, Amy, who landed in their midst—because Amy never merely appeared anywhere—accompanied by her flatmate Jessica, who’d become an honorary gang member despite never having been near the Whitsundays.

Seduction plans were officially on simmer—but not off the heat. Half an hour—that was all he needed. Half an hour and Kate Cleary would be his.

Amy gave Scott a smacking kiss on the cheek before enveloping Kate in a hug.

‘Kate!’ she squealed. ‘It’s been an age.’

Kate laughed as she returned the hug. ‘Well, two weeks, anyway—you didn’t drink so many mojitos at Fox that you’ve forgotten?’

What the hell…? Scott wondered if he was the only one of the group who’d never met Kate. Well—him and Willa’s brother, Luke, who was still in Singapore. Was this some kind of Weeping Reef conspiracy? Would Chantal turn up at last—because God knew how he’d deal with that—and Brodie? He could picture Brodie sauntering over, snatching the heart of another of Scott’s women…

Not that Kate was Scott’s woman.

Jessica and Kate were hugging now. Okay—this was officially out of control. Even Jessica knew Kate?

‘It wasn’t the mojitos that were news at Fox,’ Jessica said. ‘It was one very particular martini.’

The blush was back on Kate’s cheekbones. ‘The less said about that the better,’ she said with a theatrical shudder.

Scott was suddenly desperate to hear the story. ‘You don’t like martinis?’ he asked—only to have Willa, Amy and Jessica burst out laughing.

He looked at Rob, who gave him a don’t ask me shrug.

‘It was a dirty martini,’ Amy said, putting him out of his misery. ‘Bought for her by Barnaby, my arch nemesis at work, who just happened to be drinking at Fox too. Blond, blue-eyed and gorgeous—that’s Barnaby. Thinks he’s God’s gift to marketing. And to women. And to be honest, he kind of is. Just not to Kate.’

Kate shook her head, laughing, as though batting the subject away.

‘It was the way he said “dirty”,’ Jessica put in, helping herself to a glass of punch. ‘It’s one thing being presented with a dirty martini. It’s quite another to have it presented with a slimy pick-up line. “Just how dirty do you like it, baby?” Yep—that would make any woman want to jump you. Not.’

More laughing from the girls as Kate covered her eyes with a hand.

Rob was practically cringing. ‘Seriously?’

Willa kissed Rob’s cheek. ‘Not all men are as evolved as you, Rob.’

Rob turned to Scott. ‘You ever used that one?’

‘Dirty martini? Nope. And, given the reaction Barnaby got, I doubt I ever will. Although in my youth I did once embarrass myself with a comment to twin girls about a Ménage à Trois.’

Jessica’s eyes bugged. ‘Twins? Like…a real ménage à trois? Or is that the name of a fancy-pants cocktail?’

‘It’s a cocktail,’ Scott assured her. ‘And delicious, apparently—because, as it happens, they both ordered one and made very…approving…noises.’ He cleared his throat, all faux embarrassment. ‘As they sipped, I mean.’

‘They ordered one apiece—with a side order of you?’ Amy asked, batting her eyelashes outrageously.

Scott smiled. The lazy, teasing smile he reserved for flirty moments with women he wasn’t ever going to take to bed. ‘A gentleman never tells a lady’s secrets.’

He saw something flash across Amy’s face. Something like…distress? But it was gone so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it. And the next moment she was laughing again.

‘Well, anyway, enough with the “in my youth” talk. If I’ve got my arithmetic in order you’re twenty-seven—one measly year older than me. And I’ll have you know I still consider myself to be in my youth.’

An odd gasping sound from Kate had Scott turning to her. It looked as if she’d spilled punch on her dress, because she was brushing a hand over the bodice. It must have been only the tiniest drop—he certainly couldn’t see any sign of it—but the next moment Willa was ushering Kate to the guest bathroom and Amy was asking Rob what exactly was in the punch, because she’d never seen Kate’s nerves of steel so much as bend before, let alone be dented.

The punch, apparently, was a combination of vodka, white wine, white rum and champagne, with an occasional strawberry waved over the bowl—that did not sound girly! It was a miracle everyone in the house wasn’t stumbling around breaking bits off sculptures, staggering into walls and pitching face-first into pot plants.

But Scott had a feeling the potency of the brew was not the problem with Kate. She’d looked sort of shocky. Surely not because of that harmless ménage à trois talk? She was too sophisticated for that. It would take him two minutes, tops, to explain that away. Which would leave him twenty-eight minutes to charm her out of her panties.

But twenty minutes later Scott hadn’t managed to get near Kate. Every time he took a step in her direction she moved somewhere else. As if she was on guard against him—which was crazy. Almost as crazy as what the sight of her loose-hipped, strolling, rolling walk was doing to his testosterone levels. Sexiest walk ever.

At the twenty-four-minute mark, as he made what felt like his hundredth attempt to reach her and she replaced the stroll with a dash—an actual freaking dash—towards a small group of people whose average age looked to be a hundred and four, he realised she really and truly was on her guard.

