She smoothed her hands over the silk of her dress and sat down. ‘Better than a bathrobe, then?’

His lips quirked. ‘Depends,’ he said, ‘on what you’ve got on under it.’

With his emerald eyes hot on hers and his devastating face relaxed in a challenging grin, Kate felt all her good intentions shoot out of the window. ‘Gosh, are we talking about your knicker fixation already? I thought you’d at least get me a drink first.’

He barked out a laugh. ‘Okay, let’s get you a drink.’ He summoned the waiter and she ordered one. ‘But I’ve got to warn you,’ he continued, ‘this fixation is fast becoming an obsession.’

‘Really, Zack?’ The corner of her mouth inched up. ‘Maybe you should stop sending underwear to women you don’t know.’

‘That might work,’ he said. ‘Or maybe I should just get to know her first.’

He reached across the table and stroked his thumb across the back of her hand. The light touch had heat spearing up her arms and across her chest.

‘As long as you’re not talking about getting to know her in the Biblical sense…because that’s just going to bring us right back to your knicker problem, isn’t it?’

He arched one black brow, the heat in his gaze undimmed. ‘It won’t be a problem for long, Kate. I guarantee it.’

Heidi Rice was born and bred and still lives in London, England. She has two boys who love to bicker, a wonderful husband who, luckily for everyone, has loads of patience, and a supportive and ever-growing British/ French/Irish/American family. As much as Heidi adores ‘the Big Smoke’, she also loves America, and every two years or so she and her best friend leave hubby and kids behind and Thelma and Louise it across the States for a couple of weeks (although they always leave out the driving off a cliff bit). She’s been a film buff since her early teens, and a romance junkie for almost as long. She indulged her first love by being a film reviewer for the last ten years. Then two years ago she decided to spice up her life by writing romance. Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills & Boon novel, and she’s looking forward to many more to come.

Recent books by the same author:

BEDDED BY A BAD BOY THE MILE-HIGH CLUB

Dear Reader

With Mills & Boon celebrating their centenary this year, I wanted a really special love story for my first book of 2008. While it didn’t take me quite 100 years to create Zack and Kate’s story, it seems the two of them have been waiting to have their story told for almost as long.

It all began four and a half years ago, when my best mate Catri and I were on one of our biannual road trips to America. We were staying at the fabulous Flamingo Hotel in Vegas when I got the inspiration for Zack Boudreaux. A gorgeous ex-gambler turned hotel tycoon, Zack was a guy who knew something was missing from his life, only he didn’t know what—and it was frustrating the hell out of him. Unfortunately, it frustrated the hell out of me, trying to think up a heroine for Zack, so he got left to brood alone for several years.

Then last year Catri and I started planning a trip to California, and I discovered Big Sur. Its raw, timeless, elemental beauty captivated me, and had Kate Denton popping into my head. Smart, sassy, impulsive and fiercely independent, she was the perfect woman to captivate Zack, show him what he was missing—and then drive him nuts while he tried to grab hold of it.

After finally finishing Zack and Kate’s story, I went to Big Sur and watched the sun set over the Pacific. It lived up to all my expectations. I hope this story does the same for you—and helps to keep Mills & Boon’s torch burning bright into their next century.

I love to hear from readers, so if you want to chat about Big Sur, or Vegas, or even my latest book, you can contact me through my website at www.heidi-rice.com

Cheers

Heidi x

THE TYCOON’S VERY PERSONAL ASSISTANT

BY

HEIDI RICE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Chessie Welker, my American dialogue coach, for telling me that rubbers went out in the fifties and rich guys don’t drink cheap beer!

CHAPTER ONE

‘I TOLD YOU I’m not a working girl.’ Kate Denton shifted on the stiff leather chair and shot the man sitting on the other side of the mahogany desk her don’t-mess-with-me look. Jet-lagged, shaken and as good as naked under the hotel robe she had on, Kate knew the look wasn’t one of her best.

He didn’t reply. The insistent tap of his pen against the desk blotter seemed deafening in the silence. Bright Vegas sunlight shone through the wall of glass to his right and cast his face into shadow, making it impossible to tell his reaction.

Oh, goody, Kate thought grimly. After the most humiliating experience of my entire life, I get interrogated by a hotel manager with a God complex.

Apprehension slithered around in Kate’s stomach like a hyperactive snake. Why on earth had she demanded to see the hotel manager in the first place? It had seemed like a good idea when the concierge had started making noises about calling the police, but once she’d been whisked up to the penthouse suite of offices and ushered in here, she’d started having serious doubts. The guy wasn’t behaving like any hotel manager she’d ever met.

She felt more intimidated now than before.

Obviously hotel managers had a much higher profile in the States. This guy’s workspace would have made the Oval Office look tacky. A lake of luxurious blue carpeting flowed to floor-to-ceiling windows, showcasing the hotel’s enviable position towering over the Las Vegas Strip. The view wasn’t the only thing giving Kate vertigo. The room was so big it accommodated a separate seating area with three deluxe leather sofas, and Kate had recognised the striking canvas on the far wall as that of a modern artist whose work now went for millions. She’d also noticed the guy had not one but three secretaries standing guard outside.

No wonder he had a God complex.

‘A working girl? You mean a hooker?’ His deep voice rumbled out at last, sending an annoying shiver of awareness up Kate’s spine. ‘I don’t recall saying I thought you were a hooker, honey.’

Kate heard the hint of amusement and her jaw tensed. ‘Who gave you permission to call me honey?’ she said, grateful for the crisp note of condescension in her voice.

‘I don’t need permission,’ he replied dryly, ‘when the lady in question was trying to break down a door in my hotel wearing nothing but a bra and thong.’

Kate swallowed. Okay, there was that.

‘It’s not a thong. I have proper knickers on,’ she blurted out, and then winced.

The memory of getting caught by the bell captain and bundled into a robe flooded back to her. Embarrassment scorched her cheeks. The fact she had something slightly more substantial than a thong covering her bottom suddenly didn’t seem all that relevant. That she’d mentioned it to him was mortifying. She’d yet to get a proper look at the guy and already he knew far too much about her underwear.

The metronome taps of his pen interrupted her thoughts. ‘Proper panties or not, you were causing a disturbance.’

The heat in Kate’s cheeks soared. What was this guy’s problem? She was the one who’d been manhandled. So she’d raised her voice and kicked the door a little, but wouldn’t anyone who got stranded in a hotel corridor practically naked?

‘I was trying to get back into the room.’

‘Yeah, but it wasn’t your room, was it?’ He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk, and the sunlight illuminated his features at last.

