Praise for Heidi Rice

‘Heidi Rice is simply brilliant when it comes to writing sharp, sassy and sexy romantic novels!’

—www.cataromance.com

‘The amusing opening spins into an emotional and heartfelt story.’

—RT Book Reviews on Hot-Shot Tycoon

‘I was actually breathless while reading this book…. It’s a sensual ride you won’t want to lose the opportunity of reading.’

—www.thePinkHeartSociety.com on

Public Affair, Secretly Expecting

About Heidi Rice

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 a few 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 Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills & Boon® novel.

Heidi loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at heidi@heidi-rice.com or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com

Also by Heidi Rice

Cupcakes and Killer Heels

Unfinished Business with the Duke

Public Affair Secretly Expecting

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

On the First Night of Christmas…

Heidi Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my mum and dad, for so many wonderful Christmas memories

CHAPTER ONE

IF ONLY my love life were as perfect as Selfridges at Christmas.

Cassie Fitzgerald let out a wistful sigh as she gazed at the explosion of festive bling in the iconic London store’s window display. The Sugar Plum Fairy sparkled flirtatiously on the shoulder of a hunky mannequin dressed in a dinner suit, silver snowflake lights making her tiny wings twinkle. Cassie’s heart lifted. Selfridges’ Christmas window dressing never let you down. It always captured the hope and expectation of the season of goodwill so beautifully. And okay, maybe her love life wasn’t perfect—in fact, it was non-existent—but that was still a big improvement on last year.

A frown creased Cassie’s brow as she recalled the Christmas wish she’d made the year before while standing in front of Selfridges—involving Lance, her boyfriend of three years, and a proposal of marriage.

She wrinkled her nose in disgust, the frozen air making it tingle, as her mind conjured up the image of Lance and Tracy McGellan getting up close and pornographic on the sofa in Cassie’s flat a month after Valentine’s Day. A month after Cassie had accepted that wished-for proposal.

Colour hit her cheeks as she remembered her shock and disbelief, swiftly followed by the shame of her own idiocy.

What on earth had possessed her to agree to marry a deadbeat like Lance?

As Christmas wishes went, it was one of her worst. Right up there with wishing for a pair of inline skates when she was eight—which had resulted in a broken wrist and four hours in Accident and Emergency on Christmas Day. Marriage to Lance would have been worse, but in her typically romantic fashion she’d overlooked all his shortcomings, determined to convince herself that he was The One.

Cassie hunched her shoulders against the brisk winter wind. From now on she was going to stop looking at life through rose-tinted glasses … because all it did was blind her to reality. And she wasn’t making a Christmas wish this year, because it might come true.

It would be a shame not to have anyone to wake up with this Christmas morning—and she’d been in a funk about it for days. She adored bounding out of bed, brewing a pot of spiced apple tea and then savouring the presents artfully arranged under the tree. Having to do all that alone wasn’t quite the same.

But as her best friend Nessa had pointed out, Cassie was better off doing it alone than with Lance the Loser. Cassie huddled in her coat. Absorbing the bright sparkle of Sugar Plum and her beau, she let the thought of her lucky escape from Lance strengthen her resolve.

‘What you need is a candy man—to give your girly bits a wake-up call. Then you wouldn’t need another deadbeat boyfriend.’

Cassie’s lips edged up as she recalled Nessa’s use-him-then-lose-him advice when they’d chatted on the phone that morning. Sometimes she really wished she could be as pragmatic about sex as Nessa. If she could just take sex a little less seriously, maybe she could have some fun without getting tangled up with creeps like Lance.

Bidding goodbye to Sugar Plum, Cassie jostled her way to Bond Street tube. Frantic shoppers herded in and out of the shops along Oxford Street on a mission to buy all those essential last-minute items that would make their Christmas complete. Stopping at the kerb as the traffic barrelled past on one of the cross streets, Cassie squeezed her eyes shut and fantasised about her candy man. Hot, hunky and devoted to making her feel fabulous, he would be magically gone by the New Year—so she’d never have to spend time picking his socks up off the bathroom floor, or washing the dirty dishes he left piled in the sink, or persuading herself she was in love with him.

Her erogenous zones zinged pleasantly for the first time in months.

She opened her eyes as the roar of a car engine interrupted the warm, fuzzy glow. Then shrieked as a wall of freezing water slammed into her. The elderly gentleman next to her muttered, ‘Damn inconsiderate,’ as a puddle the size of the Atlantic sluiced back into the gutter, and a sleek black car sped past.

Cassie gasped. The warm, fuzzy glow replaced by ice-cold shock. ‘What the …!’

The driver hadn’t even stopped. What a prize jerk.

Flinging her bag over her shoulder, she turned to glare at the vehicle, which had braked at the crossing ten feet away. Her fingers curled into tight fists at her sides.

Normally, she would have let the matter pass. Normally, she would have chalked the drenching up to bad luck and assumed the driver hadn’t meant to splash her. But as she stood there, the other shoppers edging past her and gawping at the huge wet patch on her favourite coat as if she had a contagious disease, she felt something new and liberating surging up her torso.

Whether he’d meant to do it or not, she was soaked. And she wasn’t going to just stand by and take whatever life had to throw at her any more.

Dodging through the crowd, she drew level and rapped on the passenger window. ‘Hey, Ebenezer.’

The tinted glass slid down with an electric hum. She blinked, the zing tingling back to life as a man peered out from the shadows on the driver’s side. Dark hair swept back from a broodingly handsome face accented by a strong jaw and hollow, raw-boned cheeks. She felt the odd jolt of recognition as the scent of new leather wafted out of the car. Did she know him?

‘What’s the problem?’ he demanded.

Clammy water dripped down inside Cassie’s boots and kick-started her tongue—and her indignation.

‘You’re the problem. Look what you did to me.’ She held up her arms to show him the extent of the damage, ruthlessly silencing the zing. He might have a striking face, but his manners sucked.

He swore softly. ‘Are you sure that was me?’

The blare of a car horn had Cassie glancing at the lights. Green. ‘Of course, I’m sure.’

The horn blared again. Longer and angrier this time.

‘I can’t stop here.’ He straightened back into the shadows and Cassie saw his hand grasp the gear shift.

No way, pal. You are not driving off and leaving me in a puddle on the pavement.

Yanking the heavy door open, she launched herself into the passenger seat.

‘Hey!’ he said as she slammed the door behind her. ‘What the hell do you—?’

‘Just drive, Sir Galahad.’ She pinned him with her best disgusted look. ‘We can discuss your crummy behaviour when you find somewhere to stop.’

