Cheryl Holt by Complete Abandon

her skin tingle, her pulse escalate, her senses come alive. But while she treasured his proximity, she was too shrewd to be deluded by his magnificence.
    “I’m not about to let you have it,” she causticallypointed out. “I’m quite sure it would disappear.”
    From the invisible daggers the two men traded, it was disgracefully apparent that they’d had every intention of destroying it once she’d left, but their prank wasn’t progressing at all as they’d foreseen. They’d assumed they could send her off, foolishly surmising that she had a deal, when she’d have had no method of proving it, or holding Wakefield to his promise.
    Much to their communal chagrin, she hadn’t submissively done as they’d calculated.
    “When should we start?” she asked Wakefield.
    Plainly, he longed to answer,
Never!
but he was too egotistical to say so aloud. Instead, he stomped around the desk, while he pretended to be magnanimous. “When would be convenient for you?”
    “How about now?”
    Luckily, he wasn’t swallowing a bite of food, because he would have choked on it.
    “Now?” he echoed faintly. Maneuvered into an ambush, he rapidly regrouped. “An immediate commencement wouldn’t be possible for me. I’m extremely busy today.” He frowned at his brother. “Isn’t that right, Ian?”
    “You don’t have anything on your schedule.”
    If looks could have killed, Mr. Clayton would have been dead on the floor.
    “I’m sure you’ve forgotten”—Wakefield tersely clarified—“that I’d planned to go riding with some of our guests.”
    “Had you?” Mr. Clayton smiled, all ingenuousness. “This is the first you’ve mentioned it.” Wakefield took a menacing step toward him, and Mr. Clayton held up his hands in surrender. “But then, I’m never fully apprised of your calendar.”
    “Tomorrow, then?” she interjected. She’d had enough of the obnoxious duo and whatever game theywere playing. “I’d really like to get on with it, so I can give some early assurance to those who’ve received your eviction letters. Many people are packing their belongings—and in grave despair—even as we speak.”
    Wakefield yearned to object, but she’d neatly boxed him into a corner. She had the endorsed agreement crumpled between her breasts, and short of wrestling her to the ground and snagging it from her, he couldn’t get it back. As long as she kept it in her possession, she would have a chance to reverse his decision; he couldn’t renege.
    “Tomorrow will be fine.”
    “At one?”
    “Yes,” he irritably acceded.
    “You’ll be sober, and your friends gone?”
    “Yes, Miss Fitzgerald! Yes!” Exasperated, he gestured toward the door. “Will that be all?”
    He was so piqued that she was amazed he wasn’t down on his knees and begging her to desist and depart, and she couldn’t resist tweaking his temper a tad more.
    She knew she should leave while she was ahead, but she was having such an extraordinary time in his company that she couldn’t make herself walk out.
    These few minutes had been so invigorating and vital, a pitiful indicator of the state of her life, and she couldn’t force herself to end their initial encounter. She liked having his attention focused on her, wanted to dawdle in his presence.
    “Actually, there is one more thing.”
    “What?” he snarled.
    “I thought you might give me a good-bye kiss. So I’d have some idea of what to expect.”
    “What to
expect
? You’ve just negotiated a sexual contract, and you don’t know how to kiss a man?”
    “Well, of course I know how to
kiss
a man. I’mmore worried about . . . well . . . if the experience will be repugnant or not.” Which was a bald-faced lie. She anticipated that it would be remarkable, but it was so entertaining to have him fuming.
    “Did you hear that, John?” Mr. Clayton chimed in, chortling merrily. “She’s concerned that kissing you might be repulsive!”
    Wakefield had suffered through her other slurs