Kate’s heart pulsed hard. Hooded green eyes studied her out of a tanned face that was quite simply dazzling in its masculine beauty. Sharp black brows, chiselled cheeks and short dark hair that curled around his ears only added to the firepower. Even with his face carefully devoid of expression, the guy might as well have had a huge neon sign over his head flashing the word ‘irresistible’ at her.

From the way he was watching her, she wondered if he was waiting for her to swoon. She tightened the tie on the robe, absolutely determined not to start drooling.

Luckily for her, she was currently immune to the alpha male of the species.

‘It was my room, or at least it was supposed to be,’ she said, annoyed by the quake in her voice. She wrapped her arms round her waist, far too aware of the air-conditioned breeze chilling her bare legs.

His gaze swept over her and Kate felt the throb of response. All right, maybe not completely immune.

‘You’re not registered here.’ His emerald eyes shifted back to hers. ‘Mr Rocastle, who is the registered guest, has made a complaint against you. So, why don’t you tell me why I shouldn’t just kick you out in your proper panties?’

There it was again, the tell-tale lift in his voice. Kate went rigid. Was he making fun of her?

Andrew Rocastle had duped her, practically assaulted her and then humiliated her into the bargain. And now this guy thought it was funny. When had this become stomp-all-over-Kate day?

‘It’s not my fault Mr Rocastle didn’t put my name on the registration card when he checked us in this morning. I thought he’d booked us separate rooms,’ she ground out, angry all over again at Andrew’s underhanded attempt at a seduction. ‘And anyway, I don’t have to explain myself to you. None of this is any of your business. You’re a hotel manager, not my mother.’

Zack Boudreaux’s eyebrow winged up. For such a little thing, she sure had a big mouth. He didn’t consider himself arrogant, but women were usually a lot nicer to him. He’d certainly never encountered this level of hostility before.

In the normal course of events, he wouldn’t even know about this type of minor disturbance, let alone be asked to deal with it. But with The Phoenix’s manager on vacation for the day and his deputy on a training programme, the concierge had referred the matter up to Zack’s PA. He’d heard the commotion in the outer office and buzzed the woman in out of curiosity. Truth be told, after clearing his calendar for the rest of the week in preparation for his trip to California, he’d found himself with nothing to do for the first time in close to ten years and he was bored.

One thing was for sure, the minute this feisty little firecracker had waltzed into his office wrapped in her bathrobe and a very bad attitude, he hadn’t been bored any more.

He knew it was perverse, but for some weird reason he found her sassy comebacks entertaining. Imagining her in the corridor without the bathrobe was doing the rest.

‘I don’t manage this hotel,’ he said. ‘I own it, as well as two others in the South West.’

‘Bully for you,’ she shot back, but the statement lacked impact when he spotted the flicker of panic cross her face.

‘And anything that happens in my place is my business.’ His gaze remained steady on hers. ‘I make a point of it.’ He kept his voice firm. He hadn’t made a fortune at poker in his youth by showing his cards too early. He didn’t want to let her off the hook just yet. She had caused a disturbance and he was intrigued enough to want to know why.

‘Maybe you could make a point of getting my clothes back for me, then,’ she snapped.

Zack’s lips twitched as she glared at him. With her blonde hair haloing around her head in haphazard wisps, her full lips puckered in a defiant pout and her round turquoise eyes bright with temper, she looked cute and mad and sexy as hell. Kind of like a pixie with an anger-management problem.

His lips curved before he could stop them.

Her round baby-blues narrowed dangerously. ‘Excuse me, but do you think this is funny?’ The clear, precise English accent made his pulse spike.

Her voice should have reminded him of weak tea and pompous aristocrats—the two things he’d hated most during the years he’d spent in London as a teenager—but it had a smoky, seductive edge that made him think of rumpled bed sheets and warm fragrant flesh instead.

He cleared his throat, and stifled the grin. ‘Funny’s not the word I’d use,’ he said.

She tugged hard on the lapels of the thick robe, hastily covering the hint of red lace.

His eyes rose as he acknowledged the quick punch of lust. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your clothes back,’ he said. ‘But first I want to know how you and Rocastle are connected and what he did to make you want to cause my hotel criminal damage.’

Kate jerked one stiff shoulder, feeling trapped but trying desperately for nonchalance. ‘I’m his PA, or at least I was.’ She raised her chin, struggling hard to keep the quiver of nerves out of her voice. ‘He wanted to take our association to another level. I didn’t. I told him so. End of story,’ she said, putting more pomp and circumstance into her accent than a Royal Jubilee.

Maybe if she told this nosy American Adonis that much he’d lose interest and let her leave. The smouldering look he’d given her a moment ago—as if he could see right through the towelling—had not been good for her heart rate. And it wasn’t doing a great deal for her peace of mind, either.

How could she possibly find the man attractive? He might look good enough to eat. But, from what she’d seen so far, he was an over-confident, insensitive jerk. Surely she’d dealt with enough of those today to give her indigestion. So he owned the hotel. So what? That hardly gave him the right to have a laugh at her expense.

‘I see,’ he said in the same wry monotone, as if she were sitting here in her underwear for his personal amusement. ‘And you told him this without your clothes on?’

‘I was about to take a shower. I didn’t know he’d booked us into the same suite.’ Tears of frustration stung Kate’s eyes, his careless comment bringing the whole sordid experience back in vivid colour. She blinked furiously, determined not to cry.

How could she have been so stupid?

If only she’d figured out Andrew’s real reason for employing her sooner she might have been able to salvage a tiny bit of her pride. But she’d been so eager to impress him, to prove she was worthy of the opportunity he was offering her, she’d made a total fool of herself. That she had been idiotic enough to trust Andrew hurt more than anything else, even more than finding herself in the corridor in her bra and knickers when she’d informed Andrew exactly where he could shove his proposition.

She swallowed past the boulder in her throat. ‘I still don’t see how this is any of your business.’ Her fingers clutched the robe, now wrapped so tightly around her she could barely breathe. ‘Are you going to press charges or not?’

The two-second wait for his reply felt like two decades. She was sure he knew it.

He dropped his pen on the desk and steepled his fingers. ‘I guess not,’ he said at last.

Relief coursed through her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to sound as if she meant it. At least he hadn’t made her beg. ‘I’ll be off, then.’ She stood up.

‘Hold it, we’re not through yet,’ he said.

To her dismay, he stood up too and walked round the desk towards her.

Lord, he was tall. Long and lean with a very impressive pair of shoulders filling out his pricey linen shirt. She was a perfectly respectable five feet four herself but had to tilt her head back as he approached. She curled her toes into the soft carpeting and fought the desire to drop into the chair. She wasn’t about to give him even more of a height advantage.

