Wife in Public (4 page)

But he couldn’t buy her.

She would only go as far as
she
wanted to go with him.

One evening…maybe one night…

One step at a time, she told herself. He might turn her off him over dinner. The temptation could fizzle out. She couldn’t remember the last time she had indulged her tastebuds with lobster. That, at least, was one pleasure she could allow herself without any concern over what was right or wrong.

T
HEY
rode away from the gallery in Nonie Powell’s chauffeured Rolls-Royce—borrowed briefly for the trip to the restaurant. Jordan’s mother had rolled her eyes over the request, chided him for deserting her and given a long-suffering sigh as her gaze flicked over Ivy before waving them off, obviously resigned to her playboy son’s weakness for a new attraction.

Ivy didn’t care what his mother thought. Her own mother had been quite happy for her to leave with the billionaire, probably seeing him as the ultimate
city
man who might very well seduce her from country life. Ivy didn’t care what Sacha thought, either. As far as she was concerned, this was simply an experience she wanted to dabble with while it was desirable.

When it stopped being desirable, she would take a taxi to her car and drive home. In the meantime, she was enjoying the experience of riding in a Rolls-Royce. She’d never done it before and it was most unlikely she would ever do it again. It felt luxurious. It smelled luxurious. She focussed her mind on memorising everything about it to tell Heather because it helped distract her from an acute awareness of the man sitting beside her.

He totally wrecked that mental exercise by reaching across, plucking her hand from her lap and stroking it
with his long, elegant and highly sensual fingers. Her pulse bolted into overdrive. She found herself staring at their linked hands, fascinated by the juxtaposition of his olive skin and the extreme fairness of hers. She visualised them in bed together…naked…intertwined…black hair, red hair. The image was wickedly entrancing.

Ben’s skin had been fair, though not as fair as hers. Jordan Powell was very different, in every sense. Was it the sheer contrast that made him so appealing? Why did being with him excite her so much? Was it the idea of living dangerously, which was not her usual style at all?

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

No way was she about to reveal those thoughts! ‘Where are we going?’ she countered, giving him a bright look of anticipation.

‘Wherever you want to go,’ he purred back at her, the sexy blue eyes inviting her to indulge any desire she had on her mind.

‘I meant the restaurant,’ she stated pointedly. ‘My car is parked near the gallery. If I decide to walk out on you, which I might want to do, I’d prefer not to have a long journey back to it.’

He laughed, squeezing her hand as though asserting his possession of her even as he replied, ‘Your escape route won’t be a hardship. The restaurant is at Rose Bay. In fact, we’re almost there.’

‘Good! What’s it called?’

‘Pier. It specialises in seafood—spanner crab, lobster, tuna. I can recommend the trout carpaccio as a starter.’

‘Then I hope you don’t say anything offensive before we dine.’

‘I’ll watch my tongue,’ he assured her, smiling as though he found her absolutely delicious.

Ivy immediately started wondering about how sexy his tongue was, in kissing as well as other intimate things. She had to wrench her gaze away from his mouth before he started guessing what she was thinking.

The idea of new experiences could be terribly beguiling.

It was another new experience to be welcomed so effusively into a classy restaurant, led to a table with a lovely view of Sydney Harbour, and given immediate smiling service. Obviously Jordan Powell was known to be a very generous tipper. Who could blame the average working person for bending over backwards to please him? Besides, he really was charming. To everyone! The maître d’, the wine waiter, the food waiter, to her especially. Being in his company
was
an undeniable pleasure.

And the seafood was superb.

Especially the lobster, done simply in a lemon butter sauce.

Ivy sighed in satisfaction.

‘Up to your expectations?’ Jordan asked, his eyes twinkling pleasure in her pleasure.

‘Best I’ve ever had,’ she answered truthfully. ‘Thank you.’

He gave her a slow, very sensual smile. ‘I think the best is yet to come.’

Her stomach muscles contracted. Her mind jammed over what to do next—have a one-night fling with him or scoot for home. ‘I couldn’t fit in sweets, Jordan,’ she said. ‘Though coffee would be good.’

A glass of champagne at the gallery and a glass of chardonnay over dinner should not be affecting her
judgement, yet she couldn’t seem to manage any clear thinking with his eyes tempting her to stay with him and find out if he would deliver ‘the best’. Maybe the coffee would sober her up enough to make the break, which, of course, was the most sensible thing to do. This whole thing with Jordan Powell was fantasy stuff. It wouldn’t—couldn’t—develop into a real relationship.

He ordered the coffee and handed his credit card to the waiter, indicating they would be leaving soon.