His dark brows drew down, the piercing emerald of his irises glittering with annoyance.

‘Fine.’ He slapped up the indicator, shifted into First. ‘But don’t drip on the upholstery. This is a rental.’

The car purred to life, and a blast of heat wrapped around Cassie, engulfing her in the subtle aroma of man and leather—and wet velvet. Her heart careered into her throat as the flicker of Selfridges’ fairy lights disappeared from her peripheral vision—and the surge of adrenaline that had propelled her into the car smacked head first into her survival instinct.

She was sitting in a complete stranger’s car being driven to who knew where—which probably rated a perfect ten on the ‘too stupid to live’ scale.

‘Actually, forget it.’ She grasped the door handle.

The driver pulled to a stop at a loading bay. ‘So it wasn’t me after all.’

Cassie’s fingers stilled on the handle at the accusatory tone and her common sense dissolved in a haze of outrage. ‘It was definitely you.’ She glared at him over the gear shift. ‘Don’t you know it’s Christmas? Show a bit of respect for the season and stop being such a jerk.’

Typical. When Cassie Fitzgerald is on the hunt for a candy man, what does she get? A candy man with a crappy attitude.

Jacob Ryan cranked up the handbrake, slung his arm over the steering wheel and stared at the furious pixie in his passenger seat whose wide violet eyes were shooting daggers at him.

How the hell did I end up with Santa’s insane little helper in my car?

As if it weren’t bad enough that Helen had manoeuvred him into accepting an invitation to her ‘little soirée’ tonight, now he had a mad woman in his rented Mercedes. A mad woman who was dripping all over the custom-finished leather upholstery.

He’d never been a fan of the season to be jolly, but this was getting ridiculous.

The sight of the filthy splatter on her coat, though, had the tiniest prickle of guilt surfacing. The car had hit a rut in the road.

Hoisting his butt off the seat, he tugged his wallet out of his back pocket. Okay, maybe he had been the culprit. He’d been so aggravated by Helen’s petulant demands, he hadn’t been paying attention.

‘How much?’ he asked. A hundred ought to cover it.

Her full Cupid’s bow mouth flattened into a grim line and the daggers sharpened. ‘I don’t want your money,’ she announced. ‘That’s not what this is about.’

Yeah, right.

He counted five crisp twenty-pound notes out of his wallet and presented them to her. ‘Here you go. Merry Christmas.’

She gave the money a cursory glance, and the line of her lips twisted into a sneer. ‘I told you. I don’t want your money, Ebenezer.’

The sarcastic name grated, but then she tightened her arms under her breasts, and his gaze dipped—distracted by the creamy flesh exposed by the wide V in the lapels of her coat.

Hell, is she naked under that thing?

The wayward thought came out of nowhere, and sent a blast of heat somewhere he definitely didn’t need it.

‘What I want is an apology,’ she demanded.

He tore his eyes away from her breasts. ‘Huh?’

‘An apology? You do know what that is, right?’ she said, as if he had an IQ in single figures.

He shook his head, struggling to stem the immature fantasy. Of course she wasn’t naked under the coat. Not unless she was a lap dancer. And he doubted that. Given her big doe eyes and the helping of Christmas whimsy she’d dealt him, the picture of her getting sweaty tenners folded into a G-string didn’t fit, despite that eye-popping cleavage.

He stuffed the money back into the wallet and dumped it on the dash.

‘I apologise,’ he said curtly, deciding to humour her.

He didn’t usually bother with apologies. Especially to women. Because he’d discovered from experience they didn’t count for much. But these were extenuating circumstances. He needed to get her out of the car before that glimpse of cleavage melted the rest of his brain cells and he did something really daft. Like hitting on a crazy lady.

‘That’s it? That’s the best you can do?’ She twisted in her seat—all the better to glare at him, he suspected—but the movement made her breasts press against the confines of her coat and threaten to spill out. His mouth went dry.

‘I’m going to have to spend an hour on the tube,’ she ranted. ‘Then get hypothermia walking across the park. And you can’t come up with a better—’

‘Look, Pollyanna,’ he interrupted, the heat tying his gut in knots as he breathed in a lungful of her scent. Cinnamon and cloves and orange. ‘I’ve offered you money and you don’t want it,’ he ranted right back when she remained silent. ‘I apologised and you don’t want that, either. Short of sawing off my right arm and gift-wrapping it I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do to make amends.’

Her mouth closed and her delicately arched eyebrows launched up her forehead into the soft brown curls that haloed around her head.

That had certainly shut her up. Although he wasn’t quite sure what he’d said that had put the shell-shocked look on her face. The unusual colour of her eyes had darkened to a vivid turquoise and all the pigment had leached out of her cheeks.

She covered her mouth with her fingers. ‘Jace the Ace.’

The words were muffled, but distinctive enough to make him tense. ‘How do you know my name?’ he asked, although no one had called him by that particular nickname for fourteen years. Not since he’d been kicked out of school when he was seventeen. The minute the thought registered, another more disturbing one hit him—and the insistent throbbing in his groin increased.

Damn it. That had to be it. What other explanation was there for his instant response to her?

She hadn’t replied, so he forced himself to ask the obvious next question.

‘Have I slept with you?’

He doesn’t remember me. Thank you, God.

Cassie tried to speak, but her tongue was too numb to form coherent words. Not all that surprising given that the punch of recognition had hit her squarely in the solar plexus and expelled all the air from her lungs. She shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered.

‘I definitely didn’t sleep with you?’ he asked as the unflinching emerald gaze that had broken a thousand female hearts at Hillsdown Road Secondary School searched her face.

She nodded.

His shoulders relaxed and she heard him mutter, ‘Good to know.’

No wonder she hadn’t recognised him straight away. The Jacob Ryan she remembered had been a boy. A tall, troubled and heart-stop-pingly handsome boy, who at seventeen had been the perfect mix of dashing and dangerous to a girl of thirteen with an overactive imagination and hyperactive hormones.

They hadn’t slept together. In fact, they’d never even kissed. She’d been four years younger than him, and when you were at school that might as well have been a fifty-year age difference. But she’d had a wealth of immature romantic fantasies about him—like every other girl in her year—which were now playing havoc with her heartbeat.

She shifted in her seat, feeling disorientated and a little light-headed, the damp velvet of her coat like a straightjacket.

Her stomach muscles clenched and released. Exactly as they always had all those years ago, if she’d spied him brooding in the dinner hall, or at the bus shelter busy ignoring all the girls giggling around him … Or during what had come to be known in the annals of Cassie’s teenage years as The Ultimate Humiliation. The excruciating moment when she’d disturbed him and head girl Jenny Kelty snogging on the back stairwell.