‘I don’t see what else there is to discuss,’ she said, despising the tremble in her voice.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, slowly. ‘How about—?’ He broke off as the phone rang. ‘Stay put,’ he said, pointing at her as if she were a trained beagle. He leaned across the desk and grabbed the phone. ‘Boudreaux,’ he barked into the receiver.

Kate bristled but did as she was told. Infuriatingly enough, it occurred to her she would need Mr Sex God’s permission to get back into Andrew’s room to get her clothes.

‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded, obviously engrossed by whatever was being said on the other end of the line. ‘Did he say where he was going?’ He listened some more, his gaze fixing on her face. His eyes hardened and his beautifully sculpted lips flattened into a thin line. ‘What about ID?’ he said into the phone, sounding annoyed. He raked his hand through his hair and cursed under his breath. The short dark waves fell back into place perfectly. He must have spent a small fortune on that haircut, Kate thought resentfully.

‘Sure. No, don’t bother. I’ll figure it out.’ He slapped the phone back in its cradle, nodded at her chair. ‘You better sit down.’

Irritation edged his voice but there was a touch of warmth in those remarkable eyes that hadn’t been there before. The knot of anxiety in Kate’s stomach tightened. She sat in the chair, heard the leather creak as she pressed her knees together. What now?

Leaning on the corner of the desk, he crossed his long legs at the ankle. He was so close, Kate could smell the intimate scent of soap and man. She concentrated on the perfect crease in his trousers, trying to ignore the way the expensive fabric stretched across powerful thigh muscles.

‘Rocastle’s checked out,’ he said above her.

Kate’s chin jerked up. The knowledge she’d never have to see the contemptible worm again had her breath gushing out in an audible puff. Maybe now she could start putting this whole humiliating business behind her. ‘If you could give me a key to the room, I’ll get dressed and leave, too,’ she said.

She’d expected him to look overjoyed at the prospect of her departure. He didn’t, he looked pained. ‘It’s not going to be that easy.’ He crossed his arms over his chest, making the rolled up sleeves of his shirt tighten across his biceps. ‘He took your luggage.’

‘What? All of it?’

He rocked back and nodded. ‘Everything but your ID.’

‘But why?’ Kate’s mouth hung open.

He uncrossed his arms and braced his hands on the desk behind him, tilting his upper body forwards. ‘Rocastle said to tell you you’re fired and he’s taking your stuff and cashing your ticket home to cover his expenses.’

‘But…’ Panic clawed up the back of her throat. She gulped it down.

How could Andrew do this? He must know he was leaving her stranded.

‘But he can’t do that. Those are my things.’ Indignation seared her insides, but beneath it was the bitter sting of fear. Surely this couldn’t be happening. ‘How will I get back to London?’

Zack had expected her to get mad again. In fact he’d been looking forward to seeing her eyes spark with temper. But when he saw confusion and desperation on her face instead, her situation didn’t seem all that funny any more. Maybe there was more going on here than a lover’s spat.

Her boyfriend or boss or whatever he was sounded like a real piece of work. Maybe the girl was nuttier than a jar of peanut butter, but there was something cold and calculating about the way the guy had cleared out the suite and left his girlfriend in a strange city, in a strange hotel in nothing but her underwear.

She ducked her head and stared down at her lap. Her fingers clutched together, the knuckles whitening as she took an uneven breath. When her head came up, she didn’t look mad, she looked devastated. He noticed the rim of purple surrounding the deep blue of her irises. The hint of moisture in her eyes accentuated the unusual colour. She sniffed and straightened in her chair, but no tears fell. He felt an unfamiliar constriction in his chest that he recognised as admiration.

‘You want me to call the cops?’ he asked, figuring that was the logical next step.

She shook her head, thrust out her pointy little chin. ‘Could I ask you a favour?’

His chest loosened. Here it came. She was going to ask him for money. It didn’t surprise him. She was in a fix and from her accent and her flaky behaviour so far he figured she must be the rich, pampered daughter of some stuck-up Brit. He doubted she’d ever had to fend for herself in her entire life. Still, he felt oddly disappointed. ‘Fire away,’ he said.

‘Would you give me a job?’

‘A job?’ Was she serious?

‘Yes, I’ve done some bar-tending and waitressing and I’ve got lots of experience as a chambermaid.’

‘You’ve scrubbed johns? You’re kidding me?’ He could see the Queen of England doing it sooner than he could imagine her doing it.

‘No, I’m not,’ she said, sounding affronted.

‘Have you got a work visa?’ he asked, although he didn’t know why. He didn’t want her tending bar, or scrubbing johns—it just didn’t seem right somehow.

‘Yes, I have dual nationality. I was born in New York.’

‘Right.’ Dumb question. ‘Look, we could work something out for you if you want, but you don’t need a job. All you need do is get the cops to have a talk with your boyfriend and—’

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ she interrupted.

‘Whatever he is, he can’t steal your stuff.’

‘I’m not going to go grovelling to the police or anyone else,’ she said. ‘They’re only clothes. As far as I’m concerned Andrew can keep them. And he paid for the plane ticket, so he can keep that too.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

Annoyance flashed, but she kept her gaze locked on his. ‘What’s that?’

‘You can’t tend bar in your underwear.’

She blinked, then looked away. The slight tremor in her shoulders made his chest constrict again.

He felt as if he’d just kicked a puppy.

Kate twisted her hands in her lap. ‘You may have a point there,’ she said, trying to sound flippant as she forced her gaze back to his. The fighting spirit seeped out of her, though, as she endured his long, steady stare. Did he still think her situation was funny—or, worse, pathetic?

She couldn’t get the police involved. Her pride wouldn’t allow it. She’d rather prance down The Strip stark naked than see Andrew again. But she didn’t have more than twenty pounds in her purse. When she’d arrived at work yesterday morning she hadn’t expected to be whisked off to Las Vegas on a ‘business trip’ by her boss. She didn’t have a job any more. Her one credit card was maxed out. None of her friends had the sort of money she’d need to get home. And she’d sooner amputate a limb than ask her father for help.

She’d been surviving on her own since she was seventeen years old. Kate squared her shoulders, tried to control the panic making her hands shake. She’d got herself into this predicament. She’d just have to get herself out again.

The knowledge she’d have to throw herself on the mercy of the man in front of her made her stomach hurt. She hated to be indebted to anyone. Especially someone like him. Someone so rich, self-assured and domineering. But her pride had taken so many hits already today, how much damage could one more do?

