wanted to be romanced.
I wanted to screw.
So I gave her cab fare and showed her the door.
And now I have a raging hard-on and an assistant—she hates it when I call her that, so I do it often, even though she’s technically my in-house counsel—who seems to have moved into my sexual fantasies permanently. When did that happen?
I rack my brain, trying to pinpoint the moment I went from observing her to obsessing over her. From looking dispassionately at her in those suits she wears one day, and the next imagining how long it would take me to strip her out of one.
I don’t think it was one day, though, because that implies some switch was flicked. No, I think it was a look as she got into my helicopter in Spain. A laugh over dinner. Hearing her hum as she stared out of a window, her mind obviously running at a million miles an hour.
Then there was that blackout we were once caught in at the City office. The fire alarm shut the place down, closing us inside an elevator for close on an hour, with just the dim flicker of emergency lights that made her legs look so long and smooth. By the time they cranked the doors I was about ready to pin her to the carpeted floor and screw her senseless.
Yeah, that was probably the moment I realised how much trouble I was in.
I’m not interested in a relationship. But I do want to fuck her. And I think she wants it, too. I’ve seen the way her caramel eyes drop to my arse when she thinks I’m not looking.
But I’m always looking lately.
SHE MIGHT AS well be naked. The dress is skin-tight, bright red and low-cut. Tiny straps slip over her shoulders. The dress is short, too. Not indecently short but, Jesus, her legs are long and smooth, and while she’s wearing that dress I find it impossible to look away.
She’s hotter than any woman here—and that’s saying something, given that this launch event has brought together most of London’s elite. There are models, actresses, singers, athletes, and lots of those women who’ve married for money and now make it their life’s work to live up to their husbands’ expectations.
And then there’s Gemma.
Her blond hair is pulled into a ballerina bun, her face is serious and her body is like pale silk that I want to wrap around me.
She’s said something funny, going by the way the guy with her leans forward and laughs. Is he her date? A frown pulls at my brow. I stare harder. Did she bring a date? Isn’t she technically here as my plus-one?
Seeing her with another guy does something dangerous to my equilibrium. A possessive impulse threads through me, knotting at my chest.
I pull a couple of champagne flutes from a passing waiter and cut through the room. I’m aware of people trying to get my attention but I have no time for them. Gemma is in my sights.
‘Jack...’
Her lips purse as I approach; her eyes flick to me in that way she has. How is it possible for one person to imbue a simple gesture with a measure of cold disdain even when there’s the hint of a smile somewhere in that symmetrical face of hers?
I hand her a glass of champagne and she takes it, her fingers briefly wrapping over mine. Immediately my mind puts them elsewhere on my body.
‘You remember Wolf DuChamp?’ she says. ‘He manages our accounts in New York.’
I remember his stupid name, but not the man himself. Nothing memorable about blond, pretty-boy looks and that air of Ivy League he seems to wear like a coat.
‘Sure.’ I extend my hand, knowing I have to meet the convention even when my body is singularly focussed on Gemma.
‘Good to see you again, sir.’
Gemma’s lips quiver. I hate being called ‘sir’ and she knows it. Out of nowhere I have an image of her saying it to me, bent at the knees, her eyes moving up my body to meet mine as her lips clamp down on my length. Okay, maybe in some circumstances I could make an exception...
What the hell am I thinking? These fantasies are one thing, but screwing Gemma cannot happen.
Cannot happen. Might as well get that tattoo added to my collection.
‘I was just explaining the software overhaul we’re looking at to Gem.’
Is he trying to piss me off? First of all by removing the very nice image I was enjoying by talking about software. And then by referring to Gemma as ‘Gem’—as though they’re best buddies who paint their nails together.
‘I’ll summarise it for you later,’ she says, sensing my impatience though I suspect not the reason for it.
‘It’ll make a huge difference to our operations,’ Wolf pushes.
‘Gem’ angles her body a bit, turning away from me, giving me a chance to escape.
‘I’ll look into the feasibility. The problem is going to be short-term. We’ll need to make sure the systems are protected during the transfer of data. You handle some of our most sensitive work—a data breach would be unacceptable.’
‘I’ve thought of that, too,’ Wolf carries on—and I am dismissed, it would appear.
Across the room a platinum blonde with a sensational rack and legs that go on forever is trying to catch my eye.
I want Gemma, but I can’t have her. And I’m not one to wallow in self-pity. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.
I have two rules when it comes to the women I fuck.
No commitment.
No redheads.
Commitment was for Lucy.
And Lucy was a redhead.
I freeze. A vision of Lucy is in front of me, a scowl of disapproval on her face. I messed around a fair bit before we met, but nothing like this. I’ve taken it to a whole new level and I don’t care. Except for that scowl. Even in death I don’t want to upset Lucy.
What did you expect, Luce? You left me a pretty big void to fill.
Don’t blame me, I hear her snap back. Your life. Your choice.
Yeah, right.
My eyes wander of their own accord back to Gemma. She’s got her head bent now, and Wolf’s fingers are typing something into his cell phone. She nods and smiles, then presses a hand to his forearm. My stomach rolls on a surge of emotion I don’t much care for.
I stalk towards the blonde as though she is the only woman in the room.
‘I’m Jack Grant.’
Her lips are painted a bright red. She purrs. ‘I know who you are.’
