For a handsome man, he sure knew how to make himself look unattractive. I forced the twitch of my lips to stay up. “No, of course not. I’m simply enjoying the pleasure of your company.” I reached out and tapped the glass again, moving my knee forward so that it nearly touched his. His eyes flicked down at our almost-touching bodies and then back to my face. “I’m hoping you’ll stay here with me a little longer. So, tell me . . .”

I reached down and lightly stroked the flesh of his thigh through his gabardine, scratching with the tips of my nails. His knee jumped and jerked under my fingers. I moved my nails in little circles, inching north. He didn’t move—not to brush my hand away, not to lean into me. He was watching me with interest, if not desire—perhaps enjoying the feel of what I was doing, but not yet giving into it. I figured that meant I could keep going.

“What?” His voice was scratchy—maybe with desire; maybe he was thirsty. “Tell you what?”

I didn’t actually want him to tell me anything ever again, unless it was him pleading with me, offering any amount of money to keep the photographs of this tryst private. I leaned forward and placed little feather-light kisses on the corners of his mouth, remembering to be soft, to go slow. After a moment, his mouth opened under mine, and I smiled.

“Does that feel nice?” I inched my fingers upward, tracing my fingers lightly, so lightly, over his lap. I put a little smoke in my voice and tried to make him think of tangled sheets. The thought of that money—fifty K, fifty K, fifty K—thrummed in me below the waist, but it didn’t have the fire I was used to. I closed my eyes, thought of Lou, the lemony smell of her hair that tickled my cheek as she kissed me.

I stole a glance at his face as I started kneading him through his pants, not bothering to be shy now. He’d clamped his eyes shut and tipped his head back. I took it as an invitation to crawl over him, straddling him with my knees as I continued to work. Liking the feel of this man, so wealthy and powerful, splayed beneath me, at my mercy, I began fondling him in earnest.

But it wasn’t there. I reached down to stroke him, and he was soft as a lump of clay. I unbuckled him, tried some skin-on-skin contact. Nothing. Carrigan was silent under me, the silence that I knew meant the kiss of death for men: embarrassment. Which would be anger soon, directed at himself and then at me. After a moment, he pushed me away.

“Sorry,” he said, with a little laugh. “It’s not doing it for me tonight, sweetheart.”