‘I’ll need to call a taxi to get back to my car,’ Ivy quickly said. ‘I can’t walk that far in these killer shoes.’

‘A taxi in twenty minutes,’ Jordan instructed the waiter, apparently unperturbed about going along with her plan.

Twenty minutes later they left the restaurant.

A taxi was waiting for them.

It was only a short drive to where she had parked her car, but every minute of the trip shredded Ivy’s nerves. Jordan had taken possession of her hand again and somehow she couldn’t bring herself to snatch it free. Her heart was pounding. Her whole body felt on edge, fighting against the restrictions her mind was trying to impose on it. The pulse in her temples seemed to be thumping,
Go with it. Go with it. Go with it.

The taxi stopped right beside her car.

Jordan released her hand, paid the driver, and was out, reaching back to help her alight on the kerb side of the street. Ivy finally teetered upright in the vertically challengingly high high heels and was fumbling in her handbag for her car keys when the taxi took off, leaving Jordan with her. Alone together. In the shadows of the night.

She scooped in a quick breath, desperate to relieve
the tightness in her chest. ‘You should have kept it,’ she said with an agitated wave at the departing taxi.

‘A gentleman always sees a lady safely on her way,’ he replied with mock gravity.

With roses,
her mind snapped.

‘I have to change my shoes,’ she muttered, dropping her gaze from his, fighting the physical tug of the man. ‘I can’t drive in these.’

She pressed the Unlock button on her key fob and forced her legs to move, needing to open the trunk and get out her flat-heeled sandals.

‘Let me help you take them off,’ he said.

Those seductively sensual hands on her legs, her ankles, her feet… Ivy’s mind reeled at how vulnerable she might be to his touch. ‘I can manage,’ she rattled out, reaching down to lift the lid of the trunk.

He intercepted the move, taking her hand, turning her towards him. She darted an anguished look of protest at him, caught burning purpose in his eyes, and suddenly her defences caved in, totally undermined by a chaotic craving to know what it would be like at least to be kissed by him.

‘Ivy,’ he murmured, stepping closer, sliding an arm around her waist. He lifted her hand to his shoulder, left it there and stroked her cheek, featherlight fingertips grazing slowly down to trace the line of her lips, his thumb hooking gently under her chin, tilting it up.

She was aware of weird little tremors running down her thighs, aware of her stomach fluttering with excitement, aware of her breasts yearning for contact with the hard wall of his chest, aware of the wanton desire to experience this man running completely out of control. He lowered his head. She stared at his mouth coming closer and closer to hers. She did nothing to stop him. It
was as though all her common-sense mechanisms were paralysed.

His lips brushed hers, stirring a host of electric tingles. His tongue swept over them, soothing the acute sensitivity and teasing her mouth open. He began with a soft exploratory kiss, a tasting, not demanding a response but inevitably drawing it with tantalising little manoeuvres. Ivy couldn’t resist tasting him right back, revelling in the sensual escalation that sent heat whooshing through her body.

The urge to feel him was equally irresistible. Her hand slid up around his neck, her fingers thrusting into his hair, loving its lush thickness. Perhaps it signalled her complete acquiescence to what was happening. Ivy was no longer thinking. Her mind was consumed with registering sensation, pleasure, excitement, the rampant desire to have her curiosity about Jordan Powell satisfied blotting out any other consideration.

His thumb glided along her jawline, caressed the lobe of her ear—an exquisite touch, moving slowly, sensually, under her hair to the nape of her neck. The arm around her waist scooped her into full body contact with him as his kissing became more demanding, less of an invitation, more an incitement to passion.

Ivy barely knew what she was doing. She loved being held so close to him, feeling the hard, male strength of his physique—the perfect complement to her highly aroused femininity. Excitement was flooding through her. Her mouth hungered for more and more passion from him, exulting in the deeply intimate aggression of his kisses. Never had she been so caught up in the moment. Never had she been driven to respond so wildly, so uninhibitedly.

She felt his hand clutch her bottom, pressing her more
tightly into contact with his sexuality. Her stomach contracted at the hard furrowing of his arousal. It should have been a warning to break away from him. Her body didn’t want to. Her body wantonly rubbed itself against the blatant evidence of his excitement, exhilarated by it, madly bent on fanning this desire for her. It was wonderful to feel wanted again. She had been too long alone, and the woman inside her was craving connection—connection with this man, regardless of time and place and circumstances.

