Damn him . . . can I not have one fucking week away from life and forget who I am?
Why the hell is he here?
Over the next hour, Tristan Miles holds the audience captive, and I stare into space as I imagine myself torturing him to a grizzly death.
I should have stayed in my seat. Not only do I have to listen to his crap-I now have to stand up for it. I’ll just look stupid if I walk out now.
Wind it up already.
He’s only here today, and then he goes back to New York, I remind myself. I’m so annoyed with myself that I gave him the satisfaction of saying he wouldn’t ask me out again anyway.
How uncool can a person be?
God, he’s probably happily married by now . . . to a supermodel or an Instagrammer.
Ugh, I hate this guy. He turns me into an idiot.
“There will be a short recess now. Morning tea is catered in the lounge, and then we will go into our goal workshops. We set our goals on the first day and then again on day five to see how much you’ve grown.” He looks at his watch. “See you in the Boronia Room in half an hour from now.”
I exhale heavily and make my way down to the lounge for morning tea. Everyone is chatting and happy. I make myself a coffee, grab a slice of chocolate cake, and then stand in the corner and take out my phone. I google massage parlors in this area.
Screw this; I’m out of here.
My only goal for today is to get a massage and drink two liters of champagne.
I sip my coffee and click on the list that comes up.
Tristan walks into the room, and all heads turn. He has this powerful aura that surrounds him; you can’t help but look his way. His dark-brown hair is short on the back and sides, with a bit of length to it on the top. It has that perfect just-fucked look.
His posture is straight, and his jaw is square and strong. He has the biggest brown eyes I have ever seen. His eyes find mine across the room, and he holds me to attention. His stare is potent; I can feel the heat of it on my skin. Electricity bounces between us, and I snap my eyes away angrily.
Damn him for being good looking.
“Hello.” A male voice comes from beside me. “Mind if I join you?”
Oh, it’s the man I met at reception yesterday. What was his name again? “Not at all.” I smile. “Please.”
“I’m Nelson. We met yesterday.”
“Yes. I remember. Hi, Nelson. I’m Claire.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll say.” He chuckles. “Mr. Miles picked on you a bit in there.”
“Oh.” I sip my coffee, wishing the earth would swallow me up whole. “Did he? I didn’t notice.” I try to act casual.
“I mean, I’m not one to openly fawn over someone, but,” he gushes, “have you read his portfolio?”
“No.” I sip my coffee and glance up, straight into the gaze of Tristan. Our eyes lock for a few seconds, and then one of the five women clambering around him says something, pulling his gaze from me, and I snap my eyes away.
“He’s got six degrees and speaks five languages,” Nelson continues. “Has an IQ of one hundred and seventy. That’s even higher than a genius; that’s like a mentalist.” He nods, as if he is relaying some life-changing information.
“Wow.” I fake a smile.
Oh please, give me a break. I widen my eyes . . . big fucking deal. Go away, Nelson; you’re annoying, and I want to google massages. I’ve got better things to do than talk about mental smart assholes.
Get drunk, for one.
“I’m not actually feeling well,” I lie.
“Oh really?” Nelson’s face falls. “Are you okay?”
“I have a migraine.”
“Oh no.”
“Yes, I always get them when I fly. It’s so annoying. I’ll be fine, but I might have to lie down, so if I go missing this afternoon, you’ll know where I am. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“Of course, yes.” He thinks for a moment. “I’ll let them know.”
Three hours later, the strong hands go up the center of my spine and then slowly slide down around my naked hips.
The room is darkened, the relaxing music has a deep sensual beat, and the smell of the masseur’s aftershave is doing things to my lady parts.
Pierre’s hands slide up my back. He drizzles hot oil, and it gives me a thrill as I close my eyes.
Now . . . this . . . is more like it.
“Is this all right?” he asks in his strong French accent.
“Perfect,” I breathe.
Oh man, this is more than perfect; this is spectacular. I’m doing this every day.
Screw the conference.
His hands roam down my back, and I smile into the table.
My phone rings in my bag. It’s loud and would be annoying to people in the other rooms. “Oh, sorry.” I wince. “It will stop in a minute.”
It rings all the way out and then starts to ring again. Shit. “Sorry.” We wait for it to stop, and it starts again. Damn it, what if something’s wrong back home? “I’m sorry; can you pass me my bag, please?”
He picks up my bag and passes it to me, and I dig around for my phone. I don’t recognize the number. “Hello.” I lie back down.
“Where are you?” Tristan barks. “You are missing the workshops.”
Oh shit. “Umm . . .”
“And don’t even think about lying to me, Claire. I know you’re not in your hotel room.”
I frown at his tone. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? “Excuse me?”
“Where are you?” he sneers.
“I’m getting a massage, actually.”
“What?” he gasps.
“Your lecture was intolerable and completely boring. I have better things to do. Goodbye, Mr. Miles.”
“Claire Anderson,” he begins to scold me, and I press “End Call.” I turn my phone on silent and throw it onto the chair in the corner. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”
Pierre’s strong hands go down over my ribs and then lower to my hip bones, and I feel a twinge of arousal sweep through me.
I smile with my eyes closed. Hmm . . . it really is fun being a bitch.
Pierre’s hands roam over my stomach.
Now this . . . is relaxing.