style="font-size:15px;"> One night hadn’t been enough.
Not of this man, who she suspected would be twice the lover of relaxed, tourist Ash. Was that even possible? No. She didn’t want to know.
‘So you have managerial experience? Hospitality experience?’ Ash flicked his eyes over her from head to toe as if they were alone, his tone grating and transforming her buzz of arousal to one of irritation. It was the way he asked, as if he already knew the answer and found her...lacking.
Another lawyer trait? Or pure, unadulterated arsehole?
Essie changed her mind. Selecting the chair opposite him, she faced him, forcing her body into as relaxed a demeanour as he displayed. She was, after all, an expert at body language.
‘I’m a graduate.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I’ve just completed a PhD and I have lots of hospitality experience.’ So she didn’t have a Harvard law degree, but she wasn’t an imbecile. She could work a till and wipe down tables. ‘Would you like to see my CV?’ She pursed her lips in a tight, sickly smile.
‘What’s with the third degree?’ Ben joined them, taking the second armchair. He shot Ash a curious glare and then turned to Essie. ‘Forgive my friend. He’s not long arrived from New York. He’s not used to your English customs and manners yet.’
Ben turned back to a smiling, completely unfazed Ash.
‘Look, it sucks balls that I have to leave today, but I expect you to look out for my sister, Jacob. Employ a dash of that charm that gets you endlessly laid.’ Ben’s grin dropped. A frown lodged between his brows. ‘But keep your hands off my sister.’
A titter of hysterical laughter clogged Essie’s throat while her cheeks flamed. She’d already sampled his friend’s goods. She lifted her chin, her stare honed on Ash. She might not be able to control her flush response, but she could certainly control her misguided libido.
‘I can manage anything your friend can dish out, Ben. Don’t worry.’
Both men looked at her as if inspecting her for the first time. Their faces were unreadable and likely concealed very different thoughts. Essie examined her fingernails and tried to keep her feet still.
Although certain she lacked the sophistication of the New York babes Ash probably usually bedded, Essie wasn’t a pushover. And this job was about her and Ben. Not her and Ash. So she’d let some personal baggage escape last night, been indiscreet about her track record—that ended right here, right now. Arrogant Ash had seen all he was going to see of unguarded, easy-going Essie.
She returned Ash’s stare, the standoff a game of wills.
‘Good,’ said Ben. ‘Because Ash here has a bit of a reputation with the ladies...if you know what I mean.’ He winked at Essie, who tried to catalogue the sparse contents of her fridge to stop another telltale blush giving her away.
‘Don’t worry.’ Ash’s lip curled. ‘Little sisters aren’t my type.’
Essie concealed her indrawn gasp with a nervous chuckle. Was he daring her? Goading her to out them to a clueless Ben? White-hot fire replaced her blood—she’d been his type less than twelve hours ago when he hadn’t even bothered to fully strip either of them before he’d lowered her to the bed and pushed his delicious dick inside her.
No.
Not delicious. Wrong. Forbidden. And probably as devious as the rest of him.
She cringed, her fatigue-weakened body veering towards kissing the smirk from Ash Jacob’s handsome face one minute and coming clean to Ben the next.
Day one on the job, and already locking horns with the co-owner, who now knew more about her than most people...as well as sneaking round behind her brother’s back?
Well, from now on she’d be the consummate professional and just get the job done. She couldn’t risk disappointing Ben or she’d be back to square one.
Alone.
Rejected.
No relationship with her father to speak of, and no relationship with Ben.
Her whole life, she’d felt somehow responsible for the choices her father had made, as if she were the reason he’d stayed away. And now she was responsible for the mess she’d made of this, too.
But she refused to play into Ash’s sexy hands. Her sister status meant more to her than point scoring over Ash. She could ignore him at work, pretend she’d never met him, try to forget how he’d expertly shunted her into not one, but the two best orgasms of her life. She could pretend just looking at him radiating the kind of self-assurance born of supreme confidence wasn’t a real fucking turn-on...
Ben’s phone chirruped a text alert and he pulled it from his pocket with a sigh.
‘My car’s here. I have to go.’ He stood, and Essie and Ash followed. He stooped to kiss Essie’s cheek again and turned to shake hands and shoulder bump with Ash.
‘Play nice.’ Ben levelled an index finger at his friend, who shrugged, his expression all laid-back charm and cocksure nonchalance.
Ben turned back to Essie.
‘And if you need me, email.’
Essie nodded, more than half tempted to fling herself at her brother’s Oxford-clad feet, wrap her arms around his knees and beg him to stay. To mediate between her and Ash. To stop Essie from orchestrating a rerun of last night’s recklessness. To see that underneath the stained dress and the bad decisions, she was a worthy sister.
But instead she stood and watched him leave while her stomach flopped to her coffee-speckled shoes.
Get a grip. You’re a grown-ass woman. Soon to be Dr Essie Newbold, psychologist and relationship guru. Not some insecure sad sack ruled by her hormones.
She straightened her spine and prepared to follow Ben’s lead and leave the room that shrank the minute she and Ash were alone, compressing the available oxygen.
‘Well, you failed to mention this last night...’
She yanked her stare back to Ash.
Every minute hair on her body stood to attention. Ben seemed to have taken the sun with him, too, because the room’s temperature plummeted as Essie and Ash faced off.
‘Me?’ Was he for real? ‘What about you?’ Playing the charming tourist and allowing her to believe he’d be leaving town in a few days. Laughing at her London anecdotes and listening intently when she’d offered top tips for surviving the capital, when all the time he probably knew the city better than her. If she’d known last night that he owned a sizeable chunk of St James’s, she might have put two and two together and kept her knees and her mouth shut.
And now she and Mr Moneybags had to survive an intolerable working relationship, where every time they crossed paths she’d blush beet red at her folly.
Her phone vibrated in her bag, a reminder it was time to publish the blog post she’d drafted that morning. Oh, the irony. She’d waxed lyrical about casual sex, clutching her shiny new members’
