And suddenly, all I want is to get away from this. From my parents and their expectations, from this life I’ve been groomed all my life to lead. I want to get away from Saffy, from our wedding, from my damned broken heart.
I want to get drunk, and then I want to get laid—one way or another I’m going to forget Saffy ever existed.
I stumble a little as I head for the door. ‘Where are you going?’ My mother, behind me, is anxious-sounding.
‘Get Alf to fire up the jet.’ I hear my own words, slightly slurred.
‘But why? You can’t leave. What if Saffron comes looking for you?’
I prop an arm on the doorjamb for support, blinking at my mother for several long seconds. ‘Then I won’t fucking be here.’
Five years later, Sydney, Australia
OH, MY GOD. Oh, my God, Oh, my God. There’s an ancient grandfather clock against the far wall and it ticks loudly, but I can barely hear it over the desperate rushing of blood in my ears. Am I really going to do this?
The intimate rooms are perfectly climate controlled—it’s cool in here but that’s not why my skin is marked with delicate goose bumps. I run my hands over my naked legs, waxed and oiled so they’re smooth and soft in honour of this assignation.
It’s not too late to change your mind, my brain shouts at me.
But I don’t really want to change my mind. I made the decision to do this months ago, meticulously planning every detail in order to give myself one night of passion. To give myself a life—even just for one night. It’s been too long since I’ve had anything even remotely resembling a life. Too long since I’ve let go and enjoyed myself.
I still have too much to do, too much to achieve and, despite the tremendous growth and success of the charity, I want more. I need more. Faster, bigger. My charity is my all, and I’m happy with that.
But my body. Oh, my body. Lately, something seems to have awoken in me, a curiosity, a need I no longer seem able to deny. I want to get laid. No, I want to have sex. Really fantastic sex, and then I want to change back into my signature gown, swan out of this room and become, once more, the woman the world expects me to be.
I flick my gaze to the clock across the room. There are three minutes to go. Three minutes until Nicholas Rothsmore the Third arrives to seduce me.
My heart bounces against my ribs. I swallow. I need more champagne. No. No more champagne. I only had two sips at the party—I know better than to get drunk at something like this.
It’s work for me, not play—though I have perfected the art of looking as if I’m playing when I’m not.
But this? Being here in Room Six, the sumptuous décor the last word in elegance and sophistication, dressed only in lingerie, waiting for a man I know solely through the club’s exclusive, private online forum?
My pulse notches up a gear.
I’m waiting to have sex with a stranger.
Not just a stranger.
I lie back against the bed, my eyes sweeping shut as I picture the man in question. Nicholas Rothsmore the Third isn’t just a man. He’s unbelievably sexy, all tousled hair and rock-hard abs, and a firmly committed playboy. Who better to have one delicious sexual encounter with, no questions asked, before going back to my real life?
I lift a hand to check the bright pink wig is firmly in place, tucked all around the hairline as my stylist showed me, so there’s no risk of movement. It’s soft and silky, the hair falling in waves to my shoulders. My mask is bright silver and covers not just my eyes, but lower on my face as well, stopping just above my lips, in keeping with the masquerade ball theme downstairs. Of course, I have a separate mask stashed in the wardrobe across the room, as well as my distinctive couture gown, to avoid any likelihood that Nicholas recognises me, after.
After.
Such a delicious word loaded with promise. After this. After sex.
My heart is hammering so hard now I’m surprised it hasn’t beaten a hole through the wall of my chest.
I can’t have anyone know I’m doing this.
I never get involved with clients, and Nicholas is one of the club’s most prominent members. The last thing I want is to do anything to undermine the club or my charity. Chance is the reason for all of this.
I doubt anyone has any idea how hard I work behind the scenes. On the surface, I’m Imogen Carmichael, entrepreneur and socialite—my mother’s daughter. But behind closed doors, when other people my age are falling in love, getting married, having babies, or even just getting wasted and falling in and out of God knows whose bed, I’m working. I’m working on Chance, I’m working on it, for it, every waking minute, and there’s still so much more to do. We’re nationwide now, but I want more—there are children all over the world who need what we offer. I’ve been toying with the idea of opening a London branch for over six months now but I know it’s going to take a lot of my time and spread me kind of thin.
That’s my focus. That’s my life.
It’s why this night is perfect for me. It’s one night, and with a guy I know to be as interested in serious relationships as I am. Which is to say, not at all. He’s perfect one-night stand material, and excitement is shifting through me.
How long has it been since I was with a guy, anyway?
My lips tug downward as I consider that. At least three years. No! Nearly four. Jackson and I broke up just before Christmas.
Yes, it’s been a long time and, at nearly thirty, if I don’t take control of this, I’m going to grow my virginity back. That’s a thing, right? I’m sure I read it in one of those glossy magazines at the airport lounge a while ago. Okay, maybe nothing that drastic, but I am in danger of forgetting what it’s like to be touched, kissed, driven wild with pleasure.
And I miss sex. I don’t want a relationship, though God knows there are times when I wish I had someone I could talk to, someone I could bounce ideas off. But I don’t have the headspace for a boyfriend. Where would I even fit a relationship into my life? And what would that do to Chance?
One day, maybe. When the charity is big enough to run without me, when we’re fully established—and not just in America, around the world—maybe then I’ll open myself up to something more. But I’m a long way from that, and I’m not going to do anything that might risk what I’ve spent my life building. I owe it to Abbey to keep my focus, to make this a true success.
The quietest noise sounds, but it might as well have been the tolling of a bell. I’m hyperaware of everything in that moment and I sit up, then push to standing, the stilettos I kicked off by the bed waiting for me. I slip them on and catch my reflection in the mirror across the room.
Holy crap.
I look…like sex on legs. I look like someone who does this all the time. The corset is firm at my back and pushes my breasts up, like two pale orbs, and my legs are curvy and slim. The wig completes the look and the mask adds an element of decadence that is just perfect for The Billionaires’ Club.
‘Knock, knock.’ His cultured British tone would be haughty if it weren’t for the permanent husk that thickens his words. ‘Is there a Miss Anonymous in there?’ My tummy squeezes at his sexy, teasing voice.
‘Yeah.’ My own voice comes out high-pitched. I suck in a deep breath, cross the plush carpet to the door and grip the handle. It’s cold beneath my touch. I count to ten slowly, a trick I learned in school, when my nerves used to get away from me.
Slowly,