A Billionaire's Pleasure/Detained/A Dangerous Arrangement/Mixing Business With Pleasure

By Bronwyn Stuart, Lee Christine and Ainslie Paton

Detained – Ainslie Paton

From one of Australia's hottest new authors comes a story about an international scandal, a billionaire, and a fearless reporter who might just save the day...

Confined in a cold, dull room in the depths of a Shanghai airport, a journalist chasing a career break and a businessman with a shadowy past play a game of truth or dare – deliberately not exchanging names. They tell each other their most painful secrets and burning desires. One dare leads to a kiss and a wild night of illicit passion, setting off a dangerous sequence of events, bringing exposure and disgrace. Only the brutal truth can save them. But it will also rip them apart. And it will take more than daring before they can build a new truth together.

A Dangerous Arrangement – Lee Christine

Kicking off a brand new romantic suspense series from Lee Christine is A Dangerous Arrangement: a violinist with a secret, a billionaire with a problem and a race against time set on the beautiful Amalfi Coast.

When violinist Marina Wentworth arrives in Venice en route to a cruise ship for a short working holiday, the last thing she expects is to be confronted by a handsome stranger demanding answers. After going to great lengths to keep her real reasons for the trip a secret, Marina refuses to let her immediate attraction to Dean Logan derail her plans. Desperate to recover his latest superyacht designs, Dean doesn't want to believe the lovely violinist is involved in the devastating cyber–attack that threatens to destroy his yacht–building empire. However his growing feelings for Marina fail to extinguish the nagging suspicion that she is hiding something. Set against the backdrop of Italy's Amalfi Coast, Dean and Marina must navigate the dangerous waters of secrecy, attraction and the fusion of two very different worlds. Will their lives remain discordant, or will they take the chance at true harmony?

Mixing Business With Pleasure – Bronwyn Stuart

What's a girl to do when she finds herself naked except for her stilettos and backed up against a cold mirror, stuck between a rock and a very hard man?

Alison Marcum loves her baby brother and would do anything for him–until the day his loan sharks arrive on her doorstep and demand she pay them ten thousand dollars or else. With no way to repay the money, and not wanting to find out what they're capable of, Alison transforms herself from boring social worker to smoking hot model–but getting work isn't going to be the hard part for a woman who'd promised herself she'd never step in front of a camera again. Sam Mason is overseeing a jewellery advertising campaign, and after spending ten minutes in the boardroom with a nearly naked Alison, he decides he might actually enjoy the job. Strictly business, though. Sam's been burned by a model before and no matter how attracted he is, there's no way he's getting involved. As the lies begin to unravel and the loan sharks get impatient, will they both risk it all to be together or lose it all in a bid not to repeat the past?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Aug 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781489220059

Bronwyn Stuart

Bronwyn's love of reading all things romantic got her into trouble at a very young age. Starting with Mills and Boon 'borrowed' from her mother and then progressing to meaty historicals. It's only fair that romance pays her back with unique ideas for her own novels. She now writes dark and gritty Regency from her treehouse in the Adelaide Hills surrounded by the laughter of her young children and the love of a great man.

Book preview

A Billionaire’s Pleasure

Detained—Ainslie Paton

A Dangerous Arrangement—Lee Christine

Mixing Business With Pleasure—Bronwyn Stuart

www.escapepublishing.com.au

A Billionaire’s Pleasure

Powerful and wealthy, these men will ride out scandal, secrets and danger in their pursuit of pleasure … Australia’s hottest authors bring you A BILLIONAIRE’S PLEASURE.

Detained

Ainslie Paton

From one of Australia’s hottest new authors comes a story about an international scandal, a billionaire, and a fearless reporter who might just save the day…

Confined in a cold, dull room in the depths of a Shanghai airport, a journalist chasing a career break and a businessman with a shadowy past play a game of truth or dare — deliberately not exchanging names. They tell each other their most painful secrets and burning desires. One dare leads to a kiss and a wild night of illicit passion, setting off a dangerous sequence of events, bringing exposure and disgrace. Only the brutal truth can save them. But it will also rip them apart. And it will take more than daring before they can build a new truth together.

A Dangerous Arrangement

Lee Christine

Kicking off a brand new romantic suspense series from Lee Christine is A Dangerous Arrangement: a violinist with a secret, a billionaire with a problem and a race against time set on the beautiful Amalfi Coast.

When violinist Marina Wentworth arrives in Venice en route to a cruise ship for a short working holiday, the last thing she expects is to be confronted by a handsome stranger demanding answers. After going to great lengths to keep her real reasons for the trip a secret, Marina refuses to let her immediate attraction to Dean Logan derail her plans.

Desperate to recover his latest superyacht designs, Dean doesn’t want to believe the lovely violinist is involved in the devastating cyber-attack that threatens to destroy his yacht-building empire. However his growing feelings for Marina fail to extinguish the nagging suspicion that she is hiding something.

Set against the backdrop of Italy’s Amalfi Coast, Dean and Marina must navigate the dangerous waters of secrecy, attraction and the fusion of two very different worlds. Will their lives remain discordant, or will they take the chance at true harmony?

Mixing Business With Pleasure

Bronwyn Stuart

What’s a girl to do when she finds herself naked except for her stilettos and backed up against a cold mirror, stuck between a rock and a very hard man?

Alison Marcum loves her baby brother and would do anything for him—until the day his loan sharks arrive on her doorstep and demand she pay them ten thousand dollars or else. With no way to repay the money, and not wanting to find out what they’re capable of, Alison transforms herself from boring social worker to smoking hot model—but getting work isn’t going to be the hard part for a woman who’d promised herself she’d never step in front of a camera again.

Contents

Detained

A Dangerous Arrangement

Mixing Business With Pleasure

Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

Detained

Ainslie Paton

About Ainslie Paton

Ainslie Paton is a corporate storyteller working in marketing, public relations and advertising.

She’s written about everything from the African refugee crisis and Toxic Shock Syndrome to high-speed data networks and hamburgers.

She writes cracking, hyper-real romances about strong women and the exciting men who love them. She’s the author of Grease Monkey Jive and Getting Real.

You can find Ainslie at: www.ainsliepaton.com.au and on Twitter @AinsliePaton when she should be writing.

Acknowledgements

Detained started with the concept of two people forced to be with each other in close confinement for an extended period of time. It was born of the idea that you can tell a stranger a truth about yourself that you’d hesitate to tell those closest to you. Think hairdressers and taxi drivers.