Cassie’s nipples tightened painfully, the impossibly erotic picture they’d made entwined on the dimly lit staircase still astonishingly fresh.

She’d been anchored to the spot, her thigh muscles dissolving as she gawped. His hand had been under Jenny’s blouse, his stroking fingers visible beneath the billowing white cotton. Cassie had watched transfixed, her teeth digging into her lip, as his other hand had skimmed to Jenny’s waist then moulded her bottom, grinding her against him. Then he’d raised his head and nipped at Jenny’s bottom lip. And Cassie had felt her own lip tingle.

As Jenny had groaned and writhed, warmth had flooded through Cassie’s system and her strangled gasp had slipped out without warning.

Jace Ryan’s sure steady gaze had locked on her face. She’d been trapped, like a deer about to be mown down by a juggernaut. Frozen in terror as reaction skidded up her spine.

But instead of looking angry at the interruption, he had curved his sensual lips into a confidential grin. As if they shared a secret joke that only they understood.

She’d grinned back, opened her mouth to say something, anything.

Then Jenny had spotted her standing there like an idiot and screeched, ‘What are you smiling at, you silly cow? Get lost.’

Hot humiliation had blazed through her entire body and she’d scrambled back down the stairs so fast she’d nearly broken her neck. The pounding of blood in her ears far too loud to hear the words Jace shouted after her as she ran.

He turned back to her now, tapped his thumb on the steering wheel. ‘So what’s your name?’

‘Cassie Fitzgerald.’

His forehead furrowed. ‘I don’t remember anyone called—’

‘That’s a relief,’ she interrupted, praying his memory loss lasted a lifetime. ‘That chartreuse blazer was not a good look for me.’

He chuckled. The low rumble of amusement did funny things to her thigh muscles. ‘Look, why don’t we start over?’ he said, his eyes darkening as his gaze rose to the top of her head, then settled back on her face. ‘I’ve got a suite at The Chesterton. Why don’t you come back with me? We can get your coat dry-cleaned.’ Reaching forward, he tucked a curl behind her ear. ‘It’s the least I can do for an old school chum.’

They hadn’t been chums. Not even close.

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ she murmured, trying not to pander to the thrum of awareness that pulsed against her cheek where his finger had touched.

Jace Ryan had been dangerous to a woman’s peace of mind at seventeen. He was probably deadly now.

He sent her a conspiratorial wink. ‘Good is overrated.’

Cassie’s pulse sped up, then slowed to a sluggish crawl—and she completely forgot about not pandering to the thrum. ‘Is bad better, then?’

He smiled, the penetrating green gaze sweeping over her—and the thrum went haywire.

‘In my experience—’ his eyes met hers ‘—bad is not only better, it’s also a lot more fun.’ He glanced over his shoulder to check the traffic. ‘So how about it?’ he asked as the car pulled away from the kerb. ‘You want to come back to the hotel and we can raid the mini-bar together while I get your coat cleaned?’

‘Okay,’ she replied, before she had a chance to think better of it. ‘If you’re sure it’s not too much bother?’

He sent her an easy grin. ‘Not at all.’

Crossing her arms, Cassie pressed down on her treacherous boobs, which were still throbbing at the memory of Jace Ryan on that stairwell a million years ago, and studied his profile in the glimmer of the passing streetlights.

Maturity suited him: the light tan, the hint of five o’clock shadow, the thick waves of dark hair, the little lines at the corners of his eyes and the once angry red scar that had faded to a thin white line slashing rakishly across his left eyebrow. He’d grown into those brooding heartthrob features, his hollow cheeks defined to create a dramatic sweep of planes and angles. And from the powerful physique stretching the expertly tailored suit as he shifted gears, he’d also grown into his lanky build.

Cassie huddled in her seat as the powerful car accelerated onto Park Lane. The majestic twenty-foot spruce under Marble Arch glided past, its red and gold star-shaped lights glittering festively in the early winter dusk.

He’d asked her if he’d slept with her—which meant either he suffered from amnesia, or he’d slept with so many women in his time, he couldn’t remember the details. Recalling the never-ending string of girlfriends he’d had at Hillsdown Road, Cassie would take a wild guess it was the latter.

Jace Ryan was the sort of guy no sensible woman would ever want to have a relationship with. But as she watched him drive his flashy car with practised efficiency, sexual attraction rippled across her nerve-endings and the thrum of awareness peaked.

Jace Ryan might be a dead loss in the relationship department, but could he be the ultimate candy man? Because as coincidences went, this one was kind of hard to ignore.

She eased out an unsteady breath.

And did she have a sweet enough tooth—and enough guts—to risk taking a lick?

CHAPTER TWO

THAT would be a no, then, came the answer as Cassie peered out the windshield of Jace’s car. Evergreen garlands of holly and trailing ivy shimmered with a thousand tiny lights on the ornate stone and gold frontage of the luxury hotel.

When Jace had mentioned The Chesterton she hadn’t pictured him having a suite at this art deco palace on Park Lane. The vision of her scurrying into its rarefied elegance in her soiled coat and muddy biker boots plunged her ridiculous candy man fantasy into cold hard reality.

He had offered to get her coat cleaned. He had not offered to perk up her Christmas with prurient sexual favours. And he wasn’t likely to when she looked such a fright.

Jace skirted the hood of the car and took the front steps two at a time. He tossed the car keys to a doorman, whose gold-braided green livery and matching top hat weren’t doing a thing for Cassie’s anxiety levels.

What on earth had she been thinking when she’d accepted his invitation? She felt as if she were thirteen again, getting caught staring at something she shouldn’t on that stairwell.

She slid down in the deep bucket seat as the doorman approached the car. Swinging the door open with a slight bow, he sent her a courteous smile.

‘It’s a pleasure to welcome you to The Chesterton, Ms Fitzgerald.’ He held out a hand. ‘Mr Ryan has requested we collect your dry-cleaning as soon as you are settled in his suite.’

Cassie stepped out of the car, but studiously avoided letting her coat touch the poor man. Like he wanted mud all over his nice clean uniform. Jace waited at the hotel’s revolving doors, looking confident and relaxed and completely at ease in the exclusive surroundings.

She wrapped her arms round her waist as she mounted the steps towards him.

Candy man or not, Jace Ryan was way too much for her to handle. He’d probably known more about seduction when he was seventeen than she ever would. The thrum of awareness that had arched between them had been nothing more than the echo of an old crush. Which she’d grown out of years ago.

She touched his arm before he could direct her through the revolving doors into the lobby.