Kate curled her hands into fists. ‘I know it’s a bit cheeky, but if I start work tomorrow could you give me an advance on my salary?’

Zack could see the request had cost her. The colour had washed out of her already pale face and she sat so rigidly on the edge of her chair it was a miracle she didn’t topple off onto the floor. Even so, the urge to take that defeated look out of her eyes surprised him.

He wasn’t the kind of guy who rescued damsels in distress. Especially not damsels in distress with enough attitude to make Joan Rivers look like Snow White.

But try as he might, he couldn’t quite shake the desire to help her out.

Maybe it was that combination of guts and vulnerability. Or maybe it was just her honesty. She could have used her looks, could have resorted to the usual feminine wiles, but she hadn’t. He had to give her points for that.

‘The suite’s paid up till the day after tomorrow,’ he lied smoothly, knowing Rocastle would have got a refund on the booking. ‘I’ll get the concierge to let you in and we’ll send up some clothes.’

Surprise and relief flittered across her face, but then a wary look came into her eyes. Small white teeth raked over her bottom lip. ‘I’m not…’ Whatever she was going to say she stopped herself. ‘That’s very generous of you.’ She hesitated again, but only for a moment, before she stood up. ‘I’m sorry if I was rude earlier.’ She sighed, the little gush of breath making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. ‘It’s been a difficult day.’

‘No problem.’ He shrugged, feeling a slither of guilt for having baited her. ‘No harm done.’

She held out her hand. ‘My name’s Kate, by the way. Kate Denton.’

Kate. Sweet, simple and kind of plain. It didn’t suit her one bit he decided as he gripped her fingers.

‘Zack Boudreaux. Good to meet you, Kate,’ he said, surprised to realise it was true. He felt a slight jolt run through her before she pulled her hand out of his grasp. ‘What size are you?’ he asked, glancing down at her figure. It was impossible to tell beneath all that terry cloth.

‘I’m an American size eight.’

The tint of colour that hit her cheeks amused him. Good to know she wasn’t entirely indifferent to him.

‘I’ll start work first thing tomorrow,’ she continued, all businesslike.

He smiled.

‘I’ll probably be up at the crack of dawn anyway because of the jet lag,’ she said, rushing the words.

Yeah, he was definitely making her nervous. The thought pleased him. ‘The personnel manager will be in touch,’ he said, with no intention of following through.

No way was he giving her a job. He’d get the concierge to give her a couple hundred bucks, send her up some clothes and organise a plane ticket home. It was the least he could do for the entertainment value.

‘Don’t forget to take the cost of the clothes out of my salary,’ she said over her shoulder as she turned to go. His gaze drifted down her back as she walked to the door. Her bare feet sank into the carpet, making her seem almost childlike. But then he noticed the stiff set of her shoulders and the seductive sway of her hips through the shapeless knee-length garment.

She was quite something, he thought as the door clicked closed behind her. He was going to miss her. Which was dumb, considering he’d only just met her and during that time she hadn’t exactly been coming on to him.

He sat at his desk and picked up his pen to begin jotting a ‘to-do’ list for his trip to California at the end of the week.

Twenty minutes later Zack still sat at the desk, pen in hand, without having put a single solitary item on the list.

‘Hell!’ He ripped the sheet of paper off the jotter, balled it up and sent it flying into the trash. No wonder he couldn’t think—a certain blue-eyed pixie with blonde hair and an attitude problem kept popping into his head.

Why did Kate Denton fascinate him? She was pretty, but she was hardly his type. He liked his women sleek, sophisticated and most of all predictable. On the evidence of their brief encounter, Little Miss Proper Knickers was about as predictable as Lady Luck.

He stood up, dumping the pen on the desk, and rubbed the back of his neck.

Maybe that was it.

Since he’d given up gambling ten years ago, invested all his time and money into building his hotel empire, the women he’d dated had looked beautiful, behaved impeccably and never once made him work for what he wanted. They’d certainly never talked back to him, challenged him the way Kate Denton had. How many years was it since he’d felt the thrill of the chase?

He’d once thrived on the rush of adrenaline that came with the turn of the cards, and he’d transferred all of that drive, all of that ambition into his quest to change his life—to drag it out of the shadowy world he’d grown up in of gambling dens and back-alley casinos. At thirty-two, after ten long years of hard work, he’d been featured on the cover of Fortune magazine, was ranked as one of America’s top-ten entrepreneurs by Newsweek. He owned a beach house in the Bahamas and a Lear jet. And The Phoenix franchise had evolved from a small casino hotel in Vegas into the most vibrant, sought-after hospitality brand in the South West.

He strolled over to the office’s window. Resting his hand on the glass, he looked down. Twenty floors below, the afternoon sunlight laid The Strip bare. Without the cloaking spell of nighttime, the glamour of a million colourful neon lights, the famous street looked jaded, its seedy underbelly plain for everyone to see. This was a town that had been built on the promise of an easy buck, the promise of a quick green-backed fix to life’s woes. It was a promise that could destroy lives—it had almost destroyed his—and he’d decided over the last decade that, if he was ever going to truly escape his past, he couldn’t be a party to that promise any more. He’d already expanded The Phoenix brand into New Mexico and Arizona with huge success and now, at last, he was ready to sell his flagship hotel and get the hell out of Vegas—and the casino business—for good.

He let his arm drop back to his side. From what Monty, his best friend and business manager, had said in his call from California yesterday, Zack was only a few weeks away from taking that last crucial step into the light. He didn’t really need any distractions right now.

But with his dream about to be realised, why did he still feel as jaded as the city he had come to despise?

After his run-in with the feisty, fascinating Kate Denton and her big mouth, it occurred to him that fulfilling his long-term business plans was only going to solve part of the problem. His personal life needed a makeover too. During the last ten years he’d allowed himself to drift through a series of lazy and unfulfilling affairs. What was that old saying about all work and no play? He had a few days off for the first time in, well, for ever. Surely there’d never be a better time to play.

Zack turned to stare at the empty chair opposite his desk. Yeah, Kate Denton would be one heck of a distraction. But she’d also be a challenge. And he always thrived on challenges.

As Zack picked up the phone, he pictured her captivating face, the wild blonde hair, those striking sky-blue eyes, her plump, kissable Cupid’s bow mouth, and didn’t try to deny the sharp tug of sexual desire.

Volatile or not, she’d be worth the effort, he’d lay odds on it.

As he tapped out the concierge’s number Zack let the heady mix of adrenaline and arousal pulse through his veins. Damned if he didn’t feel better already. More alive, more excited than he had in years.

