Leonie. Just call him back and say yes.’
Don’t overthink it.
I took a deep breath and reached for the phone. ‘Hello, can I speak to Gideon Mortimer, please?’
He answered immediately, ‘You’re calling me with a yes, I hope?’
I ground my teeth for a single second. Any more and I risked a cracked molar. ‘Yes. On the crew front, you’ll have the additional staff you need. On one condition.’
‘I hate conditions.’
‘And I detest games, Mr Mortimer.’
‘All games or just specific ones?’ he drawled, amused.
‘For the sake of our potential business relationship, let’s stick to all games,’ I responded tightly.
‘Shame,’ he murmured. ‘What’s this condition?’
‘That you let me have full control of the crew and rotate them the way I see fit without any interference.’ The last thing I needed was any unreasonable demands on my crew.
‘I accept your condition. But before we move forward I also need your reassurance that you will be as flexible as you claim you can be.’
For some absurd reason my breath caught, my imagination latching on to sexual positions and breathless fucking. Exhaling slowly, I reined myself in. ‘Yes. Fine.’
‘No, I need a little more than that,’ he insisted, his tone half amused, half irritated, if such a thing was possible. ‘So say the words, Miss Branson. Tell me you can accommodate my wishes.’
I crossed my fingers and prayed my response would hold true a day, or even a week from now. That I wouldn’t be tempted to throw Gideon Mortimer overboard before he’d bought my boat. ‘I can accommodate your reasonable wishes.’
‘Good. I arrive at seven tomorrow morning.’
The line went dead.
I stepped into my shower two hours later with a sigh of relief. My apartment on the Rue Jean Jaurès in Cannes was large and spacious and beautifully decorated. It was a little on the extravagant side, but I was determined to make a statement straight off the bat. I meant business and I wanted anyone who paid attention to know it. The sea view alone was worth the five figures I paid in monthly rent.
But if I had to pick my favourite thing about my apartment, it was the luxurious power shower and sauna. With multiple jets and settings that delivered everything from rainforest mist to candlelit steam, it’d been love at first viewing.
For the first four months after I started Branson Sales & Leasing I’d lived on bread and cheese just so I could pay the rent. I could afford a more well-rounded meal in the best Michelin-starred establishment these days, but, while I thoroughly enjoyed those solo treats or client-wooing power lunches, my apartment was my sanctuary.
A place to forget men like Gideon Mortimer, with their endless bank accounts and lofty demands and pussy-tingling voices.
I braced my hands on the tiles and willed my irritation away. Two seconds after I’d hung up, I’d realised he hadn’t told me which airport he’d be flying into. His assistant had informed me when I called back that Gideon had left for the day and she had no idea what his plans were since he hadn’t informed her.
So now I had two limos heading to two private airports. It wasn’t a big deal—my business could easily absorb the costs—it didn’t augur well for ignoring the temptation to throw him overboard at the first opportunity.
Just a little longer.
By this time next month, the yacht would either be sold or the rental commission would be a huge boost to my firm’s profile and hopefully attract more clients like Gideon Mortimer.
Then I could be rid of the lingering sense of unworthiness I’d never been truly able to shake since Adam—
Dammit, why was I thinking about Adam again when he hadn’t crossed my mind in weeks? I hated that he’d compounded feelings my father had engendered within me by his blatant dismissal of me as a child.
But then, your fiancé running off with a rich heiress weeks before your wedding had a way of totally sideswiping you. And as much as I tried I couldn’t rid myself of the hollow sensation inside me.
Enough!
I was probably thinking about the past because Gideon’s air of entitlement triggered traits I’d seen in my father before I’d cut off all contact with the man.
As for Adam...it’d been a relief that six months ago he’d finally stopped opening dummy accounts in the hopes of friending me on Facebook. Not so much the hang-ups I’d been getting on my mobile phone lately, forcing me to change my phone number.
Whatever he was selling, I wasn’t buying.
Being rejected once by your own flesh and blood was bad enough. A repeat by the man you’d thought you’d spend the rest of your life with had a way of sharpening your perspective on men and relationships.
These days I was much more discerning of men to the point where the occasional one night was more than enough for me. The rest of the time, my battery-operated boyfriends sufficed just fine.
I turned off the shower, dried off and sprawled out on my bed. Unbidden, the conversation with Gideon Mortimer replayed in my mind, especially the naughty bits, uttered in that unbelievably sexy voice of his.
Find a way to get us both what we want. Tell me you can accommodate my wishes.
Did he use suggestive words like that in the bedroom? Or was he an outright dirty talker?
What the hell did that matter to me?
I flipped over, my body growing hot and clammy as his deep voice continued to echo through my head. Clamping my eyes shut, I growled in frustration and tugged open the drawer of my bedside table. I hadn’t touched my vibrator in a while, not since the preparation for the busy season had kicked in. Usually I was too tired from a hard day’s work and crashed the moment my head touched the pillow.
Today I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep without a little carnal therapy.
With an anticipatory shiver, I turned on the device. I slid it over my belly and between my legs, my breath catching at how wet I was already. At the first touch of the vibrator against my clit, my nipples pebbled, pleasure radiating from my groin. As a resident of a place that boasted more beautiful people per square metre than anywhere else on earth, I never lacked visual fodder for my sexual fantasies.
A French count with a hot accent.
An Australian bodybuilder here for the summer.
A Californian surfer crewing on a catamaran while learning French.
They were a dime a dozen along the coast.
But of course, the moment I found my groove and my hips began to move in pleasurable rhythm, the deep, sinfully cultured tones of a minor British aristocrat invaded my brain.
Miss Branson...
I need a little more than that...
Accommodate my wishes...
Say the words, Miss Branson...
With a broken gasp, my orgasm tore through me. My back arched off the bed and my whole body shook as I came harder than I had in a long time. I dropped the vibrator and boldly cupped myself, eager to hold on to the release for a little longer as my body continued to convulse, my gasps growing louder as I teased out of the last of my climax.
The descent was slow and languid, my body humming contentedly as I regained my breath.
And then with a groan, I buried my face in the pillow.
Hell.
Gideon