MICHAEL could barely tear his eyes away from her to make the coffee. Lauren Magee in his apartment, not wanting the night to end any more than he did. Not the Lauren of Lauren says. It was utterly absurd to even vaguely relate this woman to Roxanne’s ally in castrating men.
False impressions, lies. He shook his head, dismissing them all. The reality was this magical enchantress who offered him everything he’d ever dreamed of in a woman. Her openness delighted him. Her intelligence, her uninhibited sexuality, her honest expression and acceptance of her feelings made her incredibly special.
Maybe he should tell her about Roxanne, get it out of the way. But Lauren hadn’t brought up her ex-husband. Those marriages were mistakes. Neither of them had known what it could be like with the right person. As Lauren had said to Evan, nobody likes talking about their mistakes. Why waste time that could be better spent exploring what was happening between them?
“You are so lucky to have such a fantastic view! she said with a long, appreciative sigh.
Yes, he thought, looking at her drinking in the harbour vista through the floor-to-ceiling windows in his sunken living room. The opera house, the bridge, the watercraft in and out of Circular Quay provided a feast of glittering spectacles, but she outshone them. Her shoes were off, her glorious hair unpinned, the seductive curves of her femininity silhouetted in soft lamplight, and he whimsically wondered if she’d ever been painted. He mentally ran through the artists he knew. Who could do her justice?
She turned to look at him behind the kitchen counter on the mezzanine level. “Are you terribly rich, Michael?” she asked.
No-one had ever asked that question quite so frankly. He grinned at her, amused by her total lack of artfulness. “Should I admit it or conceal it?”
“Are you wondering what effect your reply will have on me?”
“I suspect, none.”
She laughed. “I’m not here for your money. I said yes to your invitation before I even knew you drove a BMW. But such an expensive car and this apartment, both of which you seem to take for granted.”
“Does that offend you?”
“No.” She shrugged. “I just want to know about you.”
He pressed the plunger on the coffee grains as he considered how best to answer.
“Does it bother you, Michael?” she asked quietly.
“I guess rich is the wrong word. I have never felt rich. until tonight.” He met her gaze and spoke the truth as he knew it. “To be rich is to have things of great value, Lauren. I’ve never valued wealth because I’ve had it all my life and it can’t give you what you really want.”
“Are we talking great wealth here?”
“Mmm…” He poured out the coffee, picked up the tray he’d set and carried it down to the living room. “Goes back to the last century. The Timberlanes were highly successful merchants. Owned ships and docking yards and auction houses. Lots of investments in city property and businesses.”
Lauren frowned. “But you’re not a high-profile family. I’ve never heard or read about you in that sense.”
“A very quiet establishment family,” he agreed. “Besides, I’m the only one left living in Australia. I have a brother who prefers Monaco and an aunt who has long been settled in Italy.”
She looked appalled. “What happened to the rest of your family?”
“Wealth does not prevent death.” He set the tray on a glass table. “Cream? Sugar?”
She helped herself. They settled on one of the leather chesterfields and she regarded him pensively. “Why a literary agent?”
“I like encouraging authors and getting their books published. They give a lot of pleasure to others.”
He would never have survived his boyhood without books and the escape they provided, not with any sanity, but he didn’t want to rake over those old nightmares. He didn’t want her sympathy. He wanted her warmth, the total inner essence of Lauren Magee.
“Do you come from a large family?” he asked.
“Yes.” She laughed. “Five brothers and three sisters, plus innumerable aunts and uncles and cousins. You could say the Magees went forth and multiplied at a profligate rate. They all have big families.”
“Then you can count yourself as very rich, indeed.”
“Yes. Though I.” She checked herself. “Well, I’ll get to see them soon. I’m glad you’re not an idle playboy. I like my work, too.”
“Tell me how you got into it,” he invited, genuinely interested in knowing.
“Communication, public relations.”
She talked about the various jobs she’d held, moving up to publicist for a publisher. A natural progression, Michael thought, and pondered the one telling comment that her ex-husband had disliked her work. The man could not have really loved her. Anyone with eyes could see that Lauren lived and breathed the publicity mill. Using it as brilliantly as she obviously did was an expression of herself, her unique talents and abilities.
She was such a joy to watch, so vital, her eyes the blue of summer skies bathing him with sparkling sunshine, heating him with a simmering brew of desires he could barely contain. The right woman. Coming from a big family, she would be sure to want children herself. Beautiful breasts. Voluptuous hips. Long, elegant, sexy legs. She could even match him dancing. Everything right.
The urge to reach out and pull her into full body contact with him made his hands itch. She had to feel the need, too. The coffee was cold in their cups, forgotten, untouched by either of them. If she wanted to leave, she would have said so by now. Was it assuming too much to want everything on the first night?
Let there be truth between us, he thought with passionate intensity as he stood and took her hands, drawing her to her feet and into a loose embrace that didn’t demand or presume. Her eyes were wide, waiting for him to speak his mind, her body softly pliant, no resistance. The desire raging through him could not be denied.
“I want you, Lauren,” he said, his voice raw with urgency.
“Yes,” she answered with a soft expulsion of breath.
“Are you protected?”
“No.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
So direct, so honest in her desire for him. It almost blew Michael’s mind, as well as other strained parts of his anatomy. He lifted a hand to touch the softness of her cheek, trailed his fingers into the silken curls of her hair. Her lips parted invitingly. Her eyes swam with hopes and dreams.
“Not here,” he said gruffly, barely recognising his own voice. “Come all the way with me, Lauren.”
“Yes.”
He led her upstairs to his bedroom.
Her mouth was passion.
Her hair was erotic sensuality.
Her breasts were intoxicating.
Her hands were hypnotic pleasure.
Her legs were seductive silk.
And the inner essence of Lauren Magee…was ecstasy.
Michael loved her as he’d never loved a woman before, with unbridled passion, uninhibited fervour, wild exultation and the freedom-the amazingly sweet freedom-of fulfilling his every desire and meeting always the most exquisite response. Perfection. Bliss. Pleasure on a scale he had never imagined possible. And she gave it him. Lauren. The woman of his dreams.
It made up for everything else-the neglect of his parents who had never been there for him and his younger brother, Peter, even when they were alive; the oppression of his childhood under the cold domination of his grandmother; the loneliness of boarding school; the sense of not belonging at Oxford and Harvard; the alienation from his brother, who saw no point in working at anything; the bitter disillusionment of his marriage to Roxanne.
He should tell Lauren about Roxanne.
Tonight belonged to them. The future belonged to them. He could see it, taste it, feel it. And it was right.