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Perceptive. “Was it a tense night? I didn’t notice.”

Her eyes scanned his face. “I know I asked if you’re still in love with her⁠—”

“And I told you I’m not.”

Tia nodded once. For reasons unknown to him, he dropped his hand from her chin and moved it to her hip. But this time, there was a gap between the waistband of her low-slung shorts and her singlet, so his fingertips collided with bare skin and he heard a soft groan from under her breath.

“I just wonder if maybe—” Her words were juddery, her brow furrowed. “If maybe she’s still a bit in love with you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Liar.”

“What difference would it make?”

“I think it matters.”

“She’s married to my brother. And unlike him—or her, for that matter—I would never engage in an affair.”

“What if she left him?”

“Or trust her again.”

Tia nodded slowly. “I’m glad to hear it. One of my guiding mottos is that if people show you who they are, believe them.”

He’d lost the thread of the conversation again. All he could think about was the softness of her skin and how badly he wanted to slip his fingers beneath her singlet top and glide them higher.

He was terrified by the power of his temptation. This whole thing was predicated on them being businesslike, and here he was fantasising about cupping her breasts. He dropped his hand like he’d been burned, stepped back quickly.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said, putting even more distance between them, to walk towards the bathroom she’d just vacated.

“That’s stupid. It’s your room. I should take the couch.”

The look he threw her over his shoulder was one of mockery. “And pigs might fly.” He stepped into the bathroom then reconsidered it. “If you set up camp on the couch, I will carry you back to bed.”

“If you want to threaten me, you should choose a penalty I don’t actually want,” she responded waspishly, invoking his same response, spoken in the maddening heat of desire that had sparked between them earlier. That still sparked between them.

He was glad, and disappointed, when he stepped out of the bathroom and found Tia in the bed. Only on one side though, so it was easy to imagine striding over and slipping beneath the sheets. Purely for a more comfortable sleep, obviously.

Instead, he fluffed some cushions, grabbed a spare blanket and lay down, staring at the ceiling and trying to shut off his brain.

But every time he closed his eyes, faces flooded his mind. Memories of Tia flooded his mind: how wild she drove him, the way it felt to hold her close, to flirt with her all night knowing it was safe because it was a part of their agreement, telling himself that when they returned to New York, everything would go back to normal. The attraction that had flared to life between them was only because of the pressure cooker environment this weekend had introduced to the dynamic.

Tia wasn’t alone in his mind, though, even when she was by far the most dominant thought—and the most pleasurable. It was impossible not to think about Cressida. Not to replay her expression when she’d caught them in the hallway, the hurt tones to her voice—like she had any right to feel hurt! The way her eyes had rested on him when she thought he didn’t notice, the way she’d drunk like he’d never known her to, pounding back alcohol as though it was the only way she could cope. And he’d wanted to draw her aside and ask her if she was okay, knowing that she wasn’t. And knowing it wasn’t really because of him, or Tia, but because the thing she wanted most in the world wasn’t available to her. He could offer platitudes, talk about IVF with donor sperm, or adopting, but none of that would help. Those possibilities would occur to her, when she was ready to open herself to them, but for now, she had to sit with her grief and process it. He knew, because he’d done the same. First of all, with the abortion, and then, with Cressida’s betrayal. Both times, he’d carried the burden of pain with him everywhere, until it no longer ached so viscerally, until it became just another part of him, but not the most dominant. Until he could get up in the morning and function, without the baby, or Cressida, being the first thing on his mind.

As he finally drew close to sleep, he had a pang of guilt—he’d barely even thought of his mother, and what she was going through, since arriving. He’d remedy that in the morning. From tomorrow, he’d get this back on track, and focus on what he’d come here to do: to bank some quality time with Eleanor, and reassure her that the future of the lineage was in good hands.

“Hey, hey, wake up.” His voice was raw and perfect. She arched her back, the high thread count sheets heavy against her body. His hand on her shoulder was so good, but she wanted more. “Tia. You’re having a nightmare.”

She forced her eyes open, confused, face flushed, body hot, heat pooling between her legs. She sat up, and almost bumped her head right into Hamish’s. “What?”

“A nightmare. You were calling out.”

Oh, shit, she cursed inwardly. It had not been a nightmare. It had been a dream, a wonderful, spicy, sensual, satisfying dream, where Hamish had stripped her naked and taken her fast, hard, his body over hers more addictive than anything she’d ever known.

Surely he must be able to read her mind, to see the thoughts that had played out for her like some kind of erotic film?

“Do you need something?” he asked, standing so she wanted to reach out and grab him back. But he was walking to the bar, removing a bottle of mineral water from the fridge, carrying it back then flicking on a lamp. Not a lamp! Surely he’d see the delirium in her eyes, the madness in her face.