“Didn’t mean to insult you, love. I apologize.”
She sighed. “It’s okay. I just wish the foundation would branch out a little.”
“Allie wouldn’t go for it?” he asked, kissing her chin.
“No. And she’s still not speaking to me right now.”
Cal rubbed his hand along her back. “You two will sort things out. It’s what you do.”
“And what about you and Pix? When are you going to thaw that wall of ice between the two of you?”
Instead of answering, Cal told her about the time he sat in a café and watched rain fall on the Seine, and what St. Petersburg Square looked like at sunset. Monica pictured herself there too, dreamed about it. The more he talked, the more she wanted to see the world. What was it like to climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower? Or see a real Venice canal? It was a lovely fantasy.
Listening to Cal’s sexy voice as he weaved stories of small, quaint villages and exotic, far-off cities was addictive—everything about him was addictive. His touch, his kisses, his smile. She’d never get tired of him, but she could never let herself get used to him, either. Every night, Monica walked a tightrope, allowing herself to open up to Cal, but not too much. It was a difficult balancing act, and Monica had never been good at balancing.
One evening after she got off work, Cal drove her out to Henderson. He’d seen one of his cars up for sale at a recent auction and contacted the new owners, a wealthy couple who lived in a square box of a mansion. They housed their collection in the most ostentatious garage Monica had ever seen—black-and-white slate flooring, climate controlled, and rows of vintage cars that stretched on for days.
Cal stopped next to a red Ferrari. “What do you think?” he asked, bending near the front fender and tugging on her hand until she hunched next to him. “See these lines? Look at that delicious curve of the front panel.” He actually petted the pristine grille.
“And you restored this?”
“Most of it. My lads at the shop helped. V-12 engine, three hundred horsepower. Gorgeous.” Cal moved to the driver’s side door. “Get in. See what it feels like.”
Monica slid into the leather seat. Luxury. This was the ultimate. Even the interior was beautiful—a padded leather dashboard, a polished wooden steering wheel. It felt cool and smooth beneath her fingers.
“Isn’t she something?” Cal asked. “I had to create my own jigs for the suspension parts, and molds for the back panel, but it was worth the effort.” He rubbed his fingertips across the sleek roof.
“If you keep talking like that,” Monica said, “I’m going to get jealous of a car.”
Cal bent down, leaning his hands on the open window. “You should hear how I talk about you. Your chassis is stellar.”
“Are you referring to my ass again?” She shot a quick look to the corner of the room, where the tall, balding owner stood watching them. “What’s his deal? Does he think you’re going to steal something?”
“They only built twenty of these. I don’t blame him for acting proprietarily. Just finding the parts for this beauty took a massive amount of time and work.”
“What did it look like before this transformation?” she asked.
“A woman in Hamburg inherited it from her father-in-law, and it just sat there, collecting dust and corroding in an old barn. Wasn’t even covered up properly. Can you imagine?”
“Ah, poor orphaned Ferrari.” But it was stunning. The overhead lights reflected off the glossy, candy-apple paint. It was sex on wheels. “I wish I could drive it.”
“So do I.” Cal stroked it one more time. “Anyway”—he straightened and helped her out of the car—“I thought I’d show you what I can really do. I haven’t made much headway on my Mustang, not as much as I’d like, at any rate. Without the equipment in my shop, it’s been a challenge.”
“Well, this is impressive. You’re kind of amazing, Calum Hughes.”
For once, he didn’t come back with an arrogant quip. He just smiled, a little shyly. “Thank you, but it was a team effort.”
Before they left, Monica talked the couple into buying tickets to the gala. While the wife wrote out a check, the husband pointed at Cal. “I’ve been searching over ten years for a ’57 Aston Martin. Would love to add one to my collection.”
“I’ll be on the lookout,” Cal said. “I’d love to work on one, as well, but they’re damned hard to find. As soon as I get back to London, I’ll put out the word.”
Monica smiled and accepted the check, but she’d overheard Cal’s conversation, and it put things into perspective. Monica tried not to actively think about Cal leaving, but he would, and soon. Just because they were having a good time didn’t mean he’d stick around. On the drive back to Vegas, Monica reminded herself this was supposed to be fun. No strings, that was their agreement.
“Penny for them?”
“What?” She glanced over at him. Sitting behind the wheel, he always looked self-assured.
He picked up her hand and kissed it. “You’re thinking terribly deep thoughts over there. You grow very quiet when you’re thinking. Want to talk about it? Are you worried about the gala? The board meeting? That’s coming up in a couple of weeks, isn’t it?”
“I was just mentally running through my to-do list for tomorrow.” She rattled off a few mundane tasks, guaranteed to bore him in three seconds.
Monica might like sleeping in Cal’s arms every night, hearing all about his adventures. She even liked listening to him talk about European sports cars. But Cal wouldn’t stick around, not for her, and probably not even for Jules. Leopards didn’t lose their spots. Look at her. Monica had had her shit together until she’d run into Cal, and now she was almost back to square one—falling for the wrong guy.
No, not falling. You’re in control this time, remember? Monica could separate her feelings from sex, right? Men did it all the time. Thank God she’d had this wake-up call before she’d done something stupid, like stumble into love with Calum Hughes.
* * *
Cal was frustrated. Not sexually, of course. He and Monica shagged more often than rabbits. It should be embarrassing, the vast amounts of sex they had, but he was too contented to care. They’d christened every room in the bloody villa more than once. The linen closet had been a little cramped, but worth it.
No, his frustration lay solely with Monica herself. Since their visit to see the Ferrari a week ago, something had been troubling her. He wasn’t sure what had occurred that night, but she’d changed. Not outwardly. Sexually, she was as willing and responsive as ever.
Just five minutes ago, she’d sucked him dry and seemed to take great pleasure in watching his response. Monica had lightly skirted her tongue along the bell end of his cock, then flitted little licks up and down his shaft. When she finally took him deep in her throat, Cal toppled over the edge of sanity, thrusting his hands into her hair in an effort to guide her, force her to go faster.
But Monica had released him and shook off his grasp. “This is my show, Hot Rod. Hands to yourself.” She’d started doing that too—calling him Hot Rod. It was kind of charming.
“Why are you talking? Your mouth should be full.”
Puckering her lips, Monica lightly blew across the tip. His prick jerked at the feel of her warm breath, and Cal clenched his teeth. “You’re slaying me, love. It’s brutal.”
“Death by slow fellatio? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a thing,” he defended. “Look it up.”
“I don’t need a backseat driver. Keep your hands to yourself.”
“Fine, no hands,” he’d ground out. “But turnabout is a bitch—you remember that, Miss Prim.”
She smiled up at him. “You’re going to pay for that.” She took him in her mouth again, and every time he got close, she’d back off. Monica played this game well, goddamn her.