the ludicrousness of that statement, given the circumstances. ‘I think we’re both only too well aware of that,’ she answered tartly.
‘And I assure you, I don’t feel in the least deprived because my mother has never cooked me a roast meal for Sunday lunch.’
Of course he didn’t. He was Darius Sterne, billionaire businessman and successful entrepreneur. A man who owned homes in several capital cities around the world. A man who owned his own private jet. The same man who had paid thousands of pounds for two tickets so that they could attend a charity dinner this evening. What had Andy been thinking of, inviting him to her apartment, for a home-cooked Sunday lunch?
She sighed. ‘Fine, I was only being polite anyway, by returning your own invitation.’
‘But without the blackmail,’ he reminded her dryly.
‘Just forget I asked.’
‘Now I’ve offended you.’
‘I don’t offend that easily.’
‘Lunch at your apartment sounds...’
‘Boring. Mundane.’ She nodded. ‘As I said, just forget I asked.’
‘No, actually it sounds...’ Darius paused with a frown, uncertain how to proceed.
Going to Miranda’s apartment, eating a lunch that she had cooked and prepared, actually sounded rather nice. And very intimate. In a way that Darius usually avoided where women were concerned. Not that any of the models or society heiresses he had briefly dated in the past had ever suggested cooking a meal for him, but even so.
‘It sounds good. Thank you,’ he added abruptly. ‘I’ll bring the wine, shall I?’
Andy eyed him ruefully, seriously wondering if Darius had ever eaten a meal cooked in a woman’s apartment by her, for him, let alone made the polite offer to bring the wine to accompany that meal.
And, no, she accepted that couldn’t be described as deprived, exactly, but it was more normal behaviour, surely, than eating meals either cooked by your own personal cook or housekeeper, or out in exclusive restaurants or hotels?
Maybe being a billionaire had its drawbacks, after all?
Oh, she didn’t doubt that it must be wonderful not to have any money worries, ever, but what about missing out on some of the simple things in life? Such as family meals and time together? Walks in the bluebell woods? Or just sitting in companionable silence with someone reading a book? Surely all that money put Darius above enjoying such everyday things?
Or maybe it was just a case of what you’d never had you’d never think to miss? In the same way that Andy had never had money, so didn’t miss it, Darius had been born into a wealthy family, old money, and he and his brother had only increased that wealth a thousandfold, and so ensuring that he never lived any other way.
In which case, lunch in her rustic and open loft apartment was going to be a novel experience for him.
‘A bottle of red will be great,’ she accepted, having just decided that she would cook roast beef with all the trimmings; if she was going to do this, then she might as well do it properly. ‘And it’s informal,’ she added firmly.
So far in their acquaintance she had only ever seen Darius in formal clothes, such as tailored suits, or the tailored dinner suit he was wearing this evening. How good would he look in a pair of well-worn figure-hugging jeans, resting low down on the leanness of his hips, and a tight T-shirt moulded to his muscular shoulders and chest, the darkness of his overlong hair sexily tousled onto his brow?
Just the thought of it was enough to cause her to quiver in anticipation.
And those sorts of thoughts were going to get her into even more trouble where this man was concerned. More than she already was? Oh, yes.
She straightened in her seat. ‘Could we head back to my apartment now? It’s been a long and eventful evening.’
Darius continued to study Miranda’s face for several long seconds, noting the attractive flush to her cheeks, the brightness of those green eyes, the pouting fullness of her lips. He wanted nothing more than to kiss that fullness again, to taste Miranda, to touch her, as he had kissed and touched her earlier.
It took every effort of will on his part to instead settle back in his seat and turn the car key in the ignition. He deliberately didn’t look at Miranda again as they drove the rest of the way to her apartment in silence.
Still, he was completely aware of everything about her. Of the warmth of her body, so close to his own in the confines of the car. Of the perfume he was learning to associate with Miranda, something floral and slightly exotic. The way the silence between them now felt companionable rather than uncomfortable.
Intimate.
There was that word again.
And this thing between himself and Miranda, whatever it was, was definitely becoming too intimate for comfort.
His comfort.
* * *
It was a physical discomfort, at least, that returned the moment Darius arrived at Miranda’s apartment the following day, and she opened the door to him wearing skinny jeans, and an over-large green T