‘Is there a back entrance?’ she asked, dropping her hand as her fingers connected with the solid strength beneath the blue silk of his suit.

His lips twitched. ‘I wouldn’t know. Why?’

‘I’m all wet.’ Hadn’t he noticed she looked like something the cat had dragged through a puddle?

His gaze wandered over her, and the back of her neck burned. ‘Your coat took the worst of it. Just take it off.’

She slipped off the wet coat and bunched it in her hands, the blush climbing into her cheeks.

A rueful smile curved his lips and she thought he whispered, ‘Pity.’

‘Sorry?’ Was it her imagination or was there a twinkle of mischief in his eyes?

‘Nothing,’ he murmured, but the twinkle didn’t dim one bit.

The simple sapphire tunic skimmed the top of her thighs and was one of her favourites of Nessa’s designs, but the short sleeves and plunging neckline meant wearing it without a coat was a good way to get hypothermia in December. The fragile, bias-cut fabric moulded to her figure as the wind brushed against her skin and made her shiver. She clamped her teeth together to stop them chattering and jumped when his warm palm settled on the small of her back.

‘Here.’ He shrugged out of his jacket and draped the garment over her shoulders. ‘I’ll take that.’ He lifted her coat out of her arms.

She gripped the lapels of his jacket, the tailored silk dwarfing her as he placed his hand on her hip and led her through the revolving doors into the marble lobby. The fragrance of the roses, freshly cut pine boughs and cinnamon sticks arranged in giant urns by the reception desk greeted them, but did nothing to mask the scent of soap and man that clung to his jacket.

‘Wait here.’

Crossing to the desk, he handed over her coat to one of the uniformed receptionists, who took the wet garment without showing a hint of surprise, then sent Cassie an efficient smile. As if it were perfectly normal for half-dressed women to track mud over their foyer.

Cassie tried to look invisible in Jace’s jacket as he led her through an ornately furnished lounge accented by deep-seated sofas in tartan upholstery, polished mahogany occasional tables and wrought-iron planters overflowing with winter flora. A scattering of perfectly dressed people sipped afternoon tea from delicate china cups and watched her pass.

Fabulous. She felt like Cinderella arriving at the ball in her rags.

When they stepped into the lift, she eased back against the panelling, still clinging to the jacket. ‘This place is seriously posh.’

He huffed out a laugh. ‘Don’t let them intimidate you. They’re just rich, they’re not royalty. Or at least most of them aren’t.’

‘Fabulous,’ she said wryly.

He chuckled again, shoving one hand into his pocket as he stabbed the top button on the display panel. She tried not to notice the way the movement made the linen of his shirt tighten across one broad shoulder.

His gaze took a leisurely trip down to her biker boots and back again as the lift whisked through the floors. She clamped down on the sudden wish to have him like what he saw.

Been there, done that, got the battered ego to prove it.

But when his eyes lifted to her face at last, the beat of anticipation still throbbed in her ears.

‘Money doesn’t buy you class,’ he said. ‘I ought to know.’

Sympathy welled and lodged in her throat, the blunt statement reminding her of the angry boy he’d once been. No one had ever found out that much about him at Hillsdown Road, his air of mystery only tantalising his army of admirers more. But one thing she did know was that he’d come from a ‘bad home’, because she’d overheard Ms Tremall, the head of the sixth form, talking about him to the headmaster, Mr Gates.

‘You’ve got more than enough class to go round now,’ she said passionately, the injustice of the teacher’s whispered comments surging back.

Like all the rest of the school staff, Tremall and Gates had condemned him because of his background and never given him the benefit of the doubt.

His eyebrow arched at her rabble-rousing tone. ‘It’s not class. It’s money,’ he said, with more than a hint of irony. ‘But I find it does the job just as well.’

The relaxed statement made her feel foolish. Who exactly did she think she was defending here? He certainly wasn’t that troubled boy any more. In fact, from his exceedingly posh digs, he was most likely a millionaire. She shook the thought off. Probably best not to go there given her already thriving inferiority complex.

The lift bell pinged and the doors slid back to reveal a marble lobby area only slightly less palatial than the one downstairs.

Here too, a tall vase filled with dark red lilies gave the carved stone and gilded plasterwork a Christmas glow. Using his key card to open a mahogany door, he stood back as she walked into a vaulted hallway that led into a suite of rooms.

Cassie came to an abrupt halt, dismayed by the deep-pile carpeting that led down the corridor into what looked like a large living room.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, lifting the jacket off her shoulders.

‘I should take off my boots.’ Mud would not look good on all that magnolia.

‘Go ahead.’ He slung the jacket over a chair. ‘I’ll call Housekeeping and get them polished while your coat’s cooking.’

‘That’s … Thanks,’ she said, embarrassed.

She hopped on one leg to unzip one of the boots, only to jerk upright when he placed his hand on her waist.

‘Hold on to my shoulder,’ he said casually enough, but as his eyes connected with hers the awareness that prickled up her spine reminded her of that dark school hallway a lifetime ago. Except this time those long, strong fingers held her, and not Jenny Kelty.

‘Thanks,’ she mumbled, her heartbeat battering her ribcage like a sledgehammer.

She touched his shoulder blade for balance, only to have her insides tilt alarmingly as the muscled sinews tensed beneath her fingers.

He kept his hand on her waist as she struggled with the boots. But once she’d yanked them off and pulled away from his touch, she realised she had another problem.

‘You might want to lose those too,’ he mentioned, apparently reading her mind as he examined the wet leggings. ‘They’re soaked.’

‘Right.’ She hesitated. The problem was, without her leggings, she’d only have the butt-skimming tunic on. She did a quick mental check. Had she put on her much-prized silk high-leg panties with the lace trim this morning, or had she opted for the usual cheap cotton passion-killers?

The instant the dilemma registered, she yanked herself back to reality.

For pity’s sake, Cass. It doesn’t matter what knickers you’re wearing.

The state of her undies had no bearing whatsoever on this situation. She was here to get her coat cleaned. Nothing more. Bending down, she wiggled out of the leggings and then shoved them under her arm.

‘You warm enough?’ he asked.

Gripping the hem of the tunic, she yanked it down, goose pimples rising on her bare thighs as her toes curled into the downy-soft carpeting.

‘Fine, thanks,’ she murmured, noticing the tiny dimple winking in one hard, chiselled cheek. That he found her predicament amusing only confirmed how ludicrous that moment of vanity had been. He wasn’t remotely interested in her. Or her knickers.

‘Make yourself comfortable in the lounge.’ He indicated the large living area as the dimple deepened. ‘While I get these sent down.’ He picked up her boots, then reached for the leggings under her arm.