Detained was possible because the members of Club BTA were behind me, giving me confidence I could do this, and not being too surprised when I did. A huge thanks once again to Clan M and our correspondent in Paris. You guys rock.

For cultural references that enliven the story, wild clapping for: Confucius, Spiderman, Bruce Lee and Green Day.

Contents

About Ainslie Paton

Acknowledgements

1. The Oh My God Particle

2. Invalid

3. Five Hours

4. Strangers

5. Seduction

6. Collision Course

7. Shangri-La

8. Knowing

9. Liar

10. Success

11. Froth

12. Real World

13. Spun

14. Web

15. Caught

16. Shadows

17. Abuse

18: Tip

19. Avalon

20. Captured

21. Proof of Death

22. Unfinished Business

23. Accused

24. Steamed

25. Road Trip

26. Missing

27. Trouble

28. Freedom

29. Confession

30. Obit Writer

31. Lost

32. Spin

33. False Memory

34. What if

35. Sleeping Beauty

36. Not Alone

37. Hell and Back

38. Sanitised

39. Home

40. Headline

41. Blockies

42. Jigsaw

43. Ahoy

44. Favours

45. Monster

46. Rearranged

47. Power

48. Responsibility

49. Detained

1. The Oh My God Particle

Ignorance is the night of the mind, but a night without moon and star. — Confucius

Darcy Campbell sat on her hands. The posture wasn’t pretty outside primary school but it was effective. A better alternative to violence. It was the bodily equivalent of biting her tongue. She did that too. After the screaming match she’d had with Gerry in the corridor, she knew Mark didn’t need any excuse to regret his decision.

Mark Mason was a study in cool angry. He channelled plugged volcano, but his eyebrows had knitted. A hint the eruption, if it came, would be devastating.

It was business as usual to see Gerry frothing at the mouth. Mostly his lather was theatrical. It was designed to remind everyone he was the paper’s most senior correspondent. But right now it was downright rabid. Gerry Ives was a man whose banner headline-sized ego had been stroked the wrong way and his fur prickled.

Gerry propped his ‘years of long lunches’ bulk on Mark’s desk, wafts of cigarette smoke easing from the creases in his crinkled blue shirt. She knows nothing about reporting business at this level.

Mark kept his frown steady on the Richter scale and his voice level. Is that right, Gerry?

Want to know anything about the ‘Oh my God’ particle, Darcy is your girl, but this isn’t special interest reporting.

I’d hardly call science special interest.

Don’t fuck with me. What’s she got I haven’t, apart from legs to her hairy armpits and good tits?

I’m not going to respond to that, Gerry and neither is Darce. It’s beneath you. Mark’s warning look was the kind you gave a dog about to steal a shoe to chew, right before you thwacked him on the nose with it to make sure he didn’t. Mark knew how much Darcy wanted to knee Gerry where it would hurt more than his 48pt-sized ego.

Why not? They asked for me. Me, our senior business correspondent, ex-Asia desk chief, twenty-five years in the business.

They did and they expect you, so we’re not going to give them what they expect. The day it’s dial-a-reporter-of-choice is the day I retire.

This paper used to be about in-depth, intelligent, investigative reporting. She’ll write about his flamin’ hairstyle, and what he has for fucking breakfast.

Darcy will write about Parker Corporation and if what Will Parker has for breakfast is part of his extraordinary success, she’ll write about that too.

Fuck. You’d be the worst managing editor I’ve ever worked with.

I bet you say that to all the boys.

Darcy would’ve laughed but Mark hairy-eyeballed her.

Gerry made a growl sound; part wet ashtray, part undigested sweet and sour pork, and threw his bulk into a chair. I’m not being precious. I don’t understand why you want Darcy to do this instead of me. There aren’t too many genuine scoops left in this business. Not too many genuine opportunities to bring the world a story it’s not heard before. This Will Parker is a fair dinkum mystery man. He’s built a multibillion dollar business out of thin air, and no one knows who the fuck he is, where he’s come from or what he’s going to do next.

That’s right. So it’s not like you have a head start knowing how to write the story.

But I know how to ask the right questions. This is my turf and much as Darce is a gun, she’s not up to it.

Jesus, Gerry! I’ve done my apprenticeship.

The words were bouncing around the room before Darcy realised she’d said them. She looked at Mark. There was a fight going on at the corner of his mouth, one side ticked up with the vague promise of a smile. He wasn’t going to shut her down.

I’ve been reporting for ten years. I’ve covered business, sure not at your level, Gerry. But I know the drill. I’ve worked crime, education, science and public companies. I’ve done bloody awful death knocks, and bat shit boring budget lockups. I’m damn sure I can interview a CEO and come away with a decent story.

A reclusive superstar CEO about whom not a word’s been written that’s not pure speculation or conjecture.

Gerry had a point. Gerry always did, that’s why he was the country’s leading business commentator and Darcy was rattled by this whole thing. One minute she was writing about particle physics, the next Mark wanted her on a plane to Shanghai to write the definitive piece on Australia’s most enigmatic businessman.

This was the ‘Oh my God’ particle right here.

But if she showed any sign of weakness, any twitch of confidence, Gerry would elbow her sideways so hard she’d be writing the racing guide. And if Mark, for all his apparent consideration and support, smelled a whiff of fear, he’d have no qualms reversing his decision.

I’ve got this, Gerry, she said, looking at Mark. Mark who’d sign her expenses and ultimately approve her copy. And bounce her so hard if she fucked up, a job in a suburban paper writing about the need for more school safety zones would start looking good.

Gerry’s head whipped around. Sounded like your old man there for a minute, Darce.

Trust Gerry to bring Brian up. He’d never gotten over losing out to her father on the managing editor job at the Financial Record. Every chance he got he’d made a dig about it. The inference was always that Darcy only had a job because Brian pulled strings.

Gerry glared at Mark. I get copy approval. He hauled himself upright. I’m still business pages editor.

I’ll take that into consideration, said Mark. Now the shouting had stopped, he was doing his imitation of the earth cooling, brows going it back to their habitual position above watery grey eyes that’d seen too many pissing competitions like this. Get out. And if I have to break up a racket like what just went down between the two of you again, I’ll find a way to bloody well dock your pay.

