.

hold, hold, as his breaths huffed out of his nostrils, and then his hands released her to grip the tabletop on either side of her.

      The next second he was turning his head, averting then closing his eyes, closing her out, closing himself in.

      Oh, no. No!

      A darting look down displayed Teague’s impressive erection—surely this wasn’t over?

      But try as she did to convince herself he wasn’t rejecting her, she knew that he was. And the fact that it was a conscious decision, an intellectual decision—because it sure as hell wasn’t a physical one—cut deep. He might want her—he clearly did want her—but he didn’t want to want her.

      And that just wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t going to be anyone’s runner-up gift certificate, the consolation prize you accepted half-heartedly when you didn’t win—she was the first-place trophy, goddammit, or nothing!

      She dragged her robe up, thrust her arms through the sleeves. “Safe to look now,” she said, aiming for amusement, not quite hitting it.

      He brought his eyes back to her, and she cocked her head at one of those lean, strong arms of his that were still caging her in.

      He dropped his arms—release—and she eased herself off his lap and stood, tightening the sash of her robe. She took a step back, readying a condescending do-you-really-think-I-care? eye roll for the gentlemanly apology she felt sure was about to come. Would it be for what he’d done to her? Or for not wanting her after all?

      He opened his mouth—but before he could enlighten her, the cry of a baby drew his startled attention.

      Frankie knew the source of the cry: there was a new baby in apartment 3B. She also knew, as Teague’s eyes fixated on the back of the apartment building, that it wasn’t the baby per se that was making the blood drain out of Teague’s face. The problem was all those windows—five stories of them—looking down on her courtyard. Putting on a sex show probably ranked somewhere after two trillion on Teague Hamilton’s bucket list—right after getting a lap dance at a gentleman’s club.

      She felt the dumbass blush start up and did her best to battle it back. Fact was, she hadn’t intended a peep show for the neighbors, but Teague would probably think it was all in a day’s work for her. He probably also thought it was normal for her to go from a kiss to an orgasm in...what? Three minutes flat? Hell, he probably thought she had an orgasm every time she gave a guy a lap dance.

      “I guess I’d better go,” he said, standing as he brought his eyes back to her.

      She got the eye roll in after all. “Guess you’d better.”

      “I’m sor—”

      “Don’t say it,” she said, cutting him off. “I already know.”

      “That’s not... It’s just... I mean, it’s not you, it’s m—”

      “Jesus,” she said, cutting him off again. “Definitely don’t say that!” She produced a laugh from some hidden well of pride. “I’m not the kind of girl to resent a quick orgasm on a Sunday morning, so let’s just leave it at that. I’m fine, you’re fine, I’m pretty sure the baby wasn’t watching, and if anyone else in those apartments saw us, at least they don’t know who you are, and since I won’t breathe a word to anyone you know, your reputation will remain stain-free.”

      She stepped back from him. “So, moving on. I’ll go throw on a dress while you call yourself a taxi. If you like, you can call Joe, my regular driver—his number’s on the fridge. He works the godforsaken hours between two and nine in the morning, so if you’re lucky you’ll scrape in as one of his last jobs. And he knows to come all the way up the driveway, almost to the door, so no need to do the walk of shame down to the street with who-knows-who watching.” She stretched her mouth into a no-hard-feelings smile. “By the time Joe’s here, I’ll be ready to say goodbye like any old friend and wish you happy holidays or whatever you Yanks call the season to be jolly.”

      She swiped her almost-full mug off the table, and as she walked toward the house, tried not to care that it was still warm to the touch.

      “Frankie!” he said, just as she stepped inside.

      She stopped but didn’t turn around.

      “I don’t want...to be miserable,” he said. “Just—just so you know.”

      She looked at him over her shoulder. “You don’t want to be, but you are, aren’t you? I’m sorry I’m not the one to help you with that after all.”

      And then she forced herself to walk unhurriedly to her bedroom, as though she was perfectly, absolutely fine, thank you, because she wasn’t miserable, even if she’d just thrown herself at a guy who did not want her for the three-thousandth time!

      She closed her bedroom door supersoftly, then leaned against it and slapped a hand over her mouth to trap the moan that was fighting to get out.

      Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

      Failure. Utter, abject failure.

      Well, what had she expected? A half-naked lap dancer who had the indecency to come faster than a speeding bullet wasn’t exactly the woman Prince Charming would set his sights on. And all before the clock ticked over to 9:00 a.m.—giving new meaning to the question “will he still respect me in the morning?”

      Well, fuck that. She respected herself.

      If Teague wanted to be hung up on a woman with whom he’d never had sex and never would, he was welcome to go on being miserable for the rest of his fucking life. Ha! As if Romy was being all princessy and virginal, anyway, married to Matt, of all men. Maybe Teague needed to think about that before he sloughed off an offer of hot, dirty sex with a woman who actually wanted him!

      Well, not her problem. She had plenty of clients at King’s Castle who didn’t judge her for a damn thing! They’d cry with joy if she let them touch her the way she’d let Teague Hamilton touch her! She had one regular who was a billionaire, just like Teague, and he’d begged her a hundred times just for a kiss.

      Okay, truthfully, Banjo Snow was a billionaire but he was not “just like Teague.” Banjo was...sleazy. Married, with a mistress on the side, as well as propositioning Frankie every chance he got.

      She had other clients, though. Geoff Rhodes, for example. A nice guy who liked her in her clothes as well as out of them, and who happened to be one of the best real estate agents in Bondi so was scouting out premises for the shop she planned to open.

      Her shop. That was what she should be thinking about, not some fantasy that was past retirement age. She had a storage locker full of treasures she’d been lovingly collecting for years, she had Matt’s ring to launch the store via a charity auction, and the only reason she didn’t have a boyfriend was because a man was in her top ten list of good things to have but not in the top three or five or even eight! There would be time for men once she knew her business had a chance of making it.

      Perspective. That’s what it was all about. A fling with the man of her dreams would have been nice, but it wasn’t essential to her happiness.

      She took off her robe and hung it on the clothes rack she used in place of a wardrobe, then flicked through the hangers and chose a cheerful 1950s sundress, printed all over with cherries on a pale blue background. An innocent, nonthreatening dress. She took a few minutes in the bathroom to brush her hair and slap on some makeup, then she came back through the bedroom, opened the door and stepped into the living room with a chirpy “Right, then,” to announce herself to Teague.

      But there was no Teague. And his suitcase was gone.

      Almost before her brain accepted that he’d left the house, she heard voices outside. She went to the door, concluding that Joe had arrived and Teague must have gone out to put his bag in the trunk. She reached for the handle...and then pulled her hand back. If Teague