only until the tip of his nose rested on hers. Caught in the prisms of his half mast eyes, she tried to make sense of her surroundings while her chest rose and fell, her limbs hung like lead and her core compressed around a tight, glowing coil of raw physical want.
When his head slanted as if he might kiss her again, she held her breath. But then his mouth hooked up at one side and he released her. Thank God she didn’t teeter.
‘I’m staying the week,’ he said. ‘If you’re still interested—or was that not interested?—tomorrow we can talk more, perhaps over a drink.’
By some miracle she steadied her breathing and dredged up a smile.
‘A drink sounds good. But just so we’re clear, I’ll take mine with plenty of ice.’ She took his glass and pitched the warm Scotch over the rail. ‘And so, Mr Scott, will you.’
CHAPTER TWO
EARLY the next morning, Ben Scott woke up face down on the sheets, hugging a comfortless pillow, painfully aware of a mean morning hard-on.
He cracked open one eye.
Strange room. No one beside him. Good Lord, he needed to roll over.
Taking the pillow with him, he groaned as spears of light spliced through the sheer blowing curtains. Then the night before flooded his mind, foremost his conversation with the irrepressible Miz Prince. Relaxing back, he closed his eyes and remembered their bombshell kiss and her clever parting remark.
He grinned. She wanted ice? More like she wanted gasoline poured on her fire. However, while he would very much like to help, common—and business—sense told him if he played too close to those flames, someone would likely get burned. He was here to take control of a high-profile business that needed an injection of funds and his undivided attention to bring it back from the edge. But if Rodney Prince viewed this takeover as a saving grace, so did Ben. He couldn’t wait to plunge in.
Soft laughter drifted in through his bedroom’s second-storey doors. Setting the pillow aside, Ben strolled out onto the balcony. Celeste Prince was in the yard, ruffling the heads of two mid-sized poodles. When she threw a ball, they raced off like chocolate-brown rabbits across the wide-open lawn.
Crouched in the shade of an enormous Morton Bay fig tree, golden tresses framing her face, she might’ve been a fairy from the garden. Then she pushed up onto shapely long legs, her rounded cleavage popped into view, and those innocent thoughts flew from his mind.
He combed back his hair and, fingers thatched behind his head, stretched his arms and spine. While he’d been wrong to take advantage and kiss her last night, he couldn’t regret it. In fact, if he had less moral fibre he’d do it again.
He finished his stretch, then cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Ahoy down there!’
She glanced up, but her widening gaze stopped short of reaching his eyes. Rather it got stuck on his bare chest, which suddenly felt twice its usual size. His mouth twitched. What was that about moral fibre?
Lowering his hands and setting them apart on the rail, he deliberately leaned forward. Realising what he’d done—given her a better look—she stiffened, then quickly dropped her gaze. When she peered back up, although her smile was controlled, her green eyes were glistening, just as they’d glistened last night.
‘You’re up early,’ she said.
He thought of his crotch. ‘I’m an early riser. Mind if I join you?’
‘I was hoping you would.’
His brow lifted. ‘I take it you’re ready to get down to business.’
‘I’ve never been more ready in my life.’ She wound her arms up under that delectable bust. ‘Let’s do it.’
Thirty seconds later, Ben was face up under a cold shower, getting a good grip on himself.
He’d had women before. He’d respected and enjoyed every one. But, from the moment their eyes had met across the room, there’d been something different about Celeste Prince. He should’ve guessed she was Rodney’s daughter. Later, in her father’s study, he should’ve known she was laying a trap, leading him into a plan that would hopefully see him surrender his bid on the company.
He stepped from the shower recess and, dripping, grabbed a towel.
Yes, his normally clear sights had been blurred where Celeste was concerned. But he had her number now. She was a lady on a mission. He was in her way. She’d knock him down and drag him out any way she could.
He rubbed his chest and grinned.
It’d be fun letting her try.
Halfway out the front door, the thin middle-aged housekeeper caught up with him to hand over a note.
Benton, an urgent personal matter has called me away. Deepest apologies. Celeste is aware and will make sure you’re comfortable. Rodney Prince.
That bought Celeste a little time to think of a way to explain this situation to her father, Ben thought, pushing the note into his pocket and walking out onto the veranda. It was clear she believed filling Daddy’s shoes would make him proud. Ben sympathised with her—even envied her a touch. He’d give anything to have known a real father. A mother, too.
But he’d got something at least from his foster-home days…a survival technique, which had later crossed over into business: the uncanny ability to quickly and accurately sum up people and situations. Case in point, he had no doubt this deal would go through; Rodney Prince would never entertain the idea of passing on his ailing business to his pretty young daughter.
And Celeste? She was all about deportment classes and new season fashion. She didn’t want to accept it yet, but she was better off following her more feminine sway. He was rarely wrong and he sure wasn’t wrong about that.
When he met Celeste in the yard, despite the cold shower, the sight of her fresh face—those cute freckles sprinkled over her nose—had his toes stiffening in his heavy-duty boots.
He bent to ruffle both dogs’ ears, then fixed the Akubra hat on his head while she sauntered over, eyeing his khaki outfit. ‘My, my, you’re taking this seriously.’
‘And while I like the frock,’ he said, ‘you don’t look dressed for a day at work.’
Not a flinch. Only a measured reply. ‘I thought we could go over the books. I can change into a suit if you prefer.’
Picturing her draped over a desk in a vest and tie and nothing else, he cleared his throat.
Focus, Scottie.
‘I thought we should start by tackling the more practical side of things.’ Eager to begin, he rubbed his hands together. ‘Where’s a mower?’
She smiled, a cheeky tilt of perfect plump lips. They’d tasted like cherries last night. The juiciest, ripest cherries he’d ever known.
‘Are you going to give me a quiz?’ she asked. ‘You want me to name the parts?’
He copied her grin. ‘Not quite. You said you could rescue