He would too. And there’d be nothing they could do about it. Mark was wily. If he needed to walk on water to run the paper he’d come up with special moves to keep his feet from getting wet. You didn’t survive as managing editor of the Herald without knowing how to out-manoeuvre, out-bully and outsmart a mob specialising in manoeuvring, bullying and being near criminally intelligent.

Darcy let Gerry quit the office first. She wanted a word with Mark. He let her hover uncertainly while he read an email. He had a way of making you feel like you were taking up too much space on the planet.

What, Campbell?

They asked for Gerry. You’re taking a risk on me and I want to know why.

I’d better not be taking a risk on you.

You know what I mean.

Mark sighed. You’re the investigative reporter, take a stab.

Parker won’t be able to pick where I’m going with the story because my current resume isn’t on point. It’ll be harder to manipulate the interview because I’m an unknown quantity.

Darcy watched Mark for a nod or a meaningful blink. She got nothing. You’re sending me because my tits are more impressive than Gerry’s.

He picked up his phone and thumbed it. That’s my good little investigative reporter.

I can’t believe…

Mark dropped his phone and zeroed in. Mean glare at two paces. Will Parker is a thirty-something year old ghost. He’s never done an interview. The only reason Parker’s people initiated this is because he suddenly needs to build a local profile. The guy wants something and we don’t know what. We’re not his bloody PR agency, but that’s how he’s treating us. If we want the real story on why Parker wants to expand his interest here instead of China where he’s been based for the last ten years, we’re going to need to fight for it. And your tits are better than Gerry’s.

You want me to seduce him?

Come on, Campbell. Every interview is a seduction; you know that. You learned that as a cadet. Hell, you probably learned it at Brian’s knee. Yeah, I want you to fucking seduce Will Parker. Seduce him so he flashes his soul and all his grubby business interests at you, so you can stick ‘em on page one, and wreck any chance he has of ripping off the Australian public in his quest to make another billion. Mark took a lungful and expelled it impatiently. Is that clear?

As glass.

And you get I’m not actually telling you to flash your tits, or sleep with the guy?

I do. Anyway he might be gay and my tits are not that good.

Mark’s hand went to his head in a gesture of disbelief. Fucking might be gay. He refocused on her, and it wasn’t humour he projected. Darce, you always did know how to push the point. Go meet a deadline. Don’t disappoint me.

It wasn’t till she was back in the corridor that Darcy allowed herself to feel exhilaration. Her heart was fuel-injected; her head, helium high. She was going to interview Will Parker. No—she was going to seduce Will Parker with nothing but her intellect. And when she’d broken the secrets of Parker Corporation, no one would say she skated by because she was Brian Campbell’s daughter, and any media job she wanted to name would be one step closer.

By the time she got back to her desk, her smile muscles were fatigued and her stomach was flip-flopping. If she was going to seduce Will Parker with anything other than a plunging neckline and a too short skirt, she had work to do.

2. Invalid

Learn as though you would never be able to master it; Hold it as though you would be in fear of losing it. — Confucius

Miss Campbell, your visa is invalid.

It wasn’t that the Chinese immigration official spoke poor or heavily accented English. What he said was perfect clear, but perfectly obscure at the same time.

I’m sorry, I don’t understand. The Chinese Embassy in Sydney issued this visa. How can it be invalid?

Your visa is invalid. You will be detained until we can solve this problem.

Detained? No, you can’t hold me.

The official handed Darcy her passport and immigration card. You are welcome to return to Australia.

She tried to hand them back. No. I have business in Shanghai. I’m sure my visa is valid.

Your visa is invalid. If you wish to enter into China you will be detained until we can solve this problem.

Where will you detain me? How long will you hold me?

Here at the airport until we solve this problem.

But how long might that take?

The official shrugged. The paperwork must be in order before you can enter the country. If you wish to think about this, you must stand aside.

Standing aside was less threatening than being detained. Darcy had travelled widely through Asia and Europe, and even in Africa had never once been detained for a visa irregularity. She stood aside, in limbo between the queue of passengers and a barrage of immigration officials. Not that she had another choice. The passenger behind her had already taken her place at the counter.

She was rapidly assessing her options as that passenger was replaced by another and it became obvious she’d stand there all night unless she made another decision. Before another changeover could take place she stepped back into the line.

I’d like to enter Shanghai. I’m sure my visa is valid. I trust you’ll only detain me until you can make contact with the embassy in Sydney to confirm my details. She felt vaguely stupid for crossing her fingers while she said that.

The official raised an arm and another uniformed officer stepped forward. He motioned for her to follow, leading Darcy down one corridor after another until she thought they’d surely emerge somewhere in the middle of the Bund. So far, being detained was likely to give her blisters and a sore shoulder from tugging her wheelie suitcase. Getting out of detention without assistance would probably require breadcrumbs. How thoughtless of her not to have dropped them.

At the door to a nondescript room in a nondescript corridor, the official stopped and motioned to her to enter. You will be advised when your visa has been validated.

How long will I need to wait?

Not long.

How long?

The official smiled, revealing jumbled teeth, as if that might make his lack of information more palatable. Not long.

He opened the door, stepped inside the darkened room and turned on the lights. Then he was off down the corridor like he was being chased by a swarm of bees.

The room was windowless. There was a table and a scattering of regulation plastic chairs, a brown couch and a water dispenser, but no cups. There was also a small bathroom with a toilet and basin. It was about ten degrees colder than it was in the rest of the airport.

Welcome to Shanghai.

She threw herself on the ugly couch. She was tired from the ten hour flight. She was hungry. She had the beginnings of a headache from the amount of cramming she’d done—reading up on Chinese business regulations, and what little there was publicly available on the privately held Parker Corporation.

She’d spent most of the flight with what might be pictures of Will Parker scrounged from files and internet image matching services taped to her upright tray table. If this was Parker, he was tall, had dark hair, a square jaw and glasses. He wore a business suit well; and an expression of superiority better. In a tux with a glamorous Chinese woman on his arm, he was definitely social pages drool-over material.

The only thing Darcy was drooling over was the thought of her hotel room, being able to have a hot shower, and stretch out full-length in bed. At least she’d brought a wrap. She dug it out of her wheelie bag and snuggled into it. It was a poor substitute for the overcoat she’d have packed if she’d known her damn visa was going to be invalid, and she’d end up in a freezing cold room somewhere in the backblocks of Pudong airport, where she might well starve to death because they forgot about her.

