into a lip nibble.
Thinking about her blog should have brought her a sense of pride. Her usual posts were heavily theoretical and science based, calling on the latest psychological research on relationships, love and the complexities of all forms of human interaction.
But crammed full of shame, betrayal and an overwhelming head spin of good sex hormones, she’d thrown caution to the wind and edited her earlier draft with personal details of her explosive but reckless night with Ash, detailing a pared-down version of the sheet-clawing sexploits and their disastrous morning-after fallout as reasons for prudence.
She’d kept it totally anonymous, only referring to Ash as Illegally Hot, but she shouldn’t have mentioned him at all. She was a professional with a serious academic reputation to consider, not some kiss-and-tell reality blogger.
Her belly twisted even as her breathing accelerated, a sickening swirl of opposing emotions. The added personal anecdotes afforded her writing an air of authority she’d never before believed she possessed. As if, overnight, she’d become a true expert, at least on her chosen topic.
Heady stuff.
She grinned, dragging her lip back under her teeth as the first comment came in, lighting up her phone with a ping.
Well, BatS*#tCrazy liked it. They’d even asked where they could find Illegally Hot...
Bugger—it was too late now for regrets.
She slammed her laptop shut with screen-cracking force. Ash didn’t strike her as an avid pop psychology reader—he’d never know.
As the triumphant head rush dwindled, the lip-gnawing insecurity returned, full-blown. She’d begun her blog, Relationships and Other Science Experiments, as a first-year psychology undergraduate. Still struggling with the knowledge of her father’s betrayal, emotionally and geographically isolated from a half-brother she’d never met and angry with her father’s desertion and the lies he’d spun to cover it up, she’d taken to putting her own complex and often overwhelming feelings and thoughts into a sort of online diary. Shortly after, she’d made the mistake of falling in what she’d assumed was love. Two tumultuous years later, the ex she’d pinned all her happily-ever-afters on had left her with her self-esteem in tatters, and her heart seriously doubtful that honest, dependable men—let alone love—actually existed.
Around the same time, she’d fallen in academic love with social psychology and her fascination with the intricacies of human relationships began, guiding both her writing and her choice of PhD study.
Initially, she’d been amazed to acquire a handful of keen followers who had warmed to her quirky, often humorous take on the complexities of interpersonal dealings. No subject was taboo. From the rude man on the Tube to the day-to-day social minefield of undergraduate life, she tackled the full gamut of complex interactions humans faced and presented the science behind them.
And now she had a whole heap more fodder for her writing in the guise of her sexy but arrogant boss, her one night of orgasmic bliss and the awkward, self-inflicted quagmire her temporary job had become.
Essie reopened her laptop, determined to end the day leaving no stone unturned when it came to her responsibilities towards Ben. With tomorrow’s to-do list stuck on a virtual sticky note on her desktop, she performed one last check of her emails before heading home.
There was one from Ben’s interior designer and another from his PA, asking for her bank account details for payroll. But it was the one from her brother, entitled A Favour, that she pounced upon.
Essie
I left some documents in the safe for Ash to sign. I can’t get hold of him—suspect he’s still jet-lagged and has fallen asleep. Can you please take them around to him and then scan the signatures through to the bank before six p.m.?
PS A spare set of keys to Ash’s apartment is also in the safe, in case he’s out of it and doesn’t hear you knock.
A combination number and address accompanied the request.
Essie dropped her head into her hands, tempted to headbutt the laptop screen and pretend she hadn’t read the urgent missive. The last thing she wanted was any further interaction with Ash after last night’s reckless abandon and today’s humiliating reunion.
Didn’t billionaires have teams of lackeys traipsing after them, doffing their caps and facilitating their masters’ every whim? Why her?
But Ben would be in the air by now en route to New York. There was no escape. If she kept her head, kept her focus on the goal and not the infuriating, sexy-as-fuck Ash...her mission couldn’t fail.
Get in. Don’t have sex with him.
Acquire a signature. Don’t have sex with him.
Get out. Don’t have sex with him.
Simple.
* * *
Ash closed his eyes, braced his palms flat on the tile and let the steaming water pound down on his head. Perhaps it would rattle some fucking sense into his brain.
Stupid. Impulsive. Fantastic sex.
He curled one hand into a fist, knuckles bloodless.
He’d moved to London to claw back control of the wrong turn his life had taken, not to embroil himself in another personal shit storm of epic proportions. While he licked his wounds and disentangled his suddenly public personal life, he’d hoped to forge a new path away from Jacob Holdings. A fresh start. Something of his own, untainted by his father.
Sleeping with the intriguing and exotic stranger he’d met in the park had been beyond reckless. He should have vetted her beyond her flirtatious smiles, her sexy laugh and her astounding body. But he’d been charmed by her bubbly, ingenuous personality, so unlike the somewhat cynical sophisticates he normally bedded.
Cynical like him.
And she’d upped the intrigue factor with her hesitant confession of her relative inexperience.
Fuck.
Ash dumped a palmful of shampoo onto his head. But knowing exactly who she was only threw up more questions. If Essie lived in London, why the hell did she need a picture of one of its iconic landmarks? If she had a degree and a PhD, why was bar work so appealing? And what was the deal with her and Ben?
He scrubbed at his scalp, nails punishing. Now, not only did he have to work with her—fucking eyeball-scalding torture right there—but he also had to watch her prance her sexy ass around his club covered in those flirty little dresses she liked to wear, all the while keeping his libido under control and his hands to his damned self.
Screwed.
He rinsed his hair, welcoming the sting as the suds ran into his eyes.
Not that he’d known it at the time, but sleeping with Essie had broken one of his life’s cardinal, cast-iron, unbreakable rules: Never screw a mate’s sister—the golden bro code every decent male lived by.
And he was decent. He didn’t use people. He didn’t cheat. And he considered the consequences of his actions.