They might only have a couple of days to enjoy each other, but he planned to see a whole lot more of Miss Kate Denton and her ‘proper knickers’.

CHAPTER TWO

CONTRARY TO POPULAR opinion, Kate didn’t believe crying ever made anyone feel better. In her experience, crying made you feel rubbish—and look even worse—and now she had conclusive proof, staring back at her out of the bathroom mirror.

Dabbing at her puffy, red-rimmed eyes with a damp tissue, Kate willed the tears to stop. She’d been at it for over twenty minutes and it was giving her a blistering headache. She wasn’t even sure what she was crying about any more.

Yes, Andrew had been a creep, but she should have seen that one coming. She’d convinced herself his interest in her had stemmed from admiration and mutual respect. But she should have known better. Since when did guys admire and respect women like her? Women who had an opinion and voiced it. She should have guessed something was wrong as soon as Andrew said he liked her sassiness. No man ever had before, starting with her father.

Kate watched her brow furrow in the mirror, felt the wave of sadness and inadequacy that always accompanied thoughts of her father.

James Dalton Asquith III had only wanted her mother for one thing—and he’d certainly never wanted a daughter. When he’d been forced to take her in after her mother’s death, Kate had tried desperately to please him, to be who he wanted her to be. At seventeen she’d finally accepted the truth—that the fault lay with him, not her—which made it all the more galling that in some small, forgotten corner of her heart his rejection still hurt.

Running away from home all those years ago had been the smartest thing she’d ever done. A liberating experience that had made her realise she didn’t need her father’s approval, or his charity. She took a slow, calming breath and gave her cheeks one last swipe with a fresh tissue from the vanity unit.

Finally figuring out what a heel Andrew was could well be the next smartest. She breathed out again, glad not to hear a single hitch. She’d cried her last tear over Andrew Rocastle—and her father for that matter.

She screwed the tissue up and shoved it in the pocket of the bathrobe. Flushing the toilet, she walked out into the living area of the suite. Her stomach knotted as she spotted the soft leather sofa where Andrew had been sitting when she’d walked out of the bathroom in her underwear.

Surprise had quickly given way to fury when she’d discovered what Andrew had in mind for their so-called business trip. Didn’t she realise where their relationship was leading? he’d said. As if she’d been a party to his ridiculous fantasies. Frankly she’d been more turned on by one look from Zack Boudreaux, the hotel tycoon from planet sexy, than she had by all Andrew’s attention in the last few weeks. He’d accused her of sending him mixed messages. Tears of humiliation clogged up her throat as she recalled how he’d shoved her out of the suite while she’d been giving him another message entirely, at top volume.

Kate sniffed the tears back and gave a weary sigh, pushing the aggravating memory to the far reaches of her mind. She had other, more pressing problems to deal with now. She was back at square one, right where she’d been when she’d walked out on her father and his indifference ten years ago—broke and ‘scrubbing johns’ for a living. Except this time she was doing it thousands of miles from home with a distinct lack of clothing.

She plumped herself down on the sofa.

At least she’d learned something from this situation. Never trust anyone, and don’t kid yourself. If something looks too good to be true, it is.

Picking up the TV remote she switched on the huge plasma screen that took up the opposite wall of the suite.

Perma-pressed chat show hosts and adverts for haemorrhoid cream flicked by as she trolled through the channels. Her thumb stopped dead as a raunchy scene in a daytime soap opera flashed onto the screen. A buxom blonde appeared to be Unibonded to a hairless muscle-bound male torso. Kate tilted her head, trying to figure out where the chest ended and the blonde began.

‘For Pete’s sake, isn’t that a bit much for ten in the morning?’ she said out loud as the camera lifted and the couple proceeded to suck each other’s faces off.

Then the guy came up for air. He droned a series of banal lines but all Kate noticed was the jewel-green tone of his eyes. It reminded her of someone.

She tucked her legs up under her, refusing to acknowledge the tingling sensation between her thighs. Her thumb jerked down on the channel-change button, but not before she’d had the errant thought that Zack Boudreaux’s eyes were a much more compelling shade of green and that she’d bet her knickers the hotel tycoon had hair on his chest.

Of course, once she’d conjured up the picture of Boudreaux’s naked torso in her mind she couldn’t get it out again. No matter how many channels she surfed through.

Eventually she gave up and turned the telly off. Throwing the zapper down on the glass-topped coffee-table, she grasped her ankles and willed herself to calm down. Hadn’t she just promised herself she wasn’t going to put herself at the mercy of any man again, especially not a man like Zack Boudreaux? The guy had testosterone oozing out of his pores. Not only that, but she’d spent all of twenty minutes in his company and it had taken her about two seconds to realise he was exactly the sort of guy any woman with a single independent thought should stay well away from. A man like him would trample all over you without even realising he was doing it.

Stop thinking about him right this instant, she told herself sharply. Now if she could just get rid of the warm, liquid and completely unprecedented feeling that had settled between her thighs…

Kate’s head snapped up at the sharp knock on the door.

‘Hi, I’m Michelle.’ The pristine young woman standing in the corridor had one of those megawatt sales assistant’s smiles pasted on her face. ‘I’m from Ella’s Boutique downstairs. Mr Boudreaux asked us personally to bring up a selection of clothes for you to look at.’

Kate cursed the guilty flush that spread up her neck at the mention of his name. ‘He did?’

‘Yeah, he did.’ The young woman beamed back and then shuffled into the room wheeling a portable garment rail behind her. A profusion of colours and fabrics hung from it. ‘He said for you to pick out as many outfits as you need for your stay with us.’

‘Oh.’ Kate didn’t know what else to say. She’d expected a pair of hotel overalls or something, not a selection of the latest catwalk fashions.

‘Would you like me to lay them out for you?’

Kate stared at the rail. ‘Um.’ She bit her lip. ‘No, don’t bother.’

Silk dresses vied for position with designer jeans, cashmere sweaters, a Dolce & Gabbana T-shirt. Kate rubbed a satin top between her thumb and forefinger. The cloth was a deep vivid purple, cool and whisper smooth to the touch. Lifting it off the rail, she studied the perfect stitching, the delicately beaded neckline, the way the cloth draped in shimmering waves. She’d never owned a piece of clothing this gorgeous in her life. Or, she imagined, this expensive.

‘Why don’t they have any price tags?’ Kate asked, hooking the purple blouse back onto the rail.

‘Oh, well.’ The girl’s smile faltered as she hesitated. Obviously her customers didn’t usually concern themselves with something as mundane as prices. ‘You don’t need them, ma’am,’ she said, brightening again. ‘Mr Boudreaux said to charge everything to the hotel.’