He swung her back against the trunk of the car, lifting her onto it, his mouth still ravishing hers as his hand burrowed under her mini-skirt, moved her silk panties aside, found the soft moist furrows of her sex and stroked her to a fever pitch of need, her whole being screaming for it to be fulfilled. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed for her.

It all happened so fast, the jolt when he plunged into her, the savage joy of it, the relief, the release of all nerve-tearing tension as her inner muscles convulsed and creamed around the marvellously deep penetration. And he repeated it, storming her with waves of ecstatic pleasure, pumping hard to the rhythm of his own need until he, too, reached the sweet chaos of climax.

She lay limply spreadeagled on the trunk of the car with him bent over her, the heat of his harsh breathing pulsing against her throat. If traffic had passed by them on the street, she hadn’t heard or seen it. The night seemed to have wrapped them in a private cocoon, intensifying the feelings that still held her in thrall.

His arms burrowed underneath her, gathering her up. Amazingly her legs were wound around his hips and he supported them in place as he lifted her from the car and carried her to the passenger side, only relinquishing
their intimate connection when he opened the door and lowered her to the seat. He kissed her while he fastened the safety belt, fetched the handbag she had dropped somewhere and laid it on her lap, kissed her again before closing the door and rounding the car to the driver’s side.

She watched him in a daze—this virtual stranger with whom she’d shared such an erotically intimate experience. Languor was seeping into her bones. Somehow any action was beyond her. She barely grasped the fact that he had seized control of the situation, putting her in the car, retrieving her handbag and the car keys which he was now inserting in the ignition, having usurped her driver’s seat. Her mind was stuck in one groove, endlessly repeating…

I can’t believe I did that.

J
ORDAN
drove on automatic pilot, his mind still grappling with a loss of control which was totally uncharacteristic, especially in his relationships with women. He’d just acted like a randy teenage boy who couldn’t wait to get his rocks off—a rampant bull, incapable of stopping. No sophistication. No finesse.

And worse! No thought of protection!

Shock billowed again.

He never took the risk of getting a woman pregnant. The possibility hadn’t even entered his head. He’d wanted Ivy Thornton from the moment he’d seen her tonight, wanted her more and more with every minute they spent together, wanted her so much it was impossible to tolerate her driving away from him, but he’d meant to persuade, to seduce, to promise pleasure, not to…

‘I can’t believe I did that,’ he muttered, shock tumbling into words he didn’t mean to speak aloud.

He was still out of control.

‘I can’t, either.’

The shaky reply startled him into darting a glance at her. She wasn’t looking at him. Her head was bent, the rippling fall of her glorious hair hiding most of her face. Her hands lay limply in her lap, palms upward,
and she seemed to be staring down at them as though they didn’t belong to her—hands that had gripped him in a fever of passion, inciting the wild act of intimacy they had both engaged in.

She was in shock, too.

Instinctively he reached across, took one of her hands, squeezed it. ‘I’ll make it better,’ he said.

Do it right,
he thought, which was why he’d put her in the car and was driving her to Balmoral—take her to bed with him and do all the things he’d imagined doing with her instead of succumbing to a mad rush of lust. It was too late to be worrying about protection now, not too late to enjoy all he wanted to enjoy with Ivy Thornton. Though he should check if she was using some form of contraception, know if there was a possibility of unwelcome consequences.

He frowned. It seemed crass to ask at this point. Besides, the damage was done if it was done. Using condoms for the rest of the night would be ridiculous. He might as well have the pleasure of totally unrestricted sex with her. It would be good. Great. Fantastic. He could bring up the issue later. She could take a morning-after pill if it was needed. Right now he wanted her riding with him, still caught up in what had happened between them.

It had been such an incredible rush—the excitement of her response, the mounting sense of urgency to seize the moment, take it as far as he could, her uninhibited complicity driving him to the edge, past it into plunging chaos. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so exultantly
primitive
. Sex with Ivy had to be explored further. Much further.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, her voice still slightly tremulous.

They were crossing the harbour bridge to the northern side of the city. He threw a reassuring smile at her, but her gaze was now fixed on the road ahead of them.

‘I have a house at Balmoral. I’m taking you home with me,’ he answered, hoping she was not about to protest the move.

She didn’t.

She sat in motionless silence as he drove on over the bridge and took the turn to Military Road. Maybe she was having trouble putting thoughts together. Whatever…there were no stop signs coming from her and Jordan felt the buzz of anticipation shooting through his body again. He knew the desire was mutual. No doubt about it. It was only a matter of rekindling it, stoking the fire, making it a slow build-up of heat so the intensity didn’t burn them out too fast.

He wanted the whole experience of Ivy Thornton.