She forced herself to relax so he could take them. ‘Oh—Okay.’ She cleared her throat when the words came out on a squeak. ‘Thanks, I will.’

‘Help yourself to a drink.’ To her dismay he didn’t turn, but seemed to be waiting for her to move first. ‘They’re in the cabinet under the flat-screen.’

She opened her mouth to say thanks for the millionth time, then thought better of it. He’d probably got the message loud and clear by now. Bobbing her head, she forced herself to move. But as she headed towards the lounge, her footsteps silenced by the carpet, she strained to hear him walk away. When silence reined, she couldn’t help hoping that if anything was peeping out from under her tunic, it involved crimson lace and not utilitarian white cotton.

Jace spotted the flash of white cotton and the pulse of heat tugged low in his abdomen.

Something about the plain, simple underwear only made the sight more erotic. For a small woman, she certainly had a lot of leg. Slim and well toned, the soft skin of her thighs and calves flushed a delightful shade of pink, making the bright white of her panties all the more striking.

What made his lust a little weird, though, was that he’d remembered her. When those big blue eyes had lifted to his face a moment ago, the flashback had been so strong, he’d known instantly it wasn’t a mistake. Or a trick of his libido.

She was the kid who had once disturbed him and one of his girlfriends on the back stairwell at school. He couldn’t remember the girlfriend’s name, couldn’t even picture her face. All he really remembered about her was that she’d been more than willing and she hadn’t had much of a sense of humour, which was why he’d dropped her like a stone after she’d shouted at the child watching them and scared her off.

But he could see Cassie Fitzgerald clearly enough. He’d been kicked out of school two days later, and the memory had quickly become buried amid all the crap he’d had to deal with when he’d been expelled.

But the image of her heart-shaped face came back to him now with surprising clarity.

She’d been young, way too young for him and not conventionally pretty. Those bewitching eyes had been too large for her face and her wide lips at the time had seemed too full. He hadn’t fancied her, not in the least. She had been a baby. But something about the way she’d been watching him had struck a chord. Those big eyes of hers had grown huge in her face, and he’d felt as if she could see right into his soul, but, unlike everyone else, she hadn’t been judging him. He’d smiled, because she’d looked so shocked, and it had been funny, but also because, for a second, he’d forgotten to feel jaded and angry and resentful, forgotten even his burning quest to get Miss No-Name’s bra off and instead had felt like a kid again himself.

Unfortunately, as Cassie Fitzgerald disappeared into the lounge and the flash of white cotton disappeared with her, she wasn’t making him feel like a kid any more. Not now that little girl had grown up—and into her unusual beauty.

Squeezing the damp fabric of her leggings in his fist, he lifted them to his nose, breathed in the sultry, Christmassy scent of cinnamon and oranges, only slightly masked by the earthy smell of rain-water, that had got to him in the car—and realised he was in serious trouble.

The impromptu decision to invite her to his suite had seemed like a good idea at the time. He had an hour to kill before he had to turn up at Helen’s soirée and convince her once and for all to leave him alone, and he didn’t want to think about what a pain in the backside that was going to be. Cassie would provide a welcome distraction. Plus getting her coat cleaned had solved the mystery of what it was she did or did not have on under it.

But he hadn’t expected her to be quite this distracting. Her skittishness as soon as they’d arrived at the hotel had intrigued him. And the way she’d defended him in the lift had surprised the hell out of him—and reminded him of that kid on the stairwell. But what was distracting him a whole lot more was the sight of her lush, curvaceous figure in that dress, which was roughly the size of a place mat, and the resulting shot of arousal currently pounding like a sore tooth in his groin.

Not only was he going to find it next to impossible to keep his hands off her for the forty minutes the receptionist had said it would take to clean her clothing.

He was fast losing the will to even try.

Which was annoying. Mindless, meaningless sex had lost its appeal a long time ago—and he didn’t seduce women he’d only just met any more.

Only problem was, right now, he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.

Cassie stood by the wall of panelled glass, spellbound as she gazed out over the wraparound roof terrace and the dark expanse of Hyde Park below, the fairground lights of the Winter Wonderland shimmering playfully in the distance. She sipped from the glass of Merlot she’d poured herself to ease her dry throat, then placed it on a smooth walnut coffee table. She must be careful not to drink it all. Not only was it still barely six o’clock, but she’d forgotten to ask her host how long her clothes would take—so she didn’t know how long she would be required to keep her wits about her. She’d always been a very cheap drunk. And on the evidence of her recent knicker meltdown, dulling her wits with alcohol could well lead to more candy man fantasies. Which was the last thing she needed if she didn’t want to make this more awkward than it already was. Better to stay sober and sensible.

Swivelling round, she took in the full grandeur of Jace Ryan’s hotel suite. Then released a staggered breath. This was the penthouse suite—the lofty view of Hyde Park nothing short of spectacular. The lounge area alone was considerably larger than her entire flat. She set aside her apprehension about spending time in his company as curiosity about him burned. How had the angry youth from a ‘bad home’ who’d been summarily expelled from their bogstandard comprehensive fourteen short years ago ended up affording the best suite in one of London’s best hotels? Had he robbed a bank or something?

‘Right, we’re all set.’ The man in question strolled into the room and dumped his key card on the coffee table next to her glass of wine. Even in the tailored trousers and linen shirt, he could easily be a bank robber, Cassie thought. He certainly had that confident, dangerous edge that made him seem capable of anything.

He delved into the bar and came up with a bottle of imported Italian beer. ‘Do you need a top-up?’ he asked, nodding towards her glass as he twisted off the bottle cap.

He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing forearms roped with muscle as he took a long slug of the beer.

‘No, thanks,’ she said. A couple of sips would definitely have to be her limit. ‘Do you know how long the dry-cleaning will take?’

He shrugged. ‘About forty minutes,’ he said, sinking into one of the leather sofas. ‘Take a seat.’ He signalled the cushions next to him with his bottle, then kicked off his loafers and propped his stockinged feet on the table. ‘You might as well get comfortable.’

Not likely, given that the sight of him lounging on his sofa was making her pulse pound like a timpani drum. He looked like a male supermodel, for goodness’ sake, with those long, leanly muscled legs displayed in perfectly creased trousers, the rugged shadow of stubble on his chin, and his dark hair sexily mussed.

Forget candy man … Jace Ryan was an entire sweetshop.

She sat gingerly on the sofa opposite him, not about to risk getting too close to all that industrial-strength testosterone. Swooning would not be good.