How long was how long realistically likely to be? Worst case, she’d spend the night in detention. But surely not. Surely someone would phone Sydney tonight, and sort it out.

Thank God she’d taken the Friday flight. She had the weekend to get over the detention ordeal before she needed to front at Parker’s office for her interview.

She sat shivering on the couch. When her stomach rumbled audibly she stood and paced about the small room. Damn, this wouldn’t do. There was no way she was spending the night here. She got to her feet and went for the door. She’d find someone who could fix this mess, if she had to stand in the corridor and scream fire till someone showed up.

Someone showed up before she had the chance. Smiley was back and he had another passenger with him. A man dragging a carry-on bag, worn blue jeans and a crushed white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He spoke Mandarin, or maybe it was the local dialect to the official. He didn’t seem happy. Neither of them acknowledged her.

Excuse me. Do you have an invalid visa too? she said.

The man turned. He had thick, dirty blond hair and deep ocean blue eyes. Thirty-something, six foot-ish, muscular, a knockabout rumpled look to him.

Yeah, you too? he said with a laugh, and an Australian accent.

"Were you on QF129?

You? He had sandy eyebrows and a crooked nose that looked like it might have been broken a time or two.

Yeah. Do you know what’s going on?

What kind of game are you in?

"I’m a journalist, with the Sydney Herald."

Right, well that accounts for you then. Sometimes they make you sweat.

Are you a journo too?

Quick head shake, slow blink. No. I have a business here.

This has happened to you before? How worried should I be?

He held up a hand, a give me a minute gesture. He turned to Smiley and rattled something off. Smiley responded with head nods, exited and closed the door on them.

Darcy figured her expression must have bled annoyed. Her fellow detainee was apologetic, as though it was his fault. Don’t worry. This is all about the inconvenience. They’ll likely hold you for a few hours, and then let you go as if nothing happened.

They didn’t take my passport.

Right. Like I said, it’s all about the inconvenience. He dragged his wheelie bag further into the room and tucked an e-reader deeper into a zip pocket. I ordered us dinner.

You ordered us dinner. How many times have you been detained?

He shrugged, noncommittal. I hope you like Chinese food.

I’m starving. I’ll eat anything. Does your influence extend to getting the air-con adjusted to somewhere north of South Pole?

He glanced around, grimaced. He had the white line of a scar under his chin. You’re right, it is a bit chilly. Wait till the dentist’s dream comes back and I’ll see what I can do.

Darcy smiled. He’d noticed the teeth. He’d ordered food. He seemed to know the drill, and he was someone to talk to. Detention was looking up. If he could get the air fixed, the evening might not be a complete loss. She watched as he sat at the table. He didn’t appear to be the least bothered by all this.

Where are you from?

Small town in Queensland. Tara. Population of about eight hundred on pension cheque day. You? He had a slow drawl, a country town cadence when he spoke in English. His Chinese was rapid fire.

Sydney. Small suburb, Dover Heights. The daggy cousin sandwiched between funky Bondi and toffee-nosed Rose Bay.

She got a full mouthed smile. It transformed him from pleasant looking to ruggedly attractive. I would never call you daggy.

Thank you. I’ve tried to rise above. You’re a long way from Tara.

And I regularly thank whatever deity made that possible.

What kind of business do you have?

He flicked a hand dismissively. Export.

Were you speaking Mandarin? Where did you learn?

That was Shanghainese. I learned it here.

Impressive for a boy from Tara.

She thought he might smile again, but he played it straight. It was essential.

So why have they detained us?

He leant forward, put his forehead on the table; his voice was muffled, Because they can. It made her chuckle. The man from Tara could be funny.

I thought things had loosened up towards foreigners.

They have. I’ve lived here for ten years now. It’s vastly more accommodating. The city is almost unrecognisable from when I arrived; entirely modernised. Still, sometimes things get a little confusing.

I’m lucky they got you too. I was ready to break-out, make a run for it. You make it sound like a speed bump. I was gearing up for an international incident my editor could make a headline out of. Darcy opened her arms to simulate something big. ‘Sydney Journalist Detained by Chinese Government. Subhead—Freezes to Death’.

Sorry to disappoint your editor.

Disappointment is currently his middle name. He wanted to be here instead of me.

Why are you here?

To interview Will Parker. Do you know him?

Bit of a recluse I hear.

I guess he doesn’t show up at expat barbies. How long do you think they’ll keep us? We can make an international incident from not very much you know.

To think I trusted the Australian media.

Darcy gave him an arched eyebrow and a shrugged shoulder and he laughed, the sound coming from low in his broad chest; a warm rumble, before he answered her question. They’ll keep us long enough to be annoying. Worst case midnight.

That was five hours away. Five hours in a small cold room with nothing to do except pass the time with the attractive man from Tara.

3. Five Hours

"No matter how busy you may think you are, you must find time for reading, or surrender yourself to self-chosen ignorance." — Confucius

She was a knockout.

Was that still the word for it? Pete would say she was a babe. She was wasted on print journalism. Should’ve been on the TV news, fronting her own current affairs program. And that was just her face. He couldn’t see the rest of her. She was on the couch huddled into a blue scarf thing. She had huge round doll eyes and golden hair, tied loose at the back of her neck. Smooth, rosy skin, cheekbones sharp enough to shave on, no makeup, simple gold studs in her ears. No artifice. Classy.

She was obviously anxious, appropriately so, but she wasn’t panicked. He could imagine her in the hallway shouting until someone came and sorted things out. He could see her flexing her intellect in a busy newsroom. She’d have determination and focus. She’d have quick elbows and a tough hide, despite the dewy skin.

She was freezing. He’d have to do something about the air-con. Meanwhile she could have his jacket. He dug it out of his carry-on. Put this on.

Oh, no thank you, it’s okay. I’d have packed thermals if I’d have known it’d be like this in the middle of summer.

You won’t need thermals when you get outside.

Good to know.

Please, take my jacket. You’re shivering.

That’s very gallant of you, but I’m fine.

I’m not cold.

She gave him that big-eyed look, one eyebrow raised. This time it said either ‘you’re kidding me’ or ‘you’re an idiot’.

I’m not cold. Look if I get cold, I’ll, er, I’ll flap my arms, do push-ups.

That eyebrow stayed raised. His left thumb itched to trace over it, to understand what it meant. He wasn’t supposed to feel like that. He studied her face; those pale green eyes were twin danger signs. Okay, that look definitely said ‘you’re an idiot’. Might as well conform to expectations.

