Not that he didn’t like his sister. But Quentin, her husband, was an arrogant prick who neglected her every chance he got, and Paul didn’t much care for him. He’d hoped his sister would make a better match, but she’d settled for Mr. Rich and Successful instead of finding a man who truly loved her as much as she loved him. And now she was bearing him a second child, while Quentin spent more and more time away from home—supposedly on business trips.
Paul shrugged. Not his problem. He’d warned Olivia before she married him, and she hadn’t wanted to listen.
“Champagne?” He addressed his parents, motioning to the waiter, who was approaching with a bottle and three glasses that Paul had ordered earlier, to be served as soon as his parents arrived.
After all, he knew how to pacify his mother. And a glass of pricey champagne would keep her from talking for at least one or two minutes. What he would do for the other fifty-eight minutes this lunch was sure to last, he wasn’t quite sure yet.
As the waiter placed the glasses on the table and proceeded to pop the cork, his father looked at him. “Do we have something to celebrate?”
Paul nodded. “I just closed an important merger earlier this week.”
It was the reason why he’d been working so hard, often deep into the night, and hadn’t taken even a single weekend off in the last two months—not because he didn’t want to have time to be reminded of his night with Holly. Or rather, the morning after.
The night itself he thought of quite frequently. In fact, he dreamed of it often, and every time he woke he found himself with his hand clamped around his iron hard-on. And not once had he been able to stop himself from stroking his hard flesh until the sheets were soaked with his semen and his body was bathed in sweat.
Yeah, that’s how depraved he was: He still lusted after a call girl. For the sake of his own sanity he didn’t call her prostitute anymore. Call girl sounded a lot more sanitized, though he knew there was no difference, except for the fact that Holly didn’t ply her trade on a street corner but received her bookings via an agency.
Damn it, he shouldn’t even be thinking about her anymore.
“Paul?”
He whirled in his mother’s direction and noticed his parents both holding up their glasses.
“Aren’t you going to toast with us?” his mother asked.
“Of course.”
“Congratulations, son,” his father said.
Paul reached for the glass the waiter had filled for him and clinked it first against his mother’s glass, then against his father’s, before taking a big gulp. At least the cold liquid lubricated his throat, a throat that had gone dry at the thought of Holly.
He knew it would get more difficult to keep her out of his thoughts now, because until there was another deal to work on, he had nothing to concentrate on other than his own unquenchable lust for a woman who was completely and utterly wrong for him.
“Well, now that your work is done, I hope you’ll come home and spend the rest of the summer with us,” his mother chirped.
Rest of the summer? Not fucking likely! As if he wanted his parents to remind him daily of the fact that they wanted him to get married and produce babies. “I can’t leave New York for too long.”
His mother pouted. “But you’ll have to come. We’ve planned all these festivities around our wedding anniversary.”
His father nodded in support. “Everybody is coming. Even your great-aunt Mirabelle. It’s going to be a big event.”
Paul groaned internally, but there was no escape. “You know I would never miss your thirty-fifth anniversary. Of course I’ll come. But only for a few days.” At least he would get to see his great-aunt Mirabelle, a woman with a sharp mind despite her advanced age.
“Excellent! You’ll stay at least a week.” His mother’s voice brooked no refusal.
He knew better than to protest.
“And there will be lots of eligible young women from excellent families as well.”
Excellent families was a translation for the rich, well-connected families his mother approved of.
“I’m not interested,” he said, and downed the last of his champagne. None of those rich heiresses had any personality. While some of them were reasonably pretty, none of the ones he’d been introduced to so far had ignited any spark in him. Besides, each was the kind of woman who wanted a ring on her finger before she jumped in the sack. And he wasn’t buying a pig in a poke.
“But you’re not seeing anybody. What’s the harm in going out with a nice young woman from our circle?”