Her tunic rose up her thighs and she hastily shifted onto her bottom, tucking her legs up under her to hide any hint of plain white cotton from view. If he looked like a supermodel, she looked like a banner ad for dull and boring.

She tore her eyes away from the intensity of his gaze, which seemed to have zeroed in on her face.

‘How did you do it?’ she asked, struggling to think of a safe topic for small talk.

‘Do what?’

The puzzled reply had her realising the gaucheness of the question. ‘I just wondered how you …’ She trailed off, wishing she’d never asked. Was he embarrassed by his past? She doubted it. Sitting in the midst of the luxury he’d earned, he looked perfectly at home. Even so, she didn’t want to pry.

‘How did I manage to afford all this?’ he prompted.

She debated trying to pretend she’d been asking something else, but had to give up on the idea. She couldn’t think of an alternative interpretation. And even if she could, the steady, knowing look in his eyes suggested he already knew exactly what she’d been referring to.

She nodded, and took one more sip of wine, strictly for Dutch courage purposes.

He tilted his head to one side, as if considering his answer. ‘I discovered I had a talent for design.’ He paused for less than a heartbeat, but she heard the hesitation. ‘Or rather my parole officer discovered I had a talent for design.’

‘Your parole officer?’ she asked, startled. He had robbed a bank.

‘Relax.’ He grinned, the light in his eyes twinkling again. ‘It’s all right. I’m not an ex-con.’

‘I didn’t think you were,’ she lied.

‘He was a young-offenders liaison officer. The school pressed charges. After they expelled me.’

‘But that’s ridiculous. The drawings were hilarious.’ She could still remember the reason he’d been expelled. And the pinpoint accuracy of the staff caricatures he’d graffiti’d all over the back wall of the new gym in DayGlo spray paint.

‘Gates never did have a sense of humour.’ Jace shrugged. ‘And it worked out fine for me.’ Again she heard the slight hesitation. ‘I got to move into a bedsit and onto an art foundation course—thanks to the officer assigned to my case, who actually believed I could be rehabilitated.’

‘But you didn’t need rehabilitating. You just needed someone to believe in you.’

His lips quirked in an indulgent smile. ‘You really are Pollyanna, aren’t you?’

‘It’s not that, it’s just …’ What? ‘You didn’t deserve to be treated so harshly. It was only a bit of fun.’

He placed his bottle on the table. ‘It was criminal damage. And it wasn’t the first time. So of course I deserved it.’ The smile stayed in place, as if it didn’t matter in the slightest. ‘But that’s more than enough about me.’ He took his feet off the table, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘Let’s talk about you. You’re much more interesting.’

‘Me?’ She pressed her hand to her chest. Was he kidding? ‘Believe me, I’m not as interesting as you.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ He lifted his beer, held it poised at his mouth and studied her with an intensity that made her breath catch. ‘So is Cassie short for Cassandra?’ He took a swig and her eyes dipped involuntarily to the sensual line of his lips. He lowered the bottle. ‘Apollo’s paramour,’ he murmured. ‘Gifted with the power of prophecy but forever cursed not to be believed.’

Cassie trembled, the rough cadence of his voice sending little shivers of excitement over her skin. She gave a breathless laugh, her gaze darting back to his face. ‘If only it were that exciting.’

His lips edged into a seductive smile. ‘It’s not exciting. Cassandra’s story is tragic.’

Not from where I’m sitting.

Cassie smiled despite the tension that crackled in the air. Was he trying to melt her into a puddle of lust? Or was that just wishful thinking on her part? ‘Cassie’s short for Cassidy.’

His eyebrow rose a fraction. ‘Cassidy?’

‘As in David Cassidy,’ Cassie added, her grin spreading as his eyebrow arched upwards. ‘The seventies teen idol. Unfortunately my mum was a huge fan. And I’ve been suffering ever since.’

How fitting that her mum had given her a name as unsexy as her knickers.

‘Mind you, it could have been worse,’ she continued, amused by his obvious surprise. ‘Thank God she wasn’t a Donny Osmond fan or I would have been saddled with Ossie.’

His laugh rumbled out, low and rough and setting off the little shivers again. ‘I like Cassidy. It’s unusual. Which suits you.’

She tipped her glass up in a toast. ‘Yup, that’s me, very unusual.’ If only. ‘Unlike you. Who’s so totally run of the mill,’ she added, unable to resist fluttering her eyelashes.

Instead of looking appalled at her heavy-handed attempt at flirtation, he clinked his bottle against her glass. ‘You are unusual,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’

She took another hasty sip. The rich, heady wine flowed down her throat and wrapped around her chest like a winter quilt.

She let her gaze wander over to the blue spruce expertly decorated with glass baubles and ribbon bows in the corner. Jace Ryan might be a lot more man than she felt capable of handling. But where was the harm in enjoying his company? At least for as long as it took to clean her coat.

‘How exactly am I unusual?’ she asked, knowing it wasn’t true, but happy to have him try to persuade her.

He placed his beer bottle on the coffee table and stood up. Lifting her hand from her lap, he wrapped his long fingers around it and gave a soft tug to pull her off the sofa. ‘Stand up, so we can examine the evidence.’

She did as she was told, the appreciative gleam as his gaze roamed over her shocking her into silence.

‘Your eyes are a really unusual colour. I noticed that as soon as you jumped into my car. Even though you were ruining the upholstery and calling me a jerk.’

‘I only called you a jerk because you were being a jerk,’ she pointed out in her defence.

He placed his hands on her hips. ‘Stop ruining the mood.’

‘What mood?’ she asked, standing so close to him now, she could see the gold flecks in his irises.

The buckle on his belt brushed against her tummy and the little shivers became shock waves, shuddering down to the place between her thighs.

‘The mood I’m trying to create’ he said, a lock of dark hair flopping over his brow. ‘So I can kiss you.’

Her gaze dipped to his mouth, those sensual lips that had once devoured Jenny temptingly close. ‘You want to kiss me?’ she said on a ragged breath.

He pressed his thumb to her bottom lip, the touch making it tingle. ‘I must be seriously losing my touch. Isn’t it obvious?’

‘But we’ve only just met,’ she whispered, not sure how to respond to his teasing. Did he seriously plan to kiss her? And why the heck was she arguing with him about it?

He wrapped his hand round her waist, pulled her flush against him. ‘Not true,’ he remarked, his lips only centimetres from hers. ‘We’ve known each other since school.’

‘But you don’t remember me.’

‘Sure I do.’ His warm breath feathered against her cheek. ‘You’re the little voyeur on the stairwell.’

She tensed and drew back. ‘You remember? But how?’

