CHAPTER FIVE

C HARLEY ’ S EYES FLUTTERED open to find her nose pushed into firm tanned flesh which smelled of salt and pine woods and man.

Mmm... Delicious.

But then full consciousness returned.

Cade Landry!

She was wrapped around the man she had spent one incredible night with at Cassandra Broussard’s party. But the awareness making all her pulse points pound was soon joined by a wave of panic.

She shifted away from him, her disorientated senses becoming aware not just of all the places her body felt different—well-used, a little sore—but also that the night had meant more to her than it should.

Why else was she still in his bed? She had never spent the whole night with a guy.

She could remember the stunning orgasms, him coaxing her to stay, the promise to help her leave this morning in secret—and her insistence staying was a bad idea. So why had she succumbed?

Jet lag? Maybe. Exhaustion? Possibly.

But even as she tried to convince herself there were lots of practical reasons for her to fall asleep in Cade’s bed, the panic in her chest became a ticking bomb.

Stop analysing your stupidity and get out of here—now.

Galvanised, she edged off the bed. He lay, still fast asleep, taking up most of the available space. She stared at him for one precious moment. Weren’t guys supposed to look boyish and less threatening and overpowering while asleep?

Trust Cade Landry to be the opposite. His hard, handsome face—the stubble on his jaw almost a beard now—was even more devastating. Serious and hot, and totally intimidating.

The ticking time bomb pushed into her throat as she recalled how careful, how intent he had been on her pleasure, her response to him.

No man had ever made love to her with such focus.

Not made love...had sex.

He’d said himself it was no big deal. All he’d had to do was pay attention. She’d obviously just picked the wrong guys to get intimate with before Cade.

No biggie.

He frowned in his sleep, shifting. And she jerked back.

She scrambled off the bed, her heart now pressed against her larynx.

She gathered her discarded clothing and slipped each piece on—from her signature dress, now hopelessly crushed, to the tangled thong.

As she yanked on her ankle boots, she became brutally aware of the discomfort between her thighs, the tenderness in her sex. She needed a shower. But she wasn’t about to risk waking him, the ticking bomb threatening to explode.

Her flight home was booked for three o’clock. She had enough time to catch a cab back to her motel in Marin County, grab a shower and her luggage, then head to the airport.

She paused while scooping up the purse she’d dropped in the living room.

The penthouse’s panoramic view of the Bay Bridge and the heritage building in front of them—ornate and dazzling in the sunlight—had the breath she’d been holding clogging her lungs.

The memory of the approval in Cade’s eyes all through the evening and during their night together—as he’d played her body like a virtuoso, and she’d enjoyed every minute of it— filled her with a fierce yearning which only made her feel more exposed. And frankly idiotic.

Orgasms were one thing. Even breathtaking, life-altering, mind-blowing ones. But the fact Cade had been the man to deliver them—a man who in a weird way had changed the course of her life four years ago—felt significant. But she refused to be one of those women who confused great sex and electrifying chemistry with something more.

She turned from the magnificent view and spotted a notepad on the coffee table.

She jotted down a quick note. Then screwed it up and stuffed it in her purse. It took two more attempts before she got the right mix of friendly and flippant.

As she walked through the parking area ten minutes later, she refused to acknowledge the regret making her chest ache.

She was not that needy, messed-up girl any more.

This wasn’t a walk of shame. She didn’t care if her make-up was smudged, her dress wrinkled and her scent more than a little musty. She was one hundred percent responsible for her actions last night. And she’d had a good time. An illuminating time.

But she would shove this memory away in a box marked ‘Your First Booty Call to Remember’ and then forget about Cade, finally, because she’d come full circle from the reckless girl he’d met four years ago.

And she had no doubt at all, Cade Landry would be grateful when he woke up to discover she had taken the initiative—and left before things could get awkward.

Thanks for an epic night, Sir Galahad! If I ever get the chance to dance the Zydeco again, I’ll think of you. C

Cade stared at the note—which he’d found propped on the coffee table after spending ten minutes searching the apartment for his overnight guest.

Her sultry perfume had woken him from vivid erotic dreams—in which she was the star player, his groin hard and throbbing. And now this ...

She’d run out on him.

He scratched his stomach, still groggy and strung out after the deepest sleep he’d had in months, and read the note again.

The blip in his heartbeat, though, refused to subside. But as he scanned the note a third time, looking for any kind of hidden meaning, any hint she planned to get in touch with him again, anger tangled with the hollow ache in his gut.

She hadn’t even left a cell number. This was the female equivalent of wham, bam, thank you, ma’am .

He’d been given the kiss-off before—back in high school, when the rich, pretty, popular girls had been happy to use him for kicks but had never wanted to date him in public—and it had stopped bothering him a long time ago.

So why did Charlotte Courtney’s kiss-off note bug him so much now?

Perhaps because he thought he’d left that easily used kid behind after he’d made his first million. Perhaps because these days, he was always the one to disengage first. Maybe even because he’d decided late last night that Charlotte would be the perfect summer date to see off deMarco and her brother when it came to the Helberg bet?

But as he screwed up the note and lobbed it into the trash, determined to forget it, and her—Charlotte’s breezy, brazen, couldn’t-give-a-damn-about-you note still bugged him. Big-time.

What the hell had he expected? Yeah, it had been a memorable night, one of the best he’d had in a while. But that was as much to do with the fact he’d been working his nuts off for months, preparing the groundwork to bring Helberg and its assets into the Landry brand, as it did with Charlotte.

As for making her his summer date? He could always find someone else...

They hadn’t arrived at the Broussards’ together, and the press had been long gone by the time they’d left. No one knew about last-night’s hook up, so his options were still open.

It was all good. Or at least it ought to be...

But after showering and changing, he gave in to the urge to contact his cleaning crew, to ensure they put fresh linens on the bed so he wouldn’t be able to smell Charlotte when he returned that evening. Which was more than a bit obsessive—because they didn’t need reminding to change his sheets.

As he headed out for a series of meetings with his architects—to discuss plans for one of Helberg’s old hotels in the Presidio—he couldn’t shake the hollow ache in his chest. Or the constant blip in his heart rate...

While he spent the day discussing the cost and scope of the renovation work needed, thoughts of Charlotte—so captivating, so fierce, so forthright and alive as she discovered the joys of Zydeco and sex—kept intruding and making him lose the thread of the conversation.

By the time he got back to the apartment that night, he was exhausted and still preoccupied with every damn detail of what had happened between them—which wasn’t like him at all.

He’d never had trouble moving on before, even back in high school.

But he couldn’t shift the unpleasant thought that something had slipped through his fingers, something he wanted and couldn’t have. Something he hadn’t even known he wanted until he’d met Charlotte Courtney again—and danced with her in the moonlight.

He wasn’t that reject kid any more who allowed other people to call the shots or let himself be hurt because people thought they were better than him.

So why had he let Charlotte’s crummy kiss-off note make him feel like that again?

Damn her.