Kate gaped at the girl, momentarily struck dumb by Boudreaux’s generosity. Then reality intervened. That was ridiculous—he couldn’t possibly have intended to give her hundreds of dollars worth of clothing. The boutique staff must have misunderstood. He had probably intended for them to charge the clothes to Kate’s hotel room.

‘I’d still like to know the prices,’ she said, trying not to sound ungracious.

The girl looked confused. ‘I guess I could call down to the boutique and get Monica, my supervisor, to itemise them once you’ve made your selection.’

‘All right,’ Kate said. Although it wasn’t all right. She’d much rather know the prices up front. As beautiful as the clothing was she didn’t want to be scrubbing johns in Mr Irresistible’s hotel for the rest of her life, which could very well happen if she picked the wrong thing. Most of this stuff would retail in the hundreds, possibly even thousands.

But at the same time Kate didn’t want to embarrass herself further by making a big deal of it, and she also didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Frankly, she’d been astonished when Boudreaux had offered to help her out in the first place, she didn’t want to press her luck.

She opted for the plainest pair of jeans she could find and a simple blue T-shirt with The Phoenix logo on it. At the bottom of the rail was a box with a selection of shoes. Once again, the designs, colours and craftsmanship had her controlling a whimper. She recognised a pair of Fendis and some Manolo Blahniks from the style magazines she loved to paw over at home. She turned to Michelle, who was busy boxing up her selections.

‘Do you have any trainers?’

‘You don’t like the shoes here?’ Michelle looked thoroughly crestfallen now.

‘Oh, no, it’s not that, they’re gorgeous. It’s just I need something less dressy.’

‘Dressy?’ The girl glanced at the shoes, her eyebrows lifting. She obviously considered five-hundred-dollar shoes perfectly acceptable for day wear, but to Kate’s relief she didn’t say it. ‘The sportswear store in the hotel forum sells Converse and Nike—is that what you mean?’

‘Perfect.’ Even with the hotel mark-up, she was sure she could find something for fifty dollars.

The girl’s eyes widened, but she nodded. Kate had no doubt at all the shop staff would soon be abuzz with gossip about the dotty English girl in the Sunset Suite with the dress sense of a teenage boy. She forced herself not to care. With the stuff she had she could at least leave the suite—and start work tomorrow—without being indentured for life.

The girl took her shoe size and promised to have a pair sent up to the suite. She wheeled her rail back out the door, but stopped when she got over the threshold. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Mr Boudreaux sent up a package for you.’ The girl unclipped a white hotel bag from the end of the rail with an envelope attached to the front. ‘I swear, I’d forget my head if it weren’t glued to my neck,’ she said, giving Kate a nervous smile.

Kate smiled back, or at least she tried to. Why would Boudreaux be sending her packages? Her hand shook ever so slightly as she reached for the bag. ‘Thank you.’

‘Well…’ The girl hesitated. Kate guessed she might be waiting for her to open the package. She wasn’t about to oblige. She had no idea what was inside, but the way her luck was going lately she thought it might be bad, like a demand to leave. Maybe he’d changed his mind about helping her out.

‘He brought it into the boutique and gave it to me specially,’ the girl continued, the awed tone of her voice making it sound as if she thought Boudreaux were the new Messiah.

Kate slung the package under her arm and rubbed her dampening palms on her hotel robe. ‘I really appreciate you going to all this trouble. Do tell your supervisor thanks from me, too,’ she said, as politely as possible.

Maybe the girl was waiting for a tip? If she was, she was going to be waiting a very long time.

The girl gave a slight hitch of her shoulders. ‘No problem, it’s all part of the service.’ Her eyes flicked to the package one last time. ‘Have a nice day.’ So saying Michelle took off down the corridor, the clothes-laden rail making a swishing sound on the carpet as she pulled it along behind her.

Kate closed the door and leaned back against it. Why did her knees feel wobbly? She glanced at the flimsy package, which she could have sworn was now throbbing under her arm like a ticking bomb. While she’d been standing in the doorway waiting for the girl to leave it had occurred to her just how dependent she was on Boudreaux’s largesse. Sucking in a deep breath, she walked into the room and flung the package on the coffee-table. The white envelope attached to the front had her name written on it in bold black ink. It had to be his handwriting, she thought. The large looping letters and the thick black line slashed under the words seemed to exude confidence, arrogance even—just as he did. She could imagine him writing it with the fountain pen he’d been tapping on his desk, his long tanned fingers moving quickly and efficiently across the paper.

She sighed and sat down. Oh, stop it, you dope. Just open the stupid thing and get it over with. If he’d asked her to leave, she’d leave. He’d honoured the promise about the clothes, which was the main thing. No reason why she couldn’t find a job in another hotel now, until she paid him back and earned her airfare home. That the thought of leaving the hotel made her feel a little depressed was simply ridiculous. Why on earth should she care? She wasn’t any better off here than she would be anywhere else in Vegas.

She guessed the butterflies jitterbugging in her stomach and the cold fingers of dread flitting up her spine must be the result of exhaustion and her recent emotional trauma, nothing more. She folded her legs and tugged the envelope off the package in one quick, decisive move. Still, as she put her finger into the seam and ripped the envelope open the feeling of dread tightened into an icy fist.

Five crisp new hundred-dollar bills spilled onto her lap. She scooped them up and stared at them. Clutching them in one hand, she unfolded the thick cream paper with the hotel’s green and gold letterhead at the top. It took a moment for her eyes to focus on the brief note, scrawled in that same dominant black ink in the middle of the page.

Kate,

Hope you found something to go with those proper knickers.

Meet me for dinner tonight, 8pm in the Rainbow Room.

Z

The signature Z had been slashed across the bottom like the mark of Zorro.

Kate blinked and read the note three more times, but there was still no mention of the five hundred dollars. The feeling of foreboding had gone, but in its place was something much more disturbing. Heat shot into her cheeks and the butterflies in her belly were all burned to a crisp. What was this fixation he seemed to have with her knickers? Why did she find it arousing instead of insulting? And what exactly was the five hundred dollars for?

She didn’t want to meet him for dinner tonight. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself again, or, worse, come across like someone on the make. But the invitation sounded like an order, and she couldn’t afford to annoy him.

She remembered the small package then. The hotel bag had been taped shut. It didn’t look as if there was much in it. Undoing the tape she upended the bag and a scrap of lacy crimson satin with a Post-it note stuck to it fell out onto the coffee-table. She picked it up, and pulled the satin thing tight between her fingers.

A thong! Her cheeks blazed and her breath got choppy.

