Chapter 17

Hart

I’ve never spent the night with a woman.

It’s disarming to discover I want to despite every self-preservation mechanism in my body telling me to do the opposite and run from this villa as fast as humanly possible.

But Daisy asked me to stay and after the way I treated her earlier today, I can’t say no.

‘I didn’t pick you for a cuddler,’ she says, glancing up at me from the crook of my shoulder where her head currently rests.

‘I’m not.’ I sound gruff and temper it with, ‘But I can’t get enough of you and I’ll be ready for round two shortly.’

‘Only twice?’ She whacks me playfully on the chest. ‘Don’t forget you’re spending the night, mister, so I expect you to double that tally at least.’

‘Done,’ I say, tightening my hold on her.

She snuggles in tighter and, surprisingly, that insistent urge to bolt fades.

What’s so bad about staying the night, ensuring I wake up with an armful of hot woman? It’s not like she’s slipping a gold band on my finger.

‘Want to hear something funny?’

I’m not a talker in bed either. Once the deed is done I’m out so I can get home, usually to a hotel room. But that’s another anomaly tonight: I don’t mind her ramblings.

‘Sure.’

‘I’ve never had a vacation fling.’ Her chuckle borders on a girly giggle. ‘And even though technically I’m working, I’m at a fabulous resort with a hot guy so it feels like a vacation.’

‘You won’t say that when I make you work overtime to get my campaign out to the masses ASAP.’

She waves away my concern. ‘You know I’m good at what I do so let me have this indulgent fantasy for a while.’

I drop a kiss on her forehead. Man, I am such a sucker. She tilts her head up and flashes me an approving smile that makes me feel like a god.

‘Can we play twenty questions?’

‘No.’

I’ve already revealed too much and I don’t like the way she looks at me when I do, like she can see all the way down to the dark part of me where I lock away my innermost shame.

‘Too bad, because I want to play.’ She tweaks my nipple and I swat her hand away. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’

‘Pink.’

Her nose scrunches. ‘No, it’s not.’

‘It is.’ I trail a fingertip from between her tits to her navel. ‘The gorgeous blushing pink of your skin after you come.’

The same pink suffusing her cheeks now. ‘You’re not going to turn every question into a sexual innuendo, are you?’

‘Possibly.’

Especially if it saves me from revealing too much.

‘What’s your favourite car?’

She’s not going to be deterred so I decide to play nice for a while. ‘I don’t own one but if I did it would be something sporty.’

‘Convertible?’

‘Of course.’

She nods in approval. ‘Nice choice. How old were you when you lost your virginity?’

‘Now who’s turning things sexual?’

She shrugs and the sheet covering her top half dips. Bonus. ‘I’m curious.’

‘Fifteen.’

‘That’s young.’

‘An older woman took advantage of me.’

A frown appears between her brows and I smooth it away. ‘Not in the way you’re thinking. I was living in Melbourne at the time, in a really great foster home. The parents had a kid of their own and fostered another three for a time. The eldest foster daughter was seventeen and one of her friends in the same year at school…well, let’s say she found me rather appealing.’

‘So you like older women?’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-seven.’

‘Then the answer is no.’

Her smile is cute and coy and utterly irresistible, like the rest of her. ‘What’s your biggest regret?’

The lightness of the last few minutes fades as I recall the exact moment I’ll regret for the rest of my life.

Pa called me the night before he died. We talked about sport, the economy, and an upcoming car rally. He never pressured me into returning to work alongside him, but that night I heard something in his voice, a fatigue that tainted everything he said. I felt like shit and didn’t sleep much after that call—an insomnia that only intensified when I got another call the next day, informing me Pa died.

Not telling him I’d planned on coming home to surprise him the following week was the biggest regret of my life.

But I can’t tell Daisy that so I settle for a lame, ‘Not being drafted to play in the big league.’

‘Were you that good at playing footy?’

‘No.’

‘Idiot.’ She whacks me again on the chest but this time her palm rests there, directly over my heart. Too close. Way too close. ‘If you could wish for one thing, what would it be?’

Inexplicably, my throat tightens. I’ve never liked the ‘what if’ game. What if my mum had stuck around?

What if my dad hadn’t abandoned me?

What if one of my foster parents had seen past my angry exterior and understood I was inherently good?

What if Pa had found me sooner?

What if I could’ve been the grandson he wanted, to stand by his side and rule his empire and tell him how much he really meant to me?

I hate what ifs. They’re for suckers.

‘I’d wish we could stay in bed all night long.’

She pats my chest. ‘I already intend on making that wish come true.’

‘Good. Then let’s start now…’