She’d been a smart-ass, taunting him at the conclusion of their last face-to-face meeting, but deep down she was a quivering mess of confusion and nerves and lust. The kind of lust she’d never experienced. The kind of lust guaranteed to turn her into a fool.
She didn’t suffer fools lightly, and respected hard work and dedication in comparison with deceitful women who faked helplessness in order to score points with men. The type of women Patrick usually hung out with if the internet was anything to go by.
It had been a stupid, spur-of-the moment decision to check out his more recent past, spurred by two glasses of Chardon-nay and a rampant curiosity.
It had been the end of a long eighteen-hour day—the day after she’d seen him; a day in which she’d determinedly buried herself in work to erase the lingering memory of his touch, and her response.
The wine had helped her wind down but it hadn’t taken the edge off her curiosity and she’d succumbed to temptation.
The internet had been enlightening, to say the least, and had provided her with a plethora of images and articles. Usu-ally depicting Patrick with a stunning supermodel on his arm, laughing into the camera, with a different country landscape in the background. From Santorini to Monte Carlo, Nice to Barcelona, Patrick was there, partying his way through Eu-rope.
She’d given up after the tenth page. The endless hits had been rather depressing.
He’d lived such an exciting life amid glamorous people while she’d spent the last ten years devoting hers to Seaborns.
She didn’t regret a single moment—discounting the last year when she’d been an idiot in shouldering the burden alone—and still experienced a thrill when she walked into their amazing showroom. But seeing pictorial evidence of Patrick’s lifestyle reinforced what she’d always felt around him: gauche, prim, floundering a little.
And envious. She’d always been a tad envious of his ability to charm people, his ease to cruise through life without a care in the world, his natural exuberance that made everyone around him smile.
If anything, those images had reinforced what she already knew deep down: that Patrick was way different and always had been. Back in high school he’d annoyed her, so what had changed now? He was still brash and cocky and charming, and had waltzed into this new Fourde Fashion with the ease of a practised CEO.
As far as she could tell from her research he’d been a minion in Paris, so this position was a massive boost up the corporate ladder for him. From what she’d been able to find of his professional life, that was. There’d been a glut of social stuff and pics, and nada on his work. She’d found it odd but had been too depressed by the gorgeous glamazons on his arm in every photo to worry about it.
And that exacerbated her annoyance—the fact he’d probably been handed this job on a silver platter and would rock it because he had the backing of his family name.
The irony wasn’t lost on her: people would say the same about her and Seaborns. But there was a difference. She’d been groomed from a young age to take over, had acted in accordance because of it. Had made sacrifices, had never lost sight of the end goal, had strived to be the best leader this jewellery company had ever seen.
Could Patrick say the same? Doubtful.
For a guy who’d spent his final year doodling and folding origami figures with his study notes he’d come a long way.
And judging by this current show he was nailing it too.
Admiration tempered her annoyance at his glib, charmed life. The guy might have skived off during that final year at high school but he was putting in the hard yards now.
And she admired hard work. She understood it. What she didn’t understand was her undeniable, clamouring attraction to him.
She felt good around him, in a way she hadn’t in a long time. Her skin tingled, her blood pounded and she felt alive.
Proving she could physically handle her role as Seaborns’ boss was one thing, but handling whatever Patrick dished out took her recovery to a whole other level.
Matching him sexually would push her out of her comfort zone, and it would take the edge off this insane lust she had for him.
Most importantly, it would prove to herself she was whole again.
That had been the worst part of her enforced rest at Ten-ang—the insidious self-doubts that would creep up on her at inopportune moments and make her wonder if she had what it took to continue leading Seaborns.
For someone who’d loved being the face of the company, who’d attended posh soirées and glamorous events and talked up Seaborn’s fabulous jewellery every chance she got, during her recovery she’d wondered if she’d ever find that kind of energy again.
Sure, she’d improved, but every time she yawned or had a twinge in her muscles or a minor headache from spending too long at the computer, she experienced a fleeting panic that she could suffer a relapse.
Being with Patrick, having him desire her, made her feel physically thriving, and that, more than anything, silenced her doubts in getting sexually involved with him.
Anything, or anyone, that could make her feel on this constant high, as if she was invincible, was worth pursuing.
She remembered the way he’d looked at her those times he’d pleasured her, the way he’d been turned on, the way he devoured her with his eyes every time he thought she wasn’t looking—and her body buzzed.
The endorphin release from Patrick’s touch was much better than any workout.
But craving him this much…how had she morphed from a successful, confident businesswoman to this muddle of need?
His fault for being so darn appealing. Which raised the question: if she did throw herself into a dirty little fling with him, would her sensibilities return or would this crazy, out of control feeling intensify?
She couldn’t afford the latter—needed to ensure Seaborns presented their best work at the Fashion Week show. A real quandary: indulge in a no-holds-barred fling with Patrick, feel utterly amazing and the best she had in ages. Or walk away from any further physical involvement and run the risk of going completely batty wanting him regardless.
She stuck her tongue out at her reflection. How had she ended up in this situation?
She didn’t lust after guys—especially ones who’d driven her nuts in high school. She worked hard and worked out. That was the extent of her life.
Maybe that was half the problem?
Probably. Which was why a decadent weekend of raunchy sex could be just what the doctor ordered.
She chuckled, wondering what the physicians at Tenang would think about that as a treatment for CFS.
Though could she do it? Shuck off her business suit and become a sex-starved goddess for a weekend with Patrick?
As she settled in front of her PC and waited for Patrick’s Skype call one thought reverberated through her head: first time for everything.
Patrick had worked his ass off the last three days. Pulled an all-nighter. Done the work of ten men. Supervised and brainstormed and delegated.
Usually this manic pace gave him a buzz. In the past it had come from partying; these days it was from ensuring Fourde Fashion stayed ahead of competing European designers.
This time working like a maniac hadn’t taken the edge off. Only one woman could do that and he couldn’t wait to see her—even if it was only via a screen.
He didn’t like how she’d got under his skin. Didn’t like the anticipation making his palms clammy. She was a distraction he could ill afford but somehow, despite working his butt off, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
At least Skype was safe. A visual