She read the Post-it note: ‘These are for you, Kate, in case you want a break from your proper knickers.’

‘Why, you cheeky…’ Kate was outraged.

But a bubble of something worked its way up her torso. The light and airy feeling fanned out across her chest and a smile she couldn’t seem to stop spread across her face.

Then, completely against her will, she began to laugh, for what felt like the first time in a millennium.

CHAPTER THREE

KATE WASN’T LAUGHING when she stepped into the elevator that evening. As the empty car whipped soundlessly up to the nineteenth floor she knew the weightlessness in her stomach had more to do with nerves than gravity.

She studied her reflection in the mirror on the elevator’s back wall. At least she didn’t look like a vagabond. After a short but fortifying nap, she’d taken one of the hundred-dollar bills Boudreaux had given her and hit The Strip, aware she could hardly wear her Tom Sawyer outfit to the hotel’s swankiest restaurant.

She absolutely was not dressing up to impress Boudreaux, but she didn’t want to look ridiculous either. Luckily for Kate, she happened to be an expert at styling on a budget. She’d found the vintage blue and gold silk dress in a Salvation Army thrift shop for twenty dollars. It was a little snug around her breasts, showing a bit more cleavage than was probably intended, but otherwise it could have been made for her. The classic hourglass nineteen-fifties styles looked retro, not out of date, she told herself, especially once she added the heeled sandals and clutch purse she’d found on sale at an outlet store on Fremont Street. Kate had never been a shopaholic, she’d never had the finances for it, but she did get a buzz out of coordinating the perfect outfit for peanuts. She’d trolled the cosmetics counters at the nearest mall and picked up a sack full of free samples, so even with the headscarf she’d bought to tie up her hair she’d managed to keep her spending under eighty dollars.

Keeping back twenty dollars for emergencies, Kate stuffed the other four hundred dollars Boudreaux had lent her inside her new purse. She pressed it against her belly and peered over her shoulder to get a view of her bum. The tangle of nerves and anticipation eased a little. She looked great. Maybe a bit unusual, but still great. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel all that great.

Ever since she’d started getting ready an hour ago, a troop of Morris dancers wearing hobnailed boots had been having a hoedown under her breastbone.

Why did Boudreaux want to have dinner with her?

They hadn’t exactly hit it off up to this point. The obvious answer was that he saw in her an opportunity for a quick conquest. While the thong had made her laugh, she knew letting her guard down with Boudreaux could lead to disaster. It wasn’t the quick fling he no doubt had in mind that she objected to per se. She didn’t consider herself a prude. She enjoyed hot, healthy sex as much as the next girl and it was a very long time since she’d had any. Plus, she had a feeling hot, healthy sex would be Boudreaux’s forte. But her confidence had taken a huge hit with Andrew and she didn’t want to end up feeling used again—however mutual it might be.

She’d worked out her strategy. She would be polite and distant. She must not encourage him. He was a dangerous man, both good-looking and magnetic, and he knew it. From the tone of his note, and the teasing sparkle in his eyes earlier, she suspected he would be well practised at the art of seduction. And, if that wasn’t worrying enough, her attraction to him had a heat and intensity she’d never experienced before. She must not rise to the bait, or she could end up getting seriously burned.

The lift doors opened onto a plush lobby area, but Kate barely noticed it, her gaze drawn to the panoramic view of night-time Vegas on the other side of the restaurant. Past the maître d’s lectern and the candlelit tables, a wall of glass showcased The Strip and the darkness of the desert beyond. Boudreaux’s hotel wasn’t the largest of the huge casino hotels, but it certainly had pole position. Nineteen storeys up, the neon plumage of The Bellagio, The Mirage, Caesars Palace and a host of other famous names lit up the night like a flock of narcissistic peacocks. The city, seen from this lofty angle, glowed with expectant glamour.

Kate drew in a careful breath as she approached the maître d’ and gave him her name. She was bang on time, but as the waiter led her to a booth at the back of the restaurant she saw Boudreaux had arrived ahead of her. He stood up as she approached, his tall, imposing physique silhouetted against the flickering neon of the cityscape.

He was wearing a conservative, expertly tailored grey suit, one hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers and his white shirt unbuttoned at the neck revealing a few wisps of chest hair. Kate realised he looked relaxed and completely at home in his surroundings. Tall, dark, handsome and devastatingly sexy. As her pulse buzzed in her ears and the Morris dancers went for broke in her stomach she wondered if she had overestimated her ability to resist the irresistible.

Zack had been sitting at the table for ten minutes, nursing a Scotch and soda and debating whether the thong might have been a tactical error at this stage in the game. He’d bought it on impulse and dashed off the note because the thought of getting Kate all fired up again had amused him. But once he’d been shown to their table, he’d begun to wonder if he might have overplayed his hand.

Did the woman even have a sense of humour?

But as soon as he spotted her walking towards him through the dim lights of the restaurant, Zack found all his misgivings obliterated by an explosive surge of lust.

She looked stunning. The gold threads in her dress caught the candlelight, shimmering over her curves and accentuating the way the material clung to every delicious inch of her. She was taller than he’d first thought, her blonde hair piled up on her head with a flash of blue silk and her smooth bare legs finished off with a pair of glittery gold heels. Whether or not she had a sense of humour, she certainly had a sense of style. The outfit looked like a throwback to the days of Marilyn Monroe, but it worked on her. His eyes drifted down to her cleavage where the pale flesh of her breasts strained against the fabric. His mouth went bone dry.

Marilyn, eat your heart out.

He made a mental note to give the boutique manageress a raise for her inspired product purchasing. Kate gave him a polite smile as the waiter placed the menus on the table and excused himself.

‘Hello, Mr Boudreaux,’ she said in that snooty, husky voice that made him think of warm flesh and soft sheets. ‘I hope I didn’t keep you waiting?’

‘Call me Zack.’ He took the hand she offered. Her fingers trembled and he caught a whiff of the perfume she wore. Sultry but subtle, the provocative scent whispered to him as she let go of his hand. He resisted the urge to bury his face against her neck and breathe it in, but only just. ‘You were worth the wait,’ he said, letting his gaze wander over her figure. ‘That’s one hell of a dress.’

‘Thank you.’ She smoothed her hands over the silk and sat down, the picture of demure, but he caught the spark of mischief in her eyes as they met his. ‘Better than a bathrobe, then?’

His lips quirked. So she did have a sense of humour. Damned if he wasn’t going to have fun tonight. ‘Depends,’ he said, ‘on what you’ve got under it.’

Regrets, he decided, were for wimps.