He dropped to the floor and slammed through quick push-ups, counting them out loud. At five, he almost abandoned ship, but she started laughing. Not at him, hard or brittle, but with him, soft and generous.

Okay, you win. I’ll take your jacket.

He did two more for the sheer show of it, then tossed her his jacket, and busied himself zipping his carry-on. What the fuck was that about? He wasn’t just warm now, he was burning up. One pretty face had reduced him to a teenage macho blockhead in about fifteen minutes, what were the next five hours going to be like?

Five hours with nothing to do except listen to her pepper him with questions and appraise him with those ethereal eyes. Last time he’d spent five obligation free hours with a beautiful woman was…? Yeah, that’s about right. Not in living memory. He’d need to keep his inner dickhead under control to make it manageable.

While he fiddled with his carry-on, she’d worn his jacket over her shoulders. But now she was skipping respectful of other people’s property, and launching straight into practical. She was on her feet shoving her arms into the sleeves. She was curvy in all the right places, in blue jeans and a soft, pale blue, short-sleeved t-shirt. Not one of those women afraid to eat. Not that it mattered. What she looked like was irrelevant. But he’d always been a sucker for a naturally pretty face, and a good laugh. Not that it mattered, but that body didn’t disappoint. Now she had the scarf wound around her neck and the jacket zipped, the cuffs turned back. It hung down to her mid thigh—looked ridiculous. Made him feel like laughing, but not at her.

She clocked him watching her. Thank you. Maybe we can take it in turns, she said.

What, you can do push-ups?

She laughed, notes of music. I’m more of a yoga girl, but sure, if I have to, I’ll have a go.

Yoga. Been practising long?

New to it. It’s good for my brain.

I guess you work in a stressful environment.

Yes. It can be stressful, deadline driven, but I love it. Is stress a big deal for an exporter?

It can be.

How do you cope?

Pete would say, not well. That he was an uptight, way too buttoned down, blowhard with an increasingly limited comfort zone, way too much filthy water on his chest, and a short fuse. Fuck Pete. Pete’d think he’d popped a brain cell if he’d seen the push-ups.

Bo would have a quote. It’d be one of those ones he was never sure was real or made up to suit the moment.

The door opened, saving him from further introspection. Dinner. Smelled good. Dentist boy brought it in on a trolley: soup, rice, a chicken dish, vegetables, tea. No banquet but it would do.

He asked about the air-con while she set out plates and poured tea into cups. No deal. It was controlled somewhere else, and meant for a large space. This room was a wasteland where sensible temperature control came to die. Crap. He’d have packed thermals too.

When he sat she said, Truth or dare?

"It’s tongzi—young chicken. Safe to eat. Though the English translation is, ‘this chicken has no sexual experience’."

She laughed. No, I meant we have hours to fill. Are you up for some truth or dare?

Oh hell. She wasn’t boring, you had to give her that. She was bright and amusing. It’d been a long time since he’d had dinner with a beautiful woman who wanted to play games that didn’t involve money and his eventual loss of it.

Well, is there anything you’d rather talk about? she said.

Life—the meaning of.

I think I know the answer.

What?

Heat.

It’d been a long time since he’d been with a woman who met his eyes and didn’t want anything. Very cute. Let’s skip the dare part. I’m a wimp at heart. I’ll start. Truth—what did you want to be when you grew up?

I wanted to be a journalist like my Dad. She served them both rice. I still want to be like my Dad. He made me do it the hard way. No favours, no leg-up. He actually suggested I use a different surname.

Hardcore. And impressive. She wasn’t giving him wistful or put upon, she was proud of doing it tough.

I’m a better journalist than I might’ve been if I’d taken shortcuts. I’m still my father’s daughter though. He casts a long shadow.

And if you were your father’s son?

I’d be my brother, Andy. She paused, chopsticks raised. He’s a journo too, foreign correspondent. Award winner. What about you?

I always wanted to be an exporter.

You. Did. Not!

He had to laugh. Not that he’d expected her to take that answer seriously. I can’t remember.

She was all cheekbones and spikes of sunshine. Yes you can, you’re embarrassed. What does it matter if you tell me?

You’re a journalist.

Not in this room. I’m a fellow detainee.

Good, that was established. Okay, I’m—what do you call it—’off the record’.

She leant forward, dropped her voice lower. Tell you a secret. There really isn’t any off the record, there’s only what’s negotiated. But for you, my fellow detainee, she was laughing at him, whatever you tell me in here is forever off the record.

She stuck out a hand, and they shook across the virgin chicken and green peppers. I’m honoured. He was relieved. I wanted to be rich.

What’s embarrassing about that?

It’s mercenary.

It’s practical. Did you make it?

He reached for the teapot. Would you like more tea?

She held her cup out. I take it that’s a no?

He poured, watching the cup, knowing she was studying him with those big doll eyes. When he lifted the spout and met her gaze she was grinning.

It’s not a ‘no’ is it? Good for you. She’d sussed him right out, even when he’d been conscious of trying not to look smug. My turn. Truth. Is there anything unusual about you?

I speak Shanghainese.

Apart from that. And not the small town boy makes good story either. Something I don’t know.

Bossy.

He must’ve pulled a face because she leant back from the table, Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to annoy you. We don’t have to do this.

They sure didn’t. But it would be interesting to see what it would take to shock her. I didn’t learn to read until after I learned to drive a car.

She looked bemused. She’d been watching him closely, she’d seen the Kindle.

Visual dyslexia and teachers who didn’t know what to do about it, when I bothered to show up at school. I caught up, but not till my late teens.

Where were your parents?

I was a foster kid. Moved around so much no one picked it up, and I was good at hiding it.

That’s incredible. You have come a long way from Tara. She said that like a caress, and damn if it didn’t make him feel relaxed, even though he was starting to get cold. My turn. Truth. Why do you want to interview Parker?

Hah. Too easy. You wasted a good question. It’s a career-making interview. You know that long parental shadow? If I can get the definitive interview, I get to step out from under it. If I can get Parker to spill secrets, particularly about why he’s started buying up shares in Avalon mining, it’ll be a genuine breaking story. Parker doesn’t do media interviews. But all of a sudden he’s available. His people think we’re tame, that we’ll fall over our own feet to write a puff piece. That’s not my intention.

You’re right. I wasted a question. Who cares about bloody Will Parker?