‘I told you, those eyes are very unusual.’ His lips curved, in that same offhand grin that had captivated her over a decade ago. And suddenly, she understood. This wasn’t a seduction. He was making fun of her.

She placed her hands on his chest, stumbled back, the sweet, heady buzz of flirtation and arousal replaced by embarrassment. ‘I should go.’

He caught her elbow as she stepped back. ‘Hey? What’s the rush all of a sudden?’

‘I just … I have to go,’ she mumbled, pulling her arm free.

‘Don’t be ridiculous—your coat isn’t back yet.’

She tugged down the hem of her tunic, feeling hideously exposed.

‘I’ll wait downstairs, in the lobby.’ It would be mortifying in her bare feet, but what could be more mortifying than simpering all over a guy who was secretly laughing at her?

She crossed the living room, holding her head up.

‘Hang on a minute. You’re being absurd. What exactly are you so upset about?’

The frustrated words stopped her dead. She swung round.

He stood by his walnut coffee table, looking like a poster boy for original sin and the humiliation coalesced in her stomach into a hot ball of resentment.

‘I know I’m absurd,’ she said, and watched his brow crease in a puzzled frown. ‘I had a massive crush on you. Which was my own stupid fault. I admit it.’ She walked back and poked him in the chest. ‘But that doesn’t give you the right to make fun of me. Now or then.’

He grasped her finger, the green of his irises darkening to a stormy emerald. ‘I’m not making fun of you. And I didn’t then.’

‘Yes, you did.’ She tugged her finger free, not liking the way his touch had set off those silly shivers again. ‘I heard you and Jenny Kelty laughing at me.’ Not that it mattered now, but it was the principle of the thing. She had gone over that encounter a thousand times in her mind in the months that followed. And felt more and more mortified every time. Why had she stood there like a lemon? Why had she smiled at him? But she could see now, she hadn’t been the only one at fault. They shouldn’t have laughed at her.

‘Who the hell is Jenny Kelty?’ he asked.

‘Unbelievable,’ she said, exasperated. ‘Don’t you remember any of the girls you slept with back then either?’

‘It was a long time ago.’ He shoved his fingers through his hair, the movement jerky and a lot less relaxed than before. ‘And whatever her name was, I didn’t sleep with her. You put a stop to that.’

‘Well, good,’ she said, righteous indignation framing each word. ‘I’m glad I saved Jenny from becoming yet another notch on your bedpost.’

‘You didn’t save Jenny. She saved herself. Once I found out what a cow she was, my interest in her cooled considerably.’

Jenny had been a cow, and every girl foolish enough to cross her had known it, but Cassie was still startled by the vehemence in the statement.

‘So what changed your mind about Jenny?’ She threw the words back at him. ‘Did she refuse to snog you?’

His eyebrows rose another notch at the sarcastic tone. And Cassie felt power surge through her veins as if she had been plugged into a nuclear reactor.

Finally she, Cassie Fitzgerald, was standing up for herself. And not letting her rose-tinted glasses blind her to the truth. She wasn’t dumb little Cassie who had caught her fiancée on the couch with his lover and was too stupid to see it coming. Or naive little Cassie who felt pathetically grateful just because a sexy guy had said her eyes were an unusual colour and that he wanted to kiss her. She was bold, brash, powerful Cassie, prepared to fight for the respect and consideration she deserved.

‘She didn’t refuse to snog me,’ he said easily.

‘I refused to snog her. After she shouted at you and scared the hell out of you.’

‘I—’ The tirade she’d planned cut off. ‘After she what?’

‘I don’t like bullies and I told her so.’ He slung a hand into the pocket of his trousers. ‘She got the hump and stomped off. And I was glad to see the back of her.’

‘But you …’ That couldn’t be right. That wasn’t how she remembered the incident at all. ‘But you were laughing at me, too. I heard you.’ Hadn’t she?

He shrugged. ‘I very much doubt that, as I didn’t find her behaviour remotely funny.’

‘But I thought …’ Cassie trailed off, the power surge deflating inside her like a popped party balloon. ‘I misunderstood.’

He’d stood up for her. The knowledge should have pleased her. But it didn’t. It only made her feel more idiotic.

How come she’d instantly assumed he hadn’t stood up for her? Why had her self-esteem been so low? Even then? And why on earth had she flown off the handle like that about a minor incident that had happened years ago? And meant absolutely nothing?

He probably thought she was a complete nutjob.

She risked a glance at him. But instead of looking concerned at the state of her mental health, he looked amused, that damn sexy grin bringing out the dimple in his cheek.

‘Now we’ve cleared that up,’ he said, ‘why don’t you sit back down and finish your wine?’

Wine was probably the last thing she needed, but doing what he suggested seemed easier than getting into a debate about what a complete twit she’d made of herself.

She perched on the edge of the sofa and lifted the glass to her lips, another even more dismal thought occurring to her. He really had been planning to kiss her. But there was no chance he’d want to kiss her now.

Nice one, Cass.

He picked up his bottle and saluted her. ‘So let’s talk about that massive crush.’

She sucked in a surprised breath at the bold statement, inhaled wine instead of air and choked.

CHAPTER THREE

JACE rose and stepped over the coffee table as his guest coughed and sputtered. Settling beside her, he gave her a hefty pat on the back. ‘Take a breath.’

The coughing stopped as Cassie drew air into her lungs and cast a wary look over her shoulder. She shuddered as he ran his palm up her back, exploring the delicate bumps of her spine beneath the skimpy dress.

Either she was the most fascinating woman he’d ever met or she was totally nuts, but either way she was proving to be one hell of a diversion. And her little temper tantrum had only intrigued him more.

He’d never met anyone before whose every emotion was so plainly written on their face.

He’d been accused of worse things in his time … most of which he had actually done, so, rather than feeling aggrieved at her accusations, he was oddly flattered that moment on the stairwell had mattered to her so much. And quietly astonished to discover at least one incident from his teenage years when he’d actually done the right thing. Given that his schooldays had sped past in a maelstrom of bad behaviour and even worse choices, that was no small feat.

‘The wine went down the wrong way,’ she said, straightening away from his touch.

He plucked a tissue out of the dispenser on the coffee table, and handed it to her. ‘Now about that massive crush?’

She sent him a quelling look, but the pretty little flags of colour that appeared in her cheeks contradicted it. ‘I don’t think your ego needs that kind of validation,’ she said so cautiously, his lips twitched.