With his emerald eyes hot on hers and his devastating face relaxed in a challenging grin, Kate felt all her good intentions jump up and shoot straight out of the window. ‘Gosh, are we talking about your knicker fetish already?’ she said in her haughtiest voice. ‘I thought you’d at least let me have a drink first.’

He barked out a laugh, his eyes glittering with appreciation. ‘Okay, let’s get you a drink.’ He snapped his fingers at the waiter. ‘But I’ve got to warn you, this fetish is fast becoming an obsession.’

‘Really, Zack?’ The corner of her mouth inched up. ‘That doesn’t sound very healthy.’

The waiter arrived and she ordered herself a glass of Kir, conscious of Zack studying her the whole time. The trickle of awareness became a torrent.

‘You’re right, it’s not healthy,’ he said, once the waiter had gone, his voice low and intimate and full of fake concern. ‘Maybe I need therapy?’

‘Or maybe you should stop sending thongs to women you don’t know.’

The glass of cassis-tinted wine arrived and she took a fortifying sip.

‘That might work,’ he said, the gravity in the words not the least bit convincing. ‘Or maybe I should get to know her first.’ He reached across the table, stroked his thumb across the back of her hand. ‘How does that sound?’ The light touch had heat spearing up her arms and across her chest.

Okay, not just practised in the art of seduction, more like world class. And to think she’d thought he was forbidding in his office earlier. He wasn’t forbidding, just extremely dangerous. But the perilous urge to play with fire overwhelmed her. Why not? After the day she’d had, a bit of harmless flirtation would do her good.

‘As long as you’re not talking about getting to know her in the biblical sense—’ she took a sip of wine, her mouth suddenly dry ‘—because that’s going to bring us right back to your knicker problem again, isn’t it?’ she said, her voice tapering off as his eyes flashed hot and a muscle in his jaw tensed.

He arched one black brow, the heat in his gaze undimmed. ‘It won’t be a problem for long, Kate. I guarantee it.’

Uh-oh, Kate thought as the temperature in the room soared and a blush spread up her chest. This flirtation was nowhere near as harmless as she’d intended. He was looking at her as if he’d stripped her naked already. The fireball of need between her thighs meant he might as well have done. She had to cool things down now, or they’d both go up in smoke. She wasn’t playing with fire here. She was playing with an inferno. And she had no idea how to handle it.

Zack knew the instant he’d gone too far. Colour stained her cheeks and her eyes clouded over. He thought it was a shame, but he didn’t blame her. He’d never got so hot, so quickly before in his life. Hell, when she’d put her lips on her wine glass, his blood had gone south so fast he got a little light-headed.

She opened the menu, a slight tremor in her hands as she studied the listings in silence. She lifted her head, a nervous smile on her lips. ‘Shall we order? I’m really hungry.’

He was hungry too, he thought, hungrier than he’d been in a very long time, and he wasn’t thinking about food. But he nodded, picking up his own menu. ‘Sounds good to me.’

He allowed her to let the conversation drift to harmless small talk as they ordered.

The quiver in her voice a moment ago had been a big red stop sign. As much as he would have liked to drive right through it and risk the crash, he knew he shouldn’t. He’d found out as a young man that patience was more than a virtue. It was a pleasure. It got you what you wanted, but allowed you to savour it first.

He had a feeling that Kate Denton—with her smart mouth, her lush little body and her sassy sense of humour—would be worth savouring.

The food was exquisite, and Kate was starving, but by the time the delicate slice of chocolate pecan torte was placed in front of her she’d barely managed to swallow a bite. She couldn’t seem to stop babbling. Maybe it was the intense way he absorbed everything she said. Or the questions he asked, as if he really cared what she had to say.

He knew London well, had lived there for several years in his teens, apparently, and they’d chatted about her home town for most of the meal. It should have been a relaxing, innocuous conversation, but every time she caught his eyes flicking down to her lips, every time she noticed the sexy way his mouth curved when she said something sharp or funny, her blood pressure shot up another notch.

She placed a spoonful of the rich chocolate dessert onto her tongue. It tasted dark, sensual and delicious, despite the jumble of nerves and excitement making whoopee in her tummy.

‘How’s your pie?’ he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth again. Her pulse jumped.

‘Fabulous.’ She licked her lips, shocked by the reckless thrill when his eyes followed the movement. ‘Chocolate should be one of the seven deadly sins, don’t you think?’

‘I thought it was,’ he said, his voice as rich and sinful as the chocolate.

It is now, thought Kate, spooning up another mouthful of chocolate. ‘Do you fancy a taste?’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said, the intensity in his gaze convincing her they weren’t talking about her dessert.

She lifted the spoon. Wrapping strong fingers round her hand, he guided it to his lips. As she watched the thick velvety chocolate being devoured the well of desire she’d been holding back geysered up. Her nipples tightened against the smooth silk of her dress and her thighs tensed, unable to hold back the flood of heat. The sensual battle she’d been waging with her body all evening had been well and truly lost.

‘Thanks. That was delicious.’ He caressed her fingers before releasing her hand. She saw the glow of triumph in his eyes and realised he knew he’d won.

It didn’t take him long to claim the spoils.

‘Kate,’ he said, leaning back against the leather booth, one forearm resting casually on the table. ‘You’re beautiful, you intrigue me and I’m very attracted to you. I’d like to make love to you tonight. How do you feel about the idea?’

Well, he was certainly direct and to the point, she thought, her breasts throbbing now, her heartbeat pummelling.

She should have said she wasn’t attracted to him, that she didn’t want to make love. It was sheer madness to encourage something so reckless, so impulsive. But the lie refused to come out of her mouth. It was as if some devastating chemical reaction had taken control of her body and wouldn’t let her utter the words.

Maybe it was madness, but it wasn’t just that she couldn’t say the words—she knew she didn’t want to. Zack Boudreaux was every woman’s fantasy. And the way he was looking at her right now was giving her heart palpitations. She’d never been this sexually aware of anyone before in her life. This man could make her forget the mess she was in—if only for one night. Didn’t she deserve at least one fleeting chance of escape?

Kate concentrated on his face, revelling in the rush of desire as she decided on her reply. ‘I feel quite enthusiastic about the idea, actually.’

His eyes widened and she wondered if she’d shocked him with her forwardness, but then the deep green ignited with passion. He threw his napkin onto the table and stood up. ‘We need to go to my penthouse, then’ he said, his voice a little hoarse. Towering over her, he took her arm and hauled her out of the booth. ‘Before my knicker fetish gets the better of me.’

She laughed, giddy with excitement as he wrapped his arm around her waist and steered her out of the restaurant.

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