“I cannot believe you’re dating Colin Morgan. He’s gorgeous!” he heard her friend say.
“Yes,” his girlfriend replied, “and he’s got a huge trust fund.”
All the girls had laughed. Colin had walked away and the next day when she phoned, he hung up on her. He completely cut her out of his life, turned away from her if he met her on the pavement and put the phone down on her the dozens of times she called. He never told her what he heard, he never gave her the chance to explain herself, indeed, he never spoke a word to her again.
Then there was Portia.
Colin had met Portia in London shortly after starting his own brokerage. Slowly, over time, she’d broken down the barriers that seemed, for no reason at all (and yet every reason), to have been around his heart since he was born. Eventually, after a great deal of effort on her part, he’d fallen in love with the passionate, chestnut-haired beauty.
On the verge of asking her to marry him, he’d come home far earlier than normal and found her na**d on the floor in the living room of his flat. She’d been on all fours, his best friend, Kevin, on his knees behind her. He could still remember when her face, looking strangely bored and definitely resigned, turned to him. He could still remember how her expression melted to horror at being caught.
Colin had never been so furious in his life. He’d nearly torn Kevin limb-from-limb and he could have easily struck Portia and not regretted it.
Instead, he’d walked out of the room, moved out of the flat they shared and remorselessly turned his back on the both of them, never seeing either one of them again. Though, she had phoned. He could still remember the pleading in her voice when she tried to win him back.
“Colin, I’ve been with you for months and you didn’t ask me to marry you. I need to get married, I have to. Don’t you understand? That’s what girls like me do,” she explained as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
She was hedging her bets, pursuing Colin with Kevin waiting in the wings.
Kevin married her. They divorced after a year with Portia in possession of a good deal of Kevin’s trust fund and personal earnings.
That had been over a decade ago. Since then many different women drifted in and out of Colin’s life. At six foot two, he had a lean, muscular body that he kept fit with relentless determination. He had thick, waving hair, only a shade lighter than black, light brown eyes the colour of clay, strong, prominent cheekbones, a hard jaw and, incongruously, an immensely sensual, generous lower lip.
What he didn’t have was any problem attracting women. His family name, the quantity of his money, his good looks, his arrogance and cold heart (that many women felt they could melt) made him an object of great attraction.
He considered himself lucky, women were a banquet before him and he had a lusty appetite. Colin took what he wanted, devoured it mercilessly and then left the remains without a backward glance.
However, his mother was complaining. Both his sister Claire and brother Tony had made good marriages. Claire, nearly immediately after being wed, had two children one after the other. Tony’s wife was now pregnant.
Colin’s mother wanted her eldest son settled. She wanted him to provide her more grandchildren to spoil, more opportunities for her to meddle and dote and lastly, she was simply just too tired after thirty-six years of worrying after Colin. She didn’t understand his heartlessness and she was deeply concerned about his antipathy towards women. She wanted proof that his heart was mended (from whatever had rendered it broken) so that she could live out her old (ish) age knowing he was happy.
Enter Tamara Adams.
Colin knew that Phoebe Morgan didn’t much care for Tamara but then again, his mother didn’t have to sleep with her.
Colin liked sleeping with Tamara even if she wasn’t the best he’d had. What she lacked in imagination or even sometimes passion, she made up for in sheer will which worked very well to Colin’s benefit.
Shaking off these thoughts, he moved through the house to his study, uncovered the sandwiches Mrs. Manning left for him on his desk and smiled a small smile to himself.
His housekeeper was perfect. She was industrious, thorough and mostly unseen.
He settled behind his desk and made several business calls while he ate then made several more after he finished. Finally, late at night, he phoned Tamara, finalising plans with her to spend the rest of the week and weekend at Lacybourne.
“I can’t wait to see you, darling,” she purred and he had to control his annoyance at the endearment that didn’t even begin to sound genuine. He disliked it when she slipped into the usual feminine tactics and made them obvious. She was far more talented than that. “Are you in bed?” she continued suggestively.
“No,” he replied tersely and she immediately read his tone, not a stupid girl (which was one of her attractions) and quickly rang off.
While preparing for bed, he was unable to assuage his unease and wondered if he should scrape off Tamara and find someone else. Although who that would be, he did not know. After thirty-six years, he had long since given up on the idea that Beatrice Godwin’s reincarnated soul would enter his life, smiling magnificently at him and melting his modern day warrior’s heart.
Tamara knew she was entering the straightaway, heading for the chequered flag and the more she seemed sure of her position, the more irritating she became.
Colin lay in bed, crossed his hands behind his head and listened to the rain.
He did not relish the idea of finding a replacement for Tamara, though it didn’t really matter who it was. Although it did matter how she looked. Colin had a definite type and Tamara was that type.
Tamara had jet black hair, ice blue eyes and never allowed the sun to touch her alabaster skin. She was petite and watched her diet like a hawk so that she would not put an ounce of extra flesh on her slim body. She dressed impeccably and had her own trust fund. Her parents were friends with his parents and were also, most assuredly, upper, upper middle class.
She was, for all intents and purposes, perfect or at least as perfect as a woman could get in Colin’s dire estimation.
The rain still falling, his tired thoughts turned from Tamara to Beatrice Godwin.
He had no way of knowing if Beatrice Godwin was petite, except she was suddenly there, right beside him and she was not petite. She was long limbed and her body was lush with curves.
And there she was, laying in bed with him, completely naked, her skin glowing, her eyes heated with passion.
His mouth was on her, his hands were everywhere, she felt so damn good, she tasted so good, he couldn’t get enough of her. He felt the blood singing through his veins, burning through him with lust and… something else.