A wham-bam on the trunk of a car was almost an insult to the fascinating woman she was.

He’d make it better for her.

A lot better.

Ivy’s mind still felt as though it had been hit by a brick. Thoughts came slowly, as though emerging from a sea of molasses. She’d had sex with Jordan Powell. On the trunk of her car! He was driving her to his house at Balmoral. These were definite facts. She found it impossible to decide how she should be reacting to them.

Sex had never been like that for her…so compellingly reckless, so explosive, so erotically euphoric. Whether it was the man he was, the unusual set of circumstances, the long lack of any physical excitement in her life… Ivy couldn’t quite put it together. He was a tempting devil
and she had been tempted into going along with him, at the gallery, to the restaurant, and now to his home.

Why not?

Luck had blessed her in what could have been disastrous carelessness. She was in a safe week—no chance of falling pregnant. And it was too late to worry about sexual-health issues. Hopefully Jordan Powell was too fastidious a man to run those risks. Though he had done so tonight. Probably part of his shock at his behaviour.

Anyhow, she was problem-free and she hoped he was, too, because it was done now. She’d gone past the point of no return and finishing the night with him had a lot of appeal. How good a lover was he in bed? Could he give her an even more amazing experience? She’d never been inside a billionaire’s house. It would be interesting to see how Jordan Powell lived, the paintings he had talked about, whether his bedroom had
playboy
stamped on all its furnishings.

Her car would be parked outside. She could leave whenever she chose to. This was an experience that was unlikely to ever come her way again and she wanted it. Yes, she did. Of course, it had to be limited. One night would satisfy her curiosity. She could allow herself that much. Any further involvement with Jordan would definitely not be sensible. Tomorrow she could leave with a smile on her face…knowing all she wanted to know. Decision made.

Her mind moved on to working out how she should handle this new situation. It was hard to be cool and objective in these circumstances, having just shared such incredible intimacy with the man. Her nervous system was still buzzing. It seemed best simply to follow his lead. Unless his lead struck wrong chords, which wasn’t
likely with his well-practised charm. He’d done this with umpteen women. Though on the trunk of a car might have been a first, given his comment of disbelief. It was certainly a first for her.

All her inner muscles contracted with the memory of such intense pleasure. If Jordan could give it to her again…was she wicked to be wanting it? So what if she was! Did it matter just for once? Heather would undoubtedly say
go for it
. It wasn’t as if she’d be hurting anyone. She was free to do as she liked.

Her gaze dropped to the hand still firmly linked to hers—a hand that knew how to touch, how to arouse overwhelming sensations, a tempting hand, a winning hand. But she was winning, too, wasn’t she, being the object of its expert attention? She might never get to feel like this with any other man.

His fingers caressed her palm, making her skin tingle. ‘Are you okay with this, Ivy?’ he asked caringly, his deep rich voice washing over her thoughts.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered, wincing at sounding like a prim schoolgirl. The plain truth was she was not a
player
, not like him, and she didn’t have any experience of acting like one. ‘You can show me your paintings,’ she quickly added, flashing him a smile to show she could be sophisticated about spending the night with him.

He laughed and squeezed her hand again. ‘Your pleasure will be my pleasure.’

Which surely meant she should have a marvellous time with him.
Just relax and let it happen,
Ivy told herself.

He drove into a large paved courtyard fronting a very large white house with a double garage on the left and another double garage below an extended wing on the
right. ‘You have four cars?’ Ivy asked as he parked hers adjacent to the very elegant portico framing the double front doors.

‘Three,’ he answered. ‘The fourth space is taken up by Margaret’s.’

‘Who is Margaret?’

‘My housekeeper. She lives in the apartment above the garage on the right, and Ray, my handyman and chauffeur, lives in the apartment above the garage on the left.’

Naturally he would need people to maintain such a luxurious property, as well as cater to his needs. ‘How long have you had this place?’ she asked, wondering if he really considered it his home or whether it was simply one of a string of residences.

‘About five years. I like it here.’ He flashed her a smile before alighting from the driver’s side. ‘I hope you’ll like it, too.’

It didn’t matter if she liked it or not, Ivy told herself, watching him round the bonnet to the passenger side, his mouth still curved in pleasure at having achieved his aim with her. She had her own aim, which was simply to satisfy her curiosity. And then leave. It would be really stupid to be seduced into staying more than one night with him, by what he had in his house or anything else. But when he opened her door and she stood up beside him she found her body still shaken to the core by his physical impact on her. It took gritty determination to keep her wits.

‘My car keys,’ she said, holding out her hand.

