is not true.’
‘It is true. And once we’re in the restaurant the first thing you’ll discuss is the success of each other’s businesses, your various achievements and how many financial goals you’ve scored. He’ll acknowledge you as King of the Jungle, you’ll order an eye-wateringly expensive bottle of wine to prove your impeccable taste and his importance as a client, and once we’ve got all that alpha male posturing out of the way I can have my turn.’
Damon breathed deeply. ‘You’re being intentionally confrontational. You’re upset because I kissed you.’
That got her attention.
She glanced up. Her brows rose. ‘Why would that upset me? You’re a good kisser. No woman is going to object to being kissed by a man who knows what he’s doing. Although you might want to work on the ending—it was a bit abrupt. But better that than slobbery.’ Having delivered what she clearly considered to be useful feedback, she returned to her phone. ‘So—back to this meeting of ours. I just need to make sure I understand the ground rules. You need to have control of everything you do, and that’s fine. I don’t have a problem with that. I’ll take a back seat until you’ve finished with the whole ego-massaging thing.’
Still grappling with her matter-of-fact response to the kiss, Damon found himself unable to respond.
He wondered whether her choice of long coat had anything to do with her rejection of what had happened earlier. It covered everything from her neck to her ankles, leaving no part of her uncovered. There was nothing sexual about her appearance. Nothing provocative. Which made the fact that he wanted to haul her across that void all the more unfathomable and aggravating. His fingers burned to reach out and grab her, rip open those buttons and feast on the flavours he’d sampled earlier.
Acutely aware that he was entirely to blame for his current condition, Damon employed the last of his willpower and transferred his gaze from her face to the window. It was a mistake. Paris in darkness sparkled and glittered like a film set and lovers walked hand in hand along the banks of the Seine, creating memories that would be stored for a lifetime. Everything about the night suggested intimacy.
Exasperated by the direction of his thoughts, Damon turned his attention back to his phone, forced to admit that in an attempt to prove his self-control he’d found himself severely tested. Yes, he’d won. He always made sure he won whatever battle he fought. But it had required a strength of will he’d never before needed to apply to that type of situation.
When his driver pulled up close to the Eiffel Tower, Damon made a swift, smooth exit, relieved to be released from the claustrophobic confines of the car.
Polly emerged slowly and stood a safe distance away from him. ‘This seems an odd venue for a dinner meeting. I hope you didn’t misunderstand.’ She stared at the long queue of people waiting for the opportunity to go up to the top of the tower.
‘Gérard is trying to impress you.’ Damon noticed that this time the silky soft blonde hair had been twisted into a formal up do—severe rather than sexy. The sheen on her lips suggested a faint gloss but nothing too provocative. In fact, her entire appearance was understated. And her shoes were flat—perfect for cobbled Paris streets.
Clearly she’d paid attention to his instruction for ‘elegant’.
He waited to relax—for the strange tightness to leave his body.
It didn’t happen.
‘I’ve dined here before. The restaurant is up there.’
She followed his gaze and tilted her head, looking up at the iconic landmark, its metal latticework turned to gold by hundreds of tiny lights, the famous structure standing proud again the spectacular Paris sunset. ‘Gérard certainly knows how to impress a girl. Or was this your idea? Maybe this is all part of your God complex—you just have to be looking down on everyone else.’
Ignoring that remark, Damon urged her forward towards the private elevator reserved for those dining in the restaurant. Bringing a personal note to their relationship had been a mistake, he thought grimly. Thank goodness the evening would be about business. He and Gérard would discuss the transition of Prince Advertising into DMG and Polly could fill in any blanks on the previous management of the account and expand on her creative ideas for the brand.
As the elevator rose through the iconic building Damon kept his eyes forward. He was aware of Polly fidgeting beside him but he didn’t turn his head, determined this time to keep his focus.
As they emerged into the restaurant they were met by the maître d’ and by Gérard himself, who had evidently arrived just moments before them.
Long-time acquaintances and sparring partners, Damon and the Frenchman greeted each other warmly while the front of house staff took Polly’s coat. Deep in conversation about the strength of the euro, it took Damon a few moments to realise that he had lost his audience. Gérard’s thoughts on currency fluctuations had clearly been sublimated by some higher priority that could only be female. Amused and exasperated in equal degrees, Damon turned his head to see who could have caused that degree of distraction.
His attention arrested by the woman behind him, it took him a moment to realise that it was Polly, minus the coat that she’d handed to the hovering staff. In the few seconds he’d had his back to her she’d gone from understated to unbelievable.
Transfixed by the dramatic transformation, Damon suddenly understood why she’d chosen to cover herself from head to foot. Had he seen her outfit he would have locked her in their hotel suite and thrown away the key. Abiding by his instruction to dress elegantly, she’d chosen to wear a black suit, but all hint of compliance ended with the colour. The tailored jacket was fastened by a single shapely button. A hint of black lace camisole was peeping naughtily from under the V of the lapels. The skirt was short, her legs showcased in a pair of exotic black stockings that shimmered and glistened in the candlelight. Mesmerised by those incredible legs, Damon saw that the shimmer was created by a pattern of tiny hearts embroidered in glittering silver thread and spiralling up from ankle to thigh.
They were cheeky and sexy and perfect for a hot date. Which made them completely unsuitable for a client meeting in his opinion.
‘Mademoiselle est ravissant.’ Apparently disagreeing with him, Gérard took her hand in a typically Gallic gesture and lifted it to his lips. ‘Once again I am impressed. Your decision to showcase the jewel in our new product range in this high-profile venue is yet more proof that I was right to hire you. I love these. They are my favourite and I consider myself a connoisseur.’
Both of them looked down at her legs and Damon felt his core temperature rocket to dangerous levels. He was about to snap something when he realised they were talking about the tights, not her legs.
‘I love them.’ Polly beamed up at Gérard, paying Damon no attention whatsoever. ‘They’re special, sexy and so affordable. They can transform a plain boring black suit with no originality whatsoever—’ her eyes flickered briefly to Damon ‘—into an outfit that makes any woman feel like a princess. They’re the perfect day-to-night accessory and what’s more they’re within the budget of every discerning woman. I adore them. All the girls in the office are crazy for them. They’re so very now.’ The corners of her mouth dimpled as she smiled up at the captivated Frenchman. ‘We’re going to make sure they’re the next big thing.’
‘And you have ideas for me about how to turn that adoration into a worldwide campaign that will propel High Kick Hosiery into the must-have fashion statement