‘Probably not.’ He settled back, stretched his arms across the sofa cushions, and noted that she was now perched so precariously on the edge of her seat it was a wonder she hadn’t toppled onto the floor. He was used to women throwing themselves at him, so the fact that he found her wariness refreshing was probably a bit perverse. ‘But I’ve got to admit I’m fascinated. Weren’t you a little young to have a massive crush on me?’

‘I was thirteen,’ she said, the tantalising sparkle of annoyance returning to her eyes.

‘Oh, right. Thirteen. An old woman, then,’ he teased.

‘I was in love.’ She frowned slightly, reconsidering the implications of the statement. ‘Or at least I thought I was. At the time.’

‘Is that a cryptic way of saying you haven’t got a massive crush on me any more?’

Her stern expression cracked a little. ‘You covered me in dirty water, then tried to deny it. Do I look like a masochist?’

Leaning forward, he skimmed a knuckle down her cheek. ‘For the record, it was an accident. And I did eventually see the error of my ways.’

Her gaze skittered away, but this time she didn’t shift out of reach. ‘Tell me something,’ she said softly. ‘Do you try to kiss every woman you meet?’

He smiled. Nuts or not, her candour was captivating. ‘The answer is no.’ Sitting up, he nudged the riotous curls of chestnut hair over her shoulder. ‘Not every woman.’

Her gaze came back to his and her throaty chuckle made reaction coil in his gut. ‘You must have kissed quite a few, though, if you can’t remember who they are.’

He stifled a groan. Busted. ‘What can I say? I had a misspent youth.’

He’d been reckless and easily bored as a teenager and had found it far too convenient to seduce women and then forget about them. Not something he was all that proud of now. But he’d eventually realised, like most hormonally charged boys when they became men, that quality was much more rewarding than quantity. And that women deserved to be savoured. And Cassie Fitzgerald was fast becoming a woman he definitely planned to savour. The only problem was, he didn’t want to rush her and risk scaring her off.

‘If it’s any consolation …’ he looped his finger in one of her curls, watched the silky hair spring back against her cheek ‘ … I can guarantee you, I pay a lot more attention now.’

Her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips and he felt the jolt right down to his toes.

‘We could always give it another go,’ she said, a tentative smile lifting one corner of that lush mouth. ‘If you want.’

‘That sounds like a plan,’ he murmured.

Caressing her nape, he threaded his fingers through the tendrils of hair then slanted his lips across hers. He wasn’t going to wait for a second invitation.

Cassie braced her palms against his chest as his mouth captured hers. His lips were firm, hot, demanding. His pectoral muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he angled his head to deepen the kiss.

Heat scalded the pit of her stomach and radiated out, sizzling and tingling across her skin. He raised his other hand, massaged her scalp to hold her in place. She gasped as reaction raced through her, and his tongue thrust into her mouth, exploring in intimate strokes.

She clung on, poised over him as they sank into the sofa cushions—and desire spiralled and twisted inside her. It had been so long since she’d had a chance to feel a man’s heat, his mouth on hers, the hardness of his chest pressing into her breasts. And she certainly didn’t remember a kiss ever feeling this incredible.

He lifted her head, nipped her bottom lip as he stared into her eyes. His hands cradled her cheeks, his quick smile making the pulse of desire settle lower.

‘Thanks, I enjoyed that,’ he said, his voice husky. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘For me too,’ she said, although she didn’t believe him. Anyone who kissed as well as he did had to practise regularly. ‘I’ve wanted to do that ever since I saw you kiss Jenny.’

He stroked her cheek, pressed his thumb into her bottom lip. ‘Have you really?’

She sat up. Why had she told him that? Talk about sad.

He skimmed his palm up her bare leg. ‘So did I live up to expectations?’

She nodded, not wanting to divulge exactly how strongly the simple kiss had affected her. It would only make her look more sad and pathetic.

‘Unfortunately I have an engagement …’ He lifted his hand to glance at his wristwatch. ‘In about half an hour. Otherwise we could take this further.’

‘That’s okay.’ She should have been relieved. He was letting her down gently. But she didn’t feel relieved, she felt disappointed. What had he meant by ‘take this further’? How much further?

He shifted, his hand resting back on her thigh, stroking lazily. ‘You could wait here until I get back,’ he said, the heavy-lidded gaze as arousing as the feel of his rough palm on her skin. ‘Although you might get bored.’ His fingers slipped under the hem of her tunic, and she shuddered. He laughed. ‘And I wouldn’t want that.’

Bored? How could she be bored when her body felt as if it were about to explode? ‘I don’t underst—’

‘Or you could come with me,’ he interrupted.

Her breath gushed out. She tried to concentrate on what he was saying but it was next to impossible as the tips of his fingers drew lazy circles on her leg. Her sex throbbed, ached, begging for him to move higher still and stroke her there.

‘Where to?’ she heard herself ask as she tried to keep up her end of the conversation.

‘The Blue Tower Restaurant,’ he murmured, mentioning London’s newest hot spot. His thumb traced the edge of her panties, then dipped underneath and her breath sawed out in a ragged pant.

Her hands fell to his shoulders, and she dug her fingers into the ridge of muscle, scared she was going to fall off the sofa. His green eyes watched her, the lids at half mast.

‘I don’t …’ She swayed towards him. What was happening? What were they talking about? Her skin flushed hot, then cold, then hot again.

His tongue licked at her lips, then he cupped her head, his mouth taking hers in another mind-numbing kiss. Her heavy breasts flattened against the solid wall of his chest, the nipples squeezing into rigid, arching peaks.

‘Say yes, Cassie,’ he murmured as his fingers eased under the gusset of her panties and plunged.

‘Yes.’ The single word burst out of her mouth.

‘God, you’re so wet.’ He circled and rubbed her swollen flesh, pushed inside her, his thumb pressing against her clitoris. ‘You feel incredible.’

She straddled him, her knees digging into the sofa, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as his fingers continued to drive her into a frenzy. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. All thought, all feeling concentrated on the nub of pleasure between her legs. The rigid length of him, confined by his clothing, nudged the inside of her thigh—and she rubbed herself against him, yearning to have him deep inside her.

Her head dropped back and she moaned, heat soaring up her body. ‘Please, don’t stop.’

His strained laugh brushed against her cheek. ‘I’m not going to stop.’

And he didn’t, as the spasms of an unstoppable climax eddied up from her toes, coursed through her body and collided in her sex.

‘Let go, Cassie. Come for me.’

The orgasm roared through her, exploding into a billion glittering sparks like a firework display on Bonfire Night. She heard someone cry out as the wave of pleasure crashed over her. Someone who sounded a lot like her but was thousands of miles away.

Then she buried her face in his neck, dazed and delirious, and whispered, ‘Candy man.’

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