He gave them to her as he closed the door. She locked the car with the remote-control button and put the keys in her handbag. ‘Lead on,’ she invited, trying to adopt a nonchalant air, desperately hoping her jelly-like legs
would firm up enough to allow her to walk with dignity in the perilous high-fashion shoes.

They didn’t. She took one wobbly try and sat down on the steps leading up to the portico. ‘I’m taking off these killer shoes right now,’ she declared, bending over to unbuckle the straps.

‘Let me help.’

In an instant he was crouching down in front of her, his strong fingers brushing her fumbling ones aside. He propped her foot on his bent knee for easier access and Ivy leaned back and let him do the job—much easier than doing it herself. And she let herself enjoy the way he caressed her ankles and massaged her toes when he’d freed them from all constriction.

‘Better?’ he asked, the blue eyes twinkling satisfaction in his handiwork.

‘Yes. Thank you. Sorry about discarding the model image, but barefoot is more me,’ she said flippantly, not wanting him to know she was craving a lot more of his touch.

‘I’m happy for you to be comfortable with me,’ he purred, kicking her heart into pounding at the thought of how comfortable they might get together.

She picked up her shoes, placed her feet firmly on the wide stone step and stood up. Which brought her virtually face to face with him because he stood on a lower step. Their eyes met. Raw desire in his. Ivy had no idea what he saw in hers, probably the naked truth of what she was feeling because she’d had no time to disguise it.

Instinctively she scooped in a quick breath. Then he was kissing her again and she couldn’t help kissing him back. Her arms flung themselves around his neck, shoes and bag dangling from her hands. His arms crushed her
into a fiercely possessive embrace. Excitement surged. She felt his erection furrowing her stomach, felt the moist rush of her own wild anticipation to experience him again. Her lower body automatically squirmed against his.

One hard muscular thigh pushed past hers, stepping up. He started arching her back, stopped, wrenched his mouth from hers. ‘Must be out of my mind!’ he muttered, shaking his head as though to clear it. His eyes blazed fierce determination. ‘Come on, Ivy. We’re going to do this in bed. In comfort!’

She’d completely lost it! Twice in one night! Passion-crazed!

Without his arm around her in support, she doubted her legs would have carried her to the front door. He swept her into the house with him. She didn’t have the presence of mind to notice any decor details of the foyer. She saw nothing but the staircase in front of them. When they reached it her foot didn’t lift high enough at the first step and she stumbled. He caught her before she fell, hoisted her up against his heaving chest and charged up the flight of stairs so fast he had to be taking them two at a time. It was like being rocked in a speeding train.

Ivy didn’t notice anything else.

They landed on a bed.

‘And we’re not going to do this in the dark!’ Jordan said, still in that tone of fierce determination. He reached across her and switched on a bedside light, but all she saw was his face hovering above hers, the strong masculine lines of it, the incredibly sensual mouth, the vivid blue eyes burning with wicked purpose, the black hair she had mussed with her fingers, the spiky look giving him a devilish aura.

I’m a fallen woman,
she thought dizzily, but couldn’t
bring herself to care, only too acutely aware that her body was willing her to fall all the way with Jordan Powell tonight.

‘Let’s get rid of these clothes,’ he said, taking her shoes and handbag and tossing them on the floor, then straddling her thighs as he worked on removing her sequinned jacket, cami, bra, half-lifting her up from the pillow, laying her back down.

It was easy to be passive, let him do it, silently revelling in the glide of his hands on her naked skin. She didn’t want to talk, only to feel. The bed linens were not linen. They were satin. Black satin. As befitted a playboy, she thought, but enjoyed the decadent sensuality of it for this time out of time.

He moved aside to strip off her skirt and panties—quick, deft actions—then paused to softly rake his fingers through her pubic hair, staring down at it as though fascinated, making Ivy wonder if the women he was usually with all had Brazilian waxes. She’d never had it done, only a bikini wax, and that only for indoor swimming. The sun was her enemy.

If her natural state turned him off…

‘Amazing,’ he murmured, and bent over to brush his mouth over the tight red-gold curls.

Definitely not a turn-off.

And the hot kisses he planted there were a nerve-jumping turn-on for Ivy. His tongue slid into the crevice between her thighs and teased her clitoris with mind-blowing delicacy—a tantalising tasting that generated an exquisite level of pleasure. It was all she could do to hold still. She wanted to focus on it, remember it forever. She forgot to breathe. Her whole being was concentrated on what he was doing to her. When he
lifted his head, the trapped air in her lungs gushed out in a long, tremulous sigh.