wonder.
From what he could make out through the sudden ache descending upon his head, the excitement in the reporter’s voice, and Eric wheezing in the doorway, in some kind of crazy protest a woman had handcuffed herself to the zig. Or was it the zag?
Dylan had nothing against handcuffs per se. They had their place in the zeitgeist of the single man. Just not in the middle of a busy workday, not in front of his building, and not when as the head of Media Relations it was his job to make the fact that a crazy person had picked that particular statue to attach her daft self seem less interesting than it certainly was.
The crowd parted, and Eric’s friend’s camera slipped into the gap, giving Dylan a better look at the ruination of his afternoon.
She was fair skinned, dark-eyed, with dark wavy hair made all the more interesting by the fact she kept having to shake its wind-mussed length out of her face. A floral top cinched and flowed in all the right places, telling tales of the kinds of curves and hollows that could distract a weaker-willed man. Not to mention the white calf-length trousers into which her second-glance-worthy bottom had been poured, or the pair of the most insanely high-heeled hot pink sandals…
And, of course, handcuffs.
‘What are we going to do?’ Eric said in whispered awe.
Dylan jumped; he and the woman had been having such a moment he’d forgotten his assistant was even there.
The heel of his palm reared up over the mouse, ready to jab the webpage closed, when a sudden gust of breeze blew the woman’s hair away from her face and she looked directly into Eric’s mate’s camera lens.
Dylan’s hand went rigid a breath from touchdown leaving him staring into a pair of brown eyes. Bambi eyes, for Pete’s sake. Big, beautiful, liquid brown with long, delicate eyelashes that made them appear wounded. Vulnerable. Repentant.
His gut twisted. His teeth clenched. A shaft of heat shot him upright, then filled him with adrenalin. Every masculine instinct reached out to him as the deep-seated urge to protect her clobbered him from the inside out. He felt himself rising from his seat, his wrists straightening as though preparing to slay whoever it was who had put that look in those eyes.
Then she licked her lips, shapely pink lips covering the sexiest kind of overbite, and blinked those big brown eyes. As her gaze shifted left she dropped her chin a fraction and she grinned flirtatiously at the person behind the camera.
The trance splintered like broken glass, ringing in his ears as it dislocated around him.
He swore beneath his breath, regained control over his mouse hand, closed the damn webpage and gave his usually exceptionally discriminating protective instincts a good mental kick in the pants.
They knew better. Far better.
The only people he sheltered by way of his vociferous guard bore the name of Kelly. The blood of his blood. That was as wide as his circle of trust stretched.
His family needed to stick together. Tight together. For, no matter how sincere people might seem to be in courting amity, the downside of being richer than Midas and more recognisable than the prime minister was that they would always be considered Kellys first, everything else second.
He’d learnt that lesson nice and young. No matter how beguiling a woman might be, how well bred, how seemingly genuine, they all wanted something from him—his wealth, his connections, even his name.
Nowadays he only let himself play with those who wanted the heat of his body and nothing more. No history and no hereafter. It was a process that had worked beautifully for him for some time.
The fact that not a single one of the warm bodies had stoked the fire of his protective instincts like the one with the soft brown eyes was something he had neither the time nor inclination to ponder.
Feeling mighty fractious, he was out of the chair and through the door before Eric even realised he was moving.
‘Sir!’ Eric cried.
Dylan waved a hand over his shoulder, and all but ignored the wave of hellos and bowing and scraping that followed in his wake as he jogged down the hallway towards the elevators.
Eric was puffing, red-faced, and his hands were shaking by the time he caught up. ‘Tell me what I can do!’
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ Dylan said as the elevator doors closed so slowly he made a mental note to talk to his brother, Cameron—who, being an engineer, surely knew where to source faster-closing ones. ‘And tell your mother you’ll be late home. I have the feeling this will be a long day.’
Wynnie’s wrists hurt.
That’s what comes from not doing a trial run with new handcuffs, you duffer.
Ever the pro, she did her all not to let the discomfort show. She dug her fingernails into her palms, hoping it might take away her focus from the itchiness and scratchiness encircling her wrists. And she smiled at the bank of reporters, each of whom had no idea they were about to become her new best friends in this town.
‘What’s KInG ever done to you?’ a voice from the back called out.
She looked down the barrel of the nearest camera, discreetly spat a clump of windswept hair from her lip gloss, and said, ‘They’ve never once returned my phone calls. Typical, right?’
She rolled her eyes, and a few women in the crowd murmured in appreciation.
She made sure to look each and every one of them in the eye as she said, ‘The past week I’ve met with top men and women in local and state government to talk about what we can all do together to help reduce the impact each individual person in this city is having on our environment. Those civil servants, good people with families at home and middle-income jobs, have been full of beans and ideas and enthusiasm. Yet the Kelly Investment Group, the largest company in town, a company with hundreds of employees and capital to burn, has time and again refused to even sit down with me, a new girl in town looking to make new friends, and have a chat over a cuppa.’
More twittering, this time with more volume.
‘What does a company have to do to get a cuppa with a girl like you?’ a deep voice called out from the back.
Wynnie bit her lip to stop from laughing as that question had come from her one plant at the event—Hannah, her close friend, and fellow Clean Footprint Coalition employee—who was currently hiding behind a cup of takeaway coffee and staring at a radio reporter as though he were the one who’d asked.
Wynnie waited until the crowd quieted. She leant forward, or as far as she could with her hands anchored behind her. ‘Kids, today I’m gonna need you all to tap into your imaginations. Hark back to those powerful images of environmentalists in the eighties chaining themselves to bulldozers to stop them knocking down ecologically imperative forests. Fast-forward to the twenty-first century and the corporate giants, such as the Kelly Investment Group—’
Better to use their whole name, she thought, rather than the cute moniker they’d picked up, or possibly even coined themselves.
‘—are the new bad guys. Collectives with power, and resources, and influence who choose to turn the other cheek