I do. There has to be a reason he’s so deliberate about avoiding the spotlight and I wonder if it’s the same reason he appears to have built his empire out of nothing.

Maybe he has a terrible physical affliction—he’s a hunchback or a vampire.

She laughed. If he’s a hunchback, I promise I won’t be mean to him. But if he’s got fangs, I’m going to do whatever I can to stick a stake in his intentions to soft soap the Australian public.

I’m glad I’m just a boy from Tara and you’re just my fellow detainee. Though she was so inspired and engaging, he was beginning to want to define detainee a different way.

My go. Truth. Any scars? she said. She touched her chin. She wanted the story.

Let’s see if this got her. Hell yeah. You sure you want to know? We could be here all night.

I thought that was the detention plan.

Funny. You ready for this?

Only if it’s show and tell.

You asked for it. It had to be said. He gestured to the back of his neck, but kept his eyes on hers. There’s a scar here from where they removed the hunch.

He’d hardly got the words out before she shoved the table so it butted against his gut, plates skidding, chopsticks scattering. She was choking on her laugher. I get one dare for that. You are so going down.

No, no dares. Truth. He pushed his sleeve up, displaying a burn scar. Petrol fire. He ran a finger under his chin, Fight. Should’ve seen the other guy. He tapped his nose, Got this broken to go with it. He pulled the neck of his shirt to the side, showing his pec and the faded line of stitches. Knife.

Her mouth dropped open. She had a freshly poured cup of tea in her hand, held aloft, forgotten.

There’s more. She shook her head, frowning. She’d heard enough. Hey, it was a tough neighbourhood. What about you?

Nothing to speak of compared to you. Fifteen stitches from a badly split knee. I fell out of a tree.

Show and tell.

She smiled, looked down at the waistband of her jeans. Her momentary loss of composure over. Nice try. No way.

My question then. Most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?

Death knocks.

That sounds bad, what is it?

When you knock on someone’s door and tell them their family member is dead so you can get their reaction, get the scoop; make the headline.

Shit.

It’s unbearable. They hate you. Sometimes they’re in such a daze, you’re inside on the family sofa drinking their tea before they even realise you’re a vulture. I’ll squeegee windscreens at traffic lights before I do that again. And you?

He should’ve thought more about that question before he spat it out. Hard to pick one. So many special times to choose from. A standout is putting my brother in hospital. Those doll eyes gave nothing away, made him want to explain. When you can’t read, the fist really is mightier than…well you get what I mean.

She nodded. Why did you hit him?

He was jigging school.

Didn’t you say you were too?

She had him. Yeah. But he was bright, a hell of a lot smarter than me. I needed him to do well in school. He didn’t appreciate the sentiment until I beat it into him.

Noble of you.

That’s me, noble. He went on to become a Rhodes scholar. I’d hit him again if I had to, just maybe not that hard.

Geez. Tough neighbourhood.

One he didn’t need reminding of. Is it my turn? Your biggest regret?

I regret… Actually I don’t regret anything. Not sure there’s much point in regret. You?

My brother would say I work too hard.

The scholar? What do you say?

One day I might regret working too hard.

She was staring right at him. Her journalist’s probing look. "Favourite movie? Mine is Little Miss Sunshine. I love a quirky comedy."

That’s girly of you.

Hey, I’m not Lois Lane twenty-four-seven.

"The Departed."

Yeah I can see that. All that intrigue and cop action. Favourite superhero?

Spiderman.

Why?

What’s not to like about a guy in a leotard fighting crime?

When you put it like that, but why not Batman or Superman?

You really want to talk about Spiderman?

I don’t really want to be detained.

It’s the leotard. He had a better leotard.

She shook her head, not buying.

Batman was a rich guy and Superman was an alien.

She blinked at him.

They didn’t have Spidey sense. Doll eyes, blink, blink, she wanted more. Spiderman was a kid when he got his powers, he was in school. He didn’t always do the right thing. He was persecuted. Blink, blink. He’s a functioning neurotic.

Down went those eyelids, the lashes fanning out. Her cheeks went razor edge on the breadth of her smile and her laugh came from somewhere tropical and lush.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be cold again.

4. Strangers

What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others.— Confucius

He’d said he was a wimp at heart. But he’d punched his way through his teen years with Spiderman as his idol. And the man from Tara, the foster kid who couldn’t read, admitted to being rich and successful. He might’ve made an interesting interview. He was a genuinely engaging detention companion. This could’ve been so much worse. And if this wasn’t a cold, dull room, and she wasn’t passing through, it could’ve been something more.

Is there a Mrs Man from Tara? It felt like a useful slice of information for her awkwardly fizzing hormones to have.

Ah, no.

Why not?

Dive right in there. He didn’t like the question but he didn’t squirm or break eye contact. Speaks to the whole I might regret working too hard thing. You?

I might regret working too hard. She said it quickly, and watched him closely. He stacked the crockery, pushed it to the far edge of the table. He was a poker player and gave nothing away.

Must be my turn for a question. Are you in love? he said.

I just told you. She laughed at him. You’re not very good at this are you? You wasted another question. Either that or this was a bluff, a negotiating tactic.

Answer the question or take a dare, he said. It was an order, in a tone that was used to being obeyed. The command coming as easily as his breathing did.

You wouldn’t?

He folded his arms, and rocked into the back of his chair. He was an immoveable object. He so would.

I’ve never been in love or met anyone I wanted to stay with in a forever sense.

Do you believe in forever?

That’s two questions. Some forevers. The bond between some parents and children. Some couples get lucky. But overall, no. I believe in making the best of the moment.

He uncrossed his arms, looked less hard-baked. He seemed to like that answer. But she couldn’t have him feeling too comfortable, too in control. I get two turns. Tell me about your first kiss?

He spluttered a laugh, one hand going to his hair and combing through it. We’re not about to play spin the bottle are we?

We’ll stick with truth or dare. The thought of playing spin the bottle with Tara was a hot tickle to cold bones, not enough to want to remove her hands from the pockets of his jacket though.

His eyes went down to the table. He groaned. Miss Fredrick.

If Miss Fredrick is a family friend or a neighbour, and this is about a kiss on the cheek, you are in serious dare territory.

His eyes came up, no hint of embarrassment. He was still in the driver’s seat. I assume you want the full adults only version. I’m skipping minor skirmishes behind the bike shed. I assume your next question will be about who I first had sex with. I’m giving you the two-part X-rated response.