Oh, my God.

He was chasing her and she was running away. This had never, ever happened to him before.

And as he watched her, trying to figure out what the hell had gone wrong, the last six minutes of his self-allocated thirty minutes’ seduction time ticked away…and she was gone.

Disappeared. Like Cinderella, but wearing both of her take-me-now shoes.

He fingered the card she’d given him.

Weird. Very, very weird. A mystery. What had he said? Done?

Well, Scott loved mysteries. And challenges. And women who wore red lipstick.

And he was suddenly very certain that this thing between him and Kate Cleary—because there was definitely a thing—was not going to end with a drop of spilled punch and no explanation.

He looked at her card again, noted the address—a block from his city office.

Easy.

CHAPTER TWO

KATE LET HERSELF into her apartment, tossed her bag onto the couch, kicked off her shoes, wiggled her toes…and let out a tortured groan that had nothing to do with her sore feet and everything to do with the divorce party.

Which had been a disaster.

She couldn’t believe she’d been smut-talking about a stapler and a Rubik’s cube. As bad as Dirty Martini Barnaby! Flirting with that hot, gorgeous hunk like a horny teenager.

And then to discover that the hot, gorgeous hunk practically was a horny teenager…

She let out another tortured groan.

Not that twenty-seven really was teenaged.

But she was thirty-two, for God’s sake! A my way or the highway woman of thirty-two!

She opened the French doors and stepped onto the expansive terrace of her apartment. She’d chosen the apartment for the view—not the Harbour Bridge in the distance, even though that was her favourite Sydney landmark, but the boats. Something about them, bobbing gently in Rushcutters Bay, soothed her. The escape daydream, she called it. Sailing away from her troubles to a world of possibilities. A world of adventure…

She tried to bring herself back to earth by reminding herself of the time she’d forced the husband of one of her clients to sell his boat and hand over half the cash and he’d cried like a baby. But even the memory of that less than edifying spectacle couldn’t stop her thinking about adventures and possibilities.

And tonight, very specifically, the possibility of an adventure with Scott Knight.

The image of him was so clear in her head. That killer body—tall, broad, strong. The slightly spiky mid-brown hair. The alertness of his cool, pale green eyes. That I’ve got a secret smile that was kind of calculating…and somehow intriguing exactly because of that. She’d wanted to twist him into a sexual pretzel the moment she’d heard his lazy, drawling voice—a voice so at odds with the alert intelligence in his eyes it was almost a challenge.

But…twenty-seven years old?

She covered her face with her hands and let fly with one more tortured groan.

Pent-up need—that was the problem. It had been a long time between…cocktails. Dirty Martini, Bosom Caresser, Between the Sheets, Sex on the Beach or any other kind. A damned long time.

Well, she clearly couldn’t be trusted to see Scott Knight again until that pent-up need had been met. She would have to make sure any Weeping Reef gathering was Scott-free before attending. In fact, she’d go one step further and stick to girls-only catch-ups when it came to Willa. So just Willa, Amy, Jessica and the other girl she had yet to meet—Chantal—if she ever showed. No Rob. No Scott. Luke was in Singapore, and the other guy whose name started with a B—Brady? No, Brodie—hadn’t turned up at anything yet. So the whole girls-only thing was definitely doable.

And in the meantime she would find some other man to twist into a sexual pretzel. Someone like Phillip, a barrister who was happily divorced, suave, cultured and—at forty years old—mature. In the right age ballpark.

Then she would let the girls know she was taken, word would find its way to Scott, and that would be that.

Yes, Phillip would do very nicely. She would give him a call on Monday and arrange to catch up with him at the bar near her office for a Slow Comfortable Screw. A Strawberry Stripper. A Sex Machine. Or…or something.

Monday morning for Kate began with an eight o’clock client meeting.

Kate always felt like cuddling this particular client. Fragile, timid Rosie, who crept into her office as though she’d like a corner to hide in. Rosie was so intimidated by her husband she couldn’t even bring herself to tell him he was making her unhappy—so how she was going to raise the subject of divorce was anyone’s guess.

It was not a position a Cleary woman would ever find herself in!

Her frustrating meeting with Rosie reminded Kate how happy she was not to be married. And that, in turn, prompted her to get to the task of calling the equally gamophobic Phillip to arrange that bar meeting. A highly satisfactory phone call that took four businesslike minutes.

Two meetings later she made herself a cup of coffee and opened her diary to recheck her schedule…and blinked.

Blinked, blinked, blinked.

She called her no-nonsense, indeterminately aged, absolutely superb assistant. ‘What’s this appointment at twelve-thirty today, Deb?’

‘Hang on…’ Keyboard clicks. ‘Oh, Scott Knight. He called while you were with your eight o’clock. Said he’d mentioned a lunch appointment when he saw you on Saturday night.’

Kate slumped back in her chair, awed—and depressingly delighted—at the presumption of it.

‘Oh, did he?’ she asked, trying to sound ominous.

