finalising prop hire and purchase for Dominic’s party before she started work for a tuxedo-and-tiara-themed twenty-first birthday party.
She quickly changed into skinny denim jeans and a simple loose-knit cream top that laced with leather ties at the neckline. Decided on her favourite leopard-print stilettos over flats. And make-up. And her favourite sandalwood and jasmine perfume. What the heck—her heart was racing at the thought of seeing him. She didn’t want to seem as though she were trying too hard—but then again she didn’t want to be caught out in sweats.
When Dominic arrived she was shocked to see he didn’t look his sartorial best. In fact he looked downright dishevelled. His black hair seemed as if he’d used his fingers for a comb and his dark stubble was one step away from a beard. He was wearing black jeans, a dark grey T-shirt and had a black leather jacket slung over his shoulders. Immediately he owned the high-ceilinged room, a space that overwhelmed men of lesser stature, with the casual athleticism of his stance, the power of his body with its air of tightly coiled energy.
‘Are you alone?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. Yes!
Her first thought was that he looked hotter than ever—so hot she had to catch her breath. This Dominic set her pulse racing even more than executive Dominic in his made-to-measure Italian suits.
Her second thought was that he seemed stressed—his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes red-rimmed and darkly shadowed. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘I’ve come straight from the airport. I just flew in from Perth.’ Perth was on the other side of Australia—a six-hour flight. ‘I cut short my trip.’
‘But are you okay?’ She forced her voice to sound calm and measured, not wanting him to realise how she was reacting to his untamed good looks. Her heart thudded with awareness that they were alone in the apartment.
With the kind of friendly working relationship they had now established, it would be quite in order to greet him with a light kiss on his beard-roughened cheek. But she wouldn’t dare. She might not be able to resist sliding her mouth across his cheek to his mouth and turning it into a very different kind of kiss. And that wouldn’t do.
‘I’m fine. I’ve just...been presented with...with a dilemma,’ Dominic said.
‘Coffee might help,’ she said.
‘Please.’
‘Breakfast? I have—’
‘Just coffee.’
But Andie knew that sometimes men who said they didn’t want anything to eat needed food. And that their mood could improve immeasurably when they ate something. Not that she’d been in the habit of sharing breakfast with a man. Not since... She forced her mind back to the present and away from memories of breakfasts with Anthony on a sun-soaked veranda. Her memories of him were lit with sunshine and happiness.
Dominic dragged out a chair and slumped down at her kitchen table while she prepared him coffee. Why was he here? She turned to see him with his elbows on the tabletop, resting his head on his hands. Tired? Defeated? Something seemed to have put a massive dent in his usual self-assured confidence.
She slid a mug of coffee in front of him. ‘I assumed black but here’s frothed milk and sugar if you want.’
‘Black is what I need,’ he said. He put both hands around the mug and took it to his mouth.
Without a word, she put a thick chunk of fresh fruit bread, studded with figs and apricots, from her favourite baker in King Street in front of him. Then a dish of cream cheese and a knife. ‘Food might help,’ she said.
He put down his coffee, gave her a weary imitation of his usual glower and went to pick up the bread. ‘Let me,’ she said and spread it with cream cheese.
What was it about this man that made her want to comfort and care for him? He was a thirty-two-year-old billionaire, for heaven’s sake. Tough, self-sufficient. Wealthier than she could even begin to imagine. And yet she sometimes detected an air of vulnerability about him that wrenched at her. A sense of something broken. But it was not up to her to try and fix him. He ate the fruit bread in two bites. ‘More?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘It’s good,’ he said.
Andie had to be honest with herself. She wanted to comfort him, yes. She enjoyed his company. But it was more than that. She couldn’t deny that compelling physical attraction. He sat at her kitchen table, his leather jacket slung on the back of the chair. His tanned arms were sculpted with muscle, his T-shirt moulded ripped pecs and abs. With his rough-hewn face, he looked so utterly male.
Desire, so long unfamiliar, thrilled through her. She wanted to kiss him and feel those strong arms around her, his hands on her body. She wanted more than kisses. What was it about this not-my-type man who had aroused her interest from the moment she’d first met him?
When he’d eaten two more slices of fruit bread, he pushed his plate away and leaned back in his seat. His sigh was weary and heartfelt. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise I was hungry.’
She slipped into the chair opposite him and nursed her own cooling cup of coffee to stop the impulse to reach over and take his hand. ‘Are you able to tell me about your dilemma?’ she asked, genuinely concerned.
He raked his hands through his hair. ‘My ex-wife is causing trouble. Again.’
In her research into Dominic, Andie had seen photos of Tara Hunt—she still went by his name—a petite, pale-skinned redhead in designer clothes and an over-abundance of jewellery.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, deciding on caution in her reaction. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Was that why he wanted to see her? To cry on her shoulder about his ex-wife? Dominic didn’t seem like a crying-on-shoulders kind of guy.
He went to drink more coffee, to find his mug was nearly empty. He drained the last drops. ‘You make good coffee,’ he said appreciatively.
‘I worked as a barista when I was a student,’ she said.
She and Anthony had both worked in hospitality, saving for vacation backpacker trips to Indonesia and Thailand. It seemed so long ago now, those days when she took it for granted they had a long, happy future stretched out ahead of them. They’d been saving for a trip to Eastern Europe when he’d died.
She took Dominic’s mug from him, got up, refilled it, brought it back to the table and sat down again. He drank from it and put it down.
Dominic leaned across the table to bring him closer to her. ‘Can I trust you, Andie?’ he asked in that deep, resonant voice. His intense grey gaze met hers and held it.
‘Of course,’ she said without hesitation.
He sat back in his chair. ‘I know you’re friends with journalists, so I have to be sure what I might talk to you about today won’t go any further.’ The way he said it didn’t sound offensive; in fact it made her feel privileged that he would consider her trustworthy. Not to mention curious about what he might reveal.
‘I assure you, you can trust me,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