He looked completely serious. He might’ve been about to explain an international export regulation.

I was fifteen, she was twenty-four. She was stacked. Long red hair. My year ten history teacher. I liked history, it was all about stories I could memorise. She kissed me in the classroom after she gave me a D for an essay on The Great Depression. Softening the blow. She wasn’t thinking clearly. I was angry. I was lonely. I wasn’t soft. She put her tongue in my mouth. I was in her bed that night and every night for the next six months. She still failed me. Bitch, he finished on a grunted laugh.

He was sitting easy, one bent arm resting on the table edge, but there was something in his expression—a hardness, the brawler in him challenging her to recoil. It made him more intriguing. That answer your question, Lois Lane?

Comprehensively.

He broke eye contact. He was looking somewhere inside himself. I’ve never told anyone that.

She wanted to bring him back into the room. In the spirit of the game, my first kiss was Nathan Tucker, we were both sixteen. We went steady for about six weeks. I was heartbroken when he chose dirt bike racing over me. I had sex with his older brother Ben a year later.

Was it good?

I was being a little shit. I only did it to hurt Nathan.

Not that—the sex, was it good?

God, I don’t remember.

Yes, you do. You’re embarrassed. What does it matter if you tell me?

Now he was being a shit. He’d memorised their conversation like a history lesson.

It was awful. It was quick. It hurt. Ben didn’t care about me, and he told everyone I cried. It cured me of teenage promiscuity.

But it hadn’t cured her of the flush of embarrassment from being called a slut by the boy she’d thought she loved. That still stung like the undeserved flick of a wet tea towel. Darcy was lost to the smells and sounds of that summer. Coconut oil, and fried food eaten too often. Singing Green Day’s Good Riddance while her heart was hearing Celine Dion. Crying in the dark watching Shakespeare in Love with her Jennifer Anniston haircut.

She shook her head, heard the irritating hum of the over bright fluorescent ceiling panels—interrogation lighting. She’d started this, but she’d let a stranger reach inside her and pull out secrets and confessions.

He leant across the table, both arms flattened on it. He was close enough for her to study the crinkle in the scar on his chin.

What’s your adult promiscuity like?

Wow. Her natural reaction was to push away, but that’s exactly what he was aiming for. His version of the game was to unsettle; to try to shock. Why else tell her about his dyslexia, and his tough neighbourhood? Did he want her to dislike him? She met his blue-black eyes. Good thing I wasn’t expecting sympathy.

I’m not a sympathetic guy. Answer the question.

A quick jerk of his chin. That obey me tone. That expectation she would. None of your business.

The mood shifted again. From the relief of distraction, of not being alone when the rules were unclear; from surprisingly playful to something darker. Darcy felt the beginning of a thread of fear unwind in her belly. She didn’t know this man, and there was no one else near. She needed to take care not to inflame things between them.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping, the table barking against the floor. Her thigh muscles clenched. She was ready to move too if she had to. He was looking at his scuffed RMs, his fists clenched at his sides.

Right, sorry. I got carried away there. Fuck. I apologise. He looked up. I reckon I owe you a dare.

He looked genuinely contrite, frowning. For the first time since he’d entered the room he looked uncertain. He waited, fine blond hair stood up on his muscled forearms; he must’ve been cold.

No, don’t worry. We don’t have to play anymore.

How else can I make it up to you?

Think warm thoughts. It’s really cold in here. You must be freezing.

He rubbed his hands together. Yeah, I am cold now. No excuse for being a shithead though. He opened his arms wide. Come on, free shot.

The smart thing would be to start an entirely new conversation, something impersonal and safe, maybe about books or music, or get him to talk about his business. But volunteering for detention in a Chinese airport and playing truth or dare with a rich, attractive man who made you wonder if he kissed with the same authority he used when he wanted information stripped your sense of smart.

Dance.

He dropped his arms, his head tilting to the side. Sorry?

My free shot. I dare you to dance.

Dance? What here, by myself, without music? His voice filled with the audacity of it. He shook his head, a stunted smile of incredulity on his face. With you watching?

It was harder than she’d thought to keep a straight face. Yes. It will warm you up and make up for your master and commander act.

I’m not going to dance.

You did push-ups, what’s the difference?

Vast, he laughed. He shifted about. Restless, but amused not intimidated.

You’re not reneging are you? That thread of fear was now a strand of thrill. Darcy liked that she’d surprised him, rattled him.

He stopped still, immoveable object still, back in control. I am.

Wimp.

A man should never be frightened of backing down when he’s in too deep.

I thought you were noble. A noble man would keep his promises. He’d honour a dare.

I’m not noble. That was the punchline to a joke.

Is everything you’ve told me a joke, a lie?

His stillness deepened. No. Definitively said. Miss Fredrick and her French kiss wasn’t a lie, Spiderman, not being able to read, putting the Rhodes scholar in hospital. None of that had been said for entertainment value. She could see it in his eyes. It was her signal to retreat.

Well. I have some interview prep to get on with.

That was the smart thing to do, though the loss of the game, the withdrawal from him, gave her a twisted pang of regret. The sudden freedom of telling a stranger intimate things about herself, and not caring what he thought, was an unexpected side effect of Chinese immigration practice. She got up from the table and went for her bag. She didn’t feel like reading, but she couldn’t sit there looking at him.

Goddamn. All right. I’ll dance.

He was scoping the room; for what, a looking glass to fall through, a rabbit hole to disappear down? There was no meal delivery to divert attention this time. If Smiley came back now with validated visas it would be an offense against fair play.

His eyes came back to hers. Give me your scarf. He had a determined look. Like this was a problem customer order he could fix with basic ingenuity. She unfolded the blue pashmina and held it out to him. Was he going to turn it into a skirt and go hula girl? Whatever he did: dead ant, pole dance, strip, shuffle, crump, she knew she’d be transfixed. She pressed her lips together to stop laughing, but he knew he was the focus of her attention.

Yuk it up, Lois.

He held the pashmina at a fringe edge and shook it out like a beach towel. He closed that end in his fist and held it out to his side, elbow bent. He took the other end and held it in front of him, waist high. Closed position for a waltz. He was Fred Astaire without a broom to dance with, her pashmina his partner. Darcy’s wariness of him dissolved.

