which she understood was ‘Peninsula’, the hotel she’d told him she was booked in.
He was rough, commanding. He was oddly graceful; he was impolite, brusque even. He was unexpectedly charming. He was utterly intriguing, with his hard eyes and big toughened body, and disarming with his quick wit, brutal honesty and deft, practiced touch.
Darcy lay in the centre of the big bed, and despite the long cleansing soak she could still feel him on her skin. The stroke of his palms, the bite of his fingers, the slow teasing circle and fast, tense rhythmic thrust that made her body flex and tighten and shudder.
Her brain wondered what it would be like to have him properly inside her. Her body knew it would be good.
He’d kissed her like it meant something to him. He’d held her like she was important. Though that couldn’t be right, that was her imagination. That’s what having no male attention for months on end could do to a girl. Make her have Bill Clinton style sex with a complete stranger. She’d done a reverse Monica Lewinsky. It was sex and danger, and all about the thrill though God, she’d have taken it even further if he’d let her.
In the temperate dark with Shanghai sparkling outside the glass wall, Darcy’s body was flooded with heat at the memory of what the man from Tara did to her. She pulled a pillow from the top of the bed, jammed it between her knees and rolled on her side, as longing swept through her.
She was ensconced in a room he’d paid for, in a bed made for play and she had no idea who he was or how to contact him. She had the number plate of the Audi but no knowledge of how to trace it. She’d already been refused the information about how her room was paid from reception and the hotel duty manager. Her butler’s impeccable, American accented English had also failed her.
He was either a mirage or a magic trick, and she wasn’t sure if she was meant to feel romanced by the fantasy or lost, stupid and cheap. Bought and paid for. It was an uncomfortable feeling, made more so when she woke and discovered a breakfast buffet laid out for her in the dining room and understood the butler had been in the suite while she slept.
He’d left an envelope on the table. Inside was a typed note. ‘ Please allow me to join you for an informal dinner in your suite tonight. The chicken won’t be virgin .’ It made her swallow a grape whole. It was unsigned, but it had to be from him, and the arrogant bastard had left her no way to refuse.
She considered the idea of making a fuss with the hotel manager until she got his contact information. She measured the idea of teaching him he couldn’t control her by getting her own room. Simply not being here when he showed up.
She was unsurprised to find herself ambivalent about both those ideas.
Out on the street, Darcy forgot about Tara. She scoped out the old world European style buildings lining the Bund. Twenty-six in all, built from 1897–1948 with Parker Corporation headquarters in the 1920s-built Jardine Matheson building on the corner of Beijing Road.
From there she checked out the famous Peace Hotel. Brian had been here in the late nineties with Prime Minister Paul Keating on some Asia Co-operation junket. The twelve storey building with its copper roof was constructed in 1929 from the proceeds of opium and guns, according to the map she’d picked up at the Peninsula. The hotel had a famous six piece jazz band, all old guys. But there was no jazz being played in the white marble foyer that morning.
She quit the cool interior and headed down the Nanjing Road pedestrian mall, which according to the pamphlet was one of the world’s busiest shopping streets. From the number of big brand hotels and fast food outlets: McDonald’s, KFC, Burger King, Subway, and the number of times she was hit on by touts to buy a fake Versace handbag alone, that stat must have been correct. She passed Zara, Chloe, Dior, Tods, Louis Vuitton, Prada and Armani. Shops
He was rough, commanding. He was oddly graceful; he was impolite, brusque even. He was unexpectedly charming. He was utterly intriguing, with his hard eyes and big toughened body, and disarming with his quick wit, brutal honesty and deft, practiced touch.
Darcy lay in the centre of the big bed, and despite the long cleansing soak she could still feel him on her skin. The stroke of his palms, the bite of his fingers, the slow teasing circle and fast, tense rhythmic thrust that made her body flex and tighten and shudder.
Her brain wondered what it would be like to have him properly inside her. Her body knew it would be good.
He’d kissed her like it meant something to him. He’d held her like she was important. Though that couldn’t be right, that was her imagination. That’s what having no male attention for months on end could do to a girl. Make her have Bill Clinton style sex with a complete stranger. She’d done a reverse Monica Lewinsky. It was sex and danger, and all about the thrill though God, she’d have taken it even further if he’d let her.
In the temperate dark with Shanghai sparkling outside the glass wall, Darcy’s body was flooded with heat at the memory of what the man from Tara did to her. She pulled a pillow from the top of the bed, jammed it between her knees and rolled on her side, as longing swept through her.
She was ensconced in a room he’d paid for, in a bed made for play and she had no idea who he was or how to contact him. She had the number plate of the Audi but no knowledge of how to trace it. She’d already been refused the information about how her room was paid from reception and the hotel duty manager. Her butler’s impeccable, American accented English had also failed her.
He was either a mirage or a magic trick, and she wasn’t sure if she was meant to feel romanced by the fantasy or lost, stupid and cheap. Bought and paid for. It was an uncomfortable feeling, made more so when she woke and discovered a breakfast buffet laid out for her in the dining room and understood the butler had been in the suite while she slept.
He’d left an envelope on the table. Inside was a typed note. ‘ Please allow me to join you for an informal dinner in your suite tonight. The chicken won’t be virgin .’ It made her swallow a grape whole. It was unsigned, but it had to be from him, and the arrogant bastard had left her no way to refuse.
She considered the idea of making a fuss with the hotel manager until she got his contact information. She measured the idea of teaching him he couldn’t control her by getting her own room. Simply not being here when he showed up.
She was unsurprised to find herself ambivalent about both those ideas.
Out on the street, Darcy forgot about Tara. She scoped out the old world European style buildings lining the Bund. Twenty-six in all, built from 1897–1948 with Parker Corporation headquarters in the 1920s-built Jardine Matheson building on the corner of Beijing Road.
From there she checked out the famous Peace Hotel. Brian had been here in the late nineties with Prime Minister Paul Keating on some Asia Co-operation junket. The twelve storey building with its copper roof was constructed in 1929 from the proceeds of opium and guns, according to the map she’d picked up at the Peninsula. The hotel had a famous six piece jazz band, all old guys. But there was no jazz being played in the white marble foyer that morning.
She quit the cool interior and headed down the Nanjing Road pedestrian mall, which according to the pamphlet was one of the world’s busiest shopping streets. From the number of big brand hotels and fast food outlets: McDonald’s, KFC, Burger King, Subway, and the number of times she was hit on by touts to buy a fake Versace handbag alone, that stat must have been correct. She passed Zara, Chloe, Dior, Tods, Louis Vuitton, Prada and Armani. Shops
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