and white bar, with its eye-catching lighting and mirrored ceiling, to begin serving drinks. The black and white theme and the wonderfully opulent décor ran right through the boutique hotel, where no expense had been spared and where every comfort was on offer to those who could afford the high prices.
‘Mr da Rocha is out on the terrace,’ Roger, the bar manager, informed her.
‘Who the heck is Mr da Rocha?’ she asked.
‘That guy you don’t like. He’s back,’ Roger told her wryly and he lowered his head to whisper tautly, ‘A fairly reliable source tells me that Mr da Rocha bought this place a couple of months ago, so I would watch my step if I were you because if he decides he wants you out, you’ll be history.’
Freddie was drop-dead stunned by that piece of information and she stared wide-eyed after Roger as he moved off to attend to a customer at the bar. Zac owned the hotel? How was it possible that a foul-mouthed, tattooed guy in ripped jeans and biker boots had bought a hotel in one of the most exclusive areas of London? She clenched her teeth in thwarted disbelief. Yes, Zac was a huge mystery because, no matter what he wore or how carelessly he spoke, he emanated a force field of power and arrogance and contrived to appear totally at home in a very upmarket hotel. Practising her brightest smile, Freddie marched out to the terrace, which was unnervingly empty but for him.
And like a juggernaut parked in a too small parking space, Zac overfilled it, his devastating effect all the stronger because it had been so many weeks since she last saw him. He was wearing all black, which was a change from his usual denim blue jeans. Black jeans, black shirt, leather cuff on one arm, his St Jude necklace gleaming gold at his bronzed throat. Patron saint of lost causes, very appropriate, she thought inanely. But he was so outrageously gorgeous standing there that her mouth ran dry and her nipples tightened and her entire body leapt in a response that maddened her because it happened every time she saw him, like an alarm clock shrilling in her ear, reminding her that she was as weak and hormonal around him as every other young woman she saw staring at him with longing. While she might not stare, she was, at heart, no different from the rest of her sex, and the reminder rankled like a stone in her shoe she couldn’t shake loose.
Lounging back against the boundary wall, Zac straightened the instant Freddie appeared, so tiny, so dainty she reminded him of a delicate doll. A doll he wanted to flatten down and spread on the nearest horizontal surface, he reminded himself, looking boldly into eyes that ranged from the colour of melted caramel to that of liquid chocolate. A wall would do perfectly well, he thought absently, so aroused at the sight of her he was threatening the fly in his new jeans, and the infuriating thing was that he didn’t know exactly what it was about her that so turned him on every time she was within view.
‘Mr...er da Rocha,’ she pronounced, startling him with both the name and the undeniably false smile she had pasted on her lips because, most pointedly, she was careful never ever to smile at him.
And he knew right then that somebody had been talking and that she was somehow aware that he was not merely a hotel guest at The Palm Tree. Exasperation shimmered through him. He had bought the hotel for convenience, not for any form of recognition.
‘I have a proposition for you,’ Zac murmured huskily.
He had the most lethal electric sensuality Freddie had ever heard in a man’s voice. He could make a drinks order sound like a caress that skimmed spectral fingers down her rigid spine.
‘I think I’ve already heard that one, sir,’ she tacked on tightly. ‘And I’m going to pass on it—’
‘No, you haven’t heard this one,’ Zac cut in with a raw impatience he did not even attempt to hide. ‘I will give you a thousand pounds to spend an hour with me. And no, not in bed if that’s what you’re thinking. An hour anywhere in any place of your choosing.’
Her lashes fluttered up on utterly bewildered eyes. ‘But why would you offer—?’
‘I want to get to know you,’ Zac lied. ‘A conversation is all I’m asking for, nothing else. So, are you up for it or not?’
‘Anywhere, any place?’ she double-checked, because she didn’t credit his desire to get to know her for a second.
‘Anywhere, any place,’ Zac confirmed.
Freddie straightened her stiff shoulders and thought fast. If he was fool enough to pay, she was bright enough to take advantage. ‘Give me your phone number and I’ll think about it,’ she told him jerkily, barely able to credit that she was willing to sell her scruples down the river to spend even five minutes with him, never mind an hour!
‘There would have to be no crude language and no touching,’ she warned him carefully.
‘I can handle that.’ Zac gave her a huge charismatic smile that flashed white teeth and sent her heartbeat racing.
It was a crying shame that a man with his looks and presence should be so cynical and rough round the edges, Freddie reflected as he strode off the terrace, visibly satisfied with the result of his barefaced bribery. Of course, he didn’t want to get to know her. He wanted to get into her underwear in the most basic way possible and her negative response had simply forced him to raise his game.
But how could she possibly turn down a thousand pounds with Eloise and Jack to consider? With that kind of money she could take them on a little holiday or finally establish a rainy-day fund for emergencies. Yes, she was being greedy and shameless to accept such an arrangement but, as long as he knew upfront that no sex would be involved, he only had himself to blame for his extravagance and his huge ego. And she knew that she was going to enjoy punishing him thoroughly for both flaws.
‘ARE YOU WORRIED about something?’ Freddie asked Claire gently, striving to redirect her anxiety about meeting up with Zac in an hour’s time towards something hopefully less threatening to her peace of mind. ‘You’ve seemed so preoccupied lately...’
Her aunt, a brunette with her hair tied up in a casual ponytail, shrugged a shoulder and almost squirmed in her seat beneath Freddie’s troubled appraisal. ‘Oh, you know...things get on top of me sometimes.’
‘You must miss Richard,’ Freddie said sympathetically, because Claire’s boyfriend had recently gone out to Spain to help his parents set up the business they had bought out there. At the same time he was expected home within days.
‘Obviously,’ Claire muttered rather cuttingly, rising from the kitchen table with heightened colour in her cheeks. ‘I’ve got some emails to catch up on. See you later.’
And there it was, the refusal to spill the beans again, Freddie reflected ruefully while wondering if she should simply mind her own business because the two women had never been best friends who shared everything. Furthermore, didn’t she have enough to worry about?
Ever since she had made that agreement with Zac da Rocha, she had been regretting it. Her worst sin was impulsiveness. What if the guy turned nasty? From his point of view, she would be wasting his time and he would probably refuse to cough up the money he had offered, so all she was likely to do was embarrass herself and infuriate him. Was that wise when he could—possibly—be her employer? Ridiculous as it still seemed to Freddie, the rumour of his ownership of the hotel was spreading in spite of the fact that for some strange reason he apparently didn’t want anyone