‘So he didn’t?’ Chuckle. ‘Well, I did wonder why you hadn’t mentioned it to me, but he sounded… Well, let’s keep it clean and say nice, so I made an executive decision and slotted him in.’

‘Yes, he does sound “nice”,’ Kate said dryly, and smiled at Deb’s sudden crack of laughter.

‘Want me to cancel him, hon? Leave you to your takeaway chicken and mung-bloody-bean salad?’

Kate opened her mouth to say an automatic yes—but into her head popped an image of Rosie that morning. Diffident. Nervous. Panicky. Dodging her husband rather than telling him their marriage was over.

And hot on the heels of that came the memory of her own behaviour on Saturday night, dodging Scott at Willa’s party. So unnerved by the force of her attraction to him she’d mapped out an actual plan for seeing only Willa, Amy and Jessica. Crazy. She should be able to see her friends whenever and wherever she wanted, without giving a second thought to whoever else might just happen to be in the vicinity.

As if she couldn’t handle a twenty-seven-year-old!

And on her own turf…in her own office? Easy.

This would not be like the divorce party, where the kick of lust had taken her by surprise. She would be prepared for it today. And she could tell him directly, herself, that she was no longer in the market—so thanks, but no thanks.

‘Kate?’ Deb prompted. ‘Shall I cancel him?’

Kate straightened her shoulders. ‘No, that’s fine,’ she said. ‘It will take approximately five minutes to conclude my business with Mr Knight. Plenty of time to eat chicken and mung-bloody-bean salad afterwards.’ She nodded, satisfied. ‘Now, can you grab me the McMahon file? There’s something I need to check before the parties arrive to have another crack at a settlement conference.’

‘Mmm-hmm. Settlement conference… That’s what they’re calling World War III these days, is it?’

Scott, no stranger to wooing women, brought flowers to Kate’s office. Nothing over the top. Just simple, colourful gerberas that said I’m charming so I don’t have to bring roses.

Not that he saw any softening in Deb’s face as he handed over the bunch.

‘Seems a shame to spend money on flowers when you’re only going to be in there for five minutes,’ she said.

‘Oh, they’re not for Kate,’ Scott said. ‘They’re for you.’

‘Even so…’ Deb said, but he didn’t miss the tiny sparkle that sprang to life in her eyes. ‘Her meeting is running over time. Take a seat, if you’d like to wait.’

Scott angled himself so he could see through the glass wall of the boardroom. Could see her. Kate.

She was sitting at a long table, her back to him. Beside her was an overly blonded, expensive-looking woman wearing lime-green. The client, obviously. On the opposite side of the table was a man who epitomised lawyerdom. Pinstriped suit, white shirt, conservative tie. Beside Pinstripe was a man who looked as if he’d spent too long on the tanning bed, wearing an open-necked shirt with a humungous gold chain visible against his chest. Gold Chain was holding a dog. A furry little dog. Which he kept petting.

Amongst the four of them—five, if you included the dog—there were frequent vehement headshakes, very occasional nods, hand gestures aplenty. At one point Kate ran a hand tiredly over her hair, which was tied in a low ponytail. It made Scott want to touch her.

And that reminded him that their only physical contact on Saturday night had been a handshake. So it was kind of nuts to be so obsessed with her. But obsessed was what he was.

Suddenly Kate stood. She put her hands on the table and leaned forward—making a particular point, he guessed. She was wearing a cream skirt suit. Beautifully, tightly fitted.

Scott was appreciating the view of her really superb backside when she stretched just a little bit further forward and her skirt hitched up for one split second. Just long enough to give him a tiny glimpse of the lacy band at the top of one of her…ooohhh…stockings.

She was wearing stockings.

All the blood in Scott’s body redirected itself in one gush, straight to his groin. The sudden ache of it made him clamp his jaws together.

Stockings!

Stay-ups? Suspenders? Hell, who cared which?

Then she was back in her seat. Scott realised he’d been holding his breath and exhaled—very, very slowly.

He forced his eyes away from her—scared he’d start drooling otherwise—and saw Gold Chain give the dog a kiss on the nose while keeping his eyes on his wife across the table.

That seemed to incense Blondie—which Scott could understand, because it was kind of gross—who leapt to her feet and screeched so loudly her voice bounced straight through the glass wall. Next moment all four of them were standing. There were waved arms, pointed fingers, even a stamped foot. The stamped foot was from Blondie, who was then subtly restrained by Kate, who seemed serene in the midst of chaos. Pinstripe was using a similar restraining movement on Gold Chain, but was somewhat hampered by the dog snapping at him.

Scott heard a few words shouted—hurled. Custody. Holidays. Missed drop-offs. Interspersed with an occasional ear-sizzling foul-mouthed curse.

Shocked, Scott looked at Deb. Shouldn’t she be calling the cops before someone threw an actual punch? But Deb just kept typing, unperturbed. Which would have to mean that Kate put up with such crap routinely, wouldn’t it? Did that explain Kate’s air of cynicism at Willa’s divorce party? Because if this was divorce, it sure wasn’t pretty.