He was on his toes, not graceful, more like a boxer, ready to cut away. He took a step backwards and hit the edge of the table, and his arms came down, the illusion busted. He was right, this was vastly different to push-ups. He’d had mastery over them. He was out on an entirely different limb here, one where humiliation was an obvious outcome.

A less determined man, a man who worried what people thought about him, might call the whole thing off.

He glanced behind him, brow creased, annoyed, then stepped away from the table and lifted his arms again, the shawl draped in front of him between his big hands with their wide knuckles and blunt nails. His eyes were down, he was concentrating. Trying to remember or just trying to get through this.

He stepped back, sideways, forward and sideways again. A basic box step. He was truth, he was daring. He was dancing with cashmere in a stiflingly dull, over lit, freezing cold room in the depths of Pudong airport.

She let him complete the box step twice more then started clapping. His head came up. His face was flushed. He made her throat dry. And there was no Mrs Man from Tara.

Darcy stepped forward, stopped in front of him. He gave her a quizzical look. She ducked under his arms so she was between him and the pashmina. That’s all the hint he needed. He flung the shawl on the couch and took her hand, his other coming around her back. They box stepped awkwardly, their bodies wide apart, their eyes on their feet.

His hands were so warm; she could feel heat radiating off him. How much warmer would he be if he held her against his chest? He tightened his grip bringing her closer. He might’ve been dyslectic but his mind-reader skills were superb.

This okay? he said.

She smiled up at him. She trusted the question. It was an open door, not a closed command. His eyes were moving over her face. His lips bowed in a soft smile. He tightened his arm around her back again and she came closer still, though their only contact was her hand in his, his arm along her mid back and hers on his shoulder.

This okay?

They had eye contact now. A glue fixing them more closely than their hands. She wrapped the hand resting on his shoulder around his neck to show him how okay she was. Her fingertips went to the skin under his collar.

He started, Shit you’re cold, clamping her against his chest. She tucked her head onto his neck and he brought his warm prickly cheek down to hers. This close he smelled like aromatic spices. They’d stopped moving, one of her legs was inside both of his, thighs touching, hip touching. The warmth of him was like a luxurious bath. She wished she wasn’t wearing his jacket; she might feel closer, warmer still.

5. Seduction

Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it. — Confucius

Someone’s daughter was in his arms. That’s how he should be thinking of her; as a daughter, a sister, not as a woman he was irrationally inspired to seduce. She shouldn’t be in his arms so easily anyway. And this stopped being about stupid dares and the cold five minutes after it started. He wished he could feel more of her, but his bloody jacket was all fabric, pockets and zips between them. He didn’t know this would happen, but now it had, he wanted to manipulate an entirely different outcome.

The woman in his arms was only popsicle on the outside. She was like a banked brush fire inside. Intelligent, passionate, free. And that was a problem. He wanted her, his fellow detainee with her blonde beauty, and her making the best of the moment philosophy.

She knew what she was doing when she started the game, when she crafted her questions, when she stepped into his arms, and touched his skin with her ice-hot fingers. She knew what she was doing when she dared him to dance. She was testing his limits and now, snuggling against his chest, both arms around his back, and her face tucked into his neck, she was testing them in a different way.

She was fucking seducing him.

Hey, Lois.

She murmured a yes. He felt her warm breath, her lips almost on his skin. If she wanted something between them, she’d have the chance. I think you owe me a dare.

She fanned her hands over his shoulders, the promise of warmth, the play of possession. I don’t think so.

I bloody know so. You’ve been tormenting me since I got here. You owe me.

She shifted, lifted her head to look at him. You rich entrepreneurs think you can make up the rules as you go along. You self-made successes are the worst. Think you can call all the shots. That’s not how it works.

You don’t think? Isn’t that why you’re a journalist, because you believe the media’s role is to keep the money makers honest? Isn’t that why you want to interview bloody Parker? You think because he doesn’t court attention he must be an evil, sneaky bastard who should be called to account, and humbled by the stink of your newsprint.

She frowned, her lips compressing, and he immediately regretted flicking a whip at the tiger cub in her. She wasn’t going to kiss him if he alienated her.

And if he played it right she would kiss him.

Maybe.

Shit, he was no good at this. The last time he’d genuinely seduced a woman with just his words and body was nineteen years ago. And Miss Fredrick was a foregone conclusion from the minute she offered him after-school coaching, as pretty much every woman he’d spent time with since had been. If, at first, because he was their bad boy fantasy, later it was all about the money.

He was far more cynical and not used to making an effort now, and if the only weapon he had in his holster was goading her, there wasn’t going to be anything remotely like a kiss happening. Ironic. Jiao had been gone eighteen months now. She was enjoying the business in Shenzhen, and she wasn’t coming back. Much as he missed her, he could only wish her well. He hadn’t had the heart to replace her with a younger model. None of the other Golden Flower girls appealed. And while Pete assured him there was a queue of expat women panting for his attention, he couldn’t think of anything worse than opening up to gold diggers and fortune hunters.

He was best alone. Alone was his fighting weight.

But now there was this woman. Not part of the program, but here she was, getting under his skin with her natural beauty and her clever brain. She had no idea what she was getting into, but then neither did he anymore. He’d fucked this up by not backing off around the time the food was delivered.

So Lois, if it’s not bringing down sneaky bastards like Parker, what do you dream about?

The next headline.

What, no picket fence? No patter of little feet?

No. She shifted back and pulled her hands free. Does that shock you? She stepped away, awkward now with their closeness. She made a show of tidying her hair. I’m supposed to play to type aren’t I? Want the husband and the two point five kids.

She broke away entirely now, but stopped worrying about what she said or what he thought. She threw the words out like garbage. I don’t. There are plenty of people out there willing to be parents. It’s not like there’s a shortage.

Frightened they’d cramp your style?

She was acres away, across the room now. She’d gone through challenged and uncomfortable, strayed into annoyed, and now gave off early warning signs of anger. Maybe I’m frightened I’d cramp theirs.

It was beyond him not to stroke that emotion to see if it ignited. That’s a cop-out.

So you’re a father, you have a valid opinion on this?

I have a valid opinion. It’s got nothing to do with whether I’m a parent or not.

She pulled a chair out from the table, turned it to face him and sat. She gave off nonchalant, but her crossed leg swung, small, intense kicks. I suppose you’re going to tell me about it.

He let her keep her distance, her space from him, from what they were doing to each other. "Yep. You’re goddamn beautiful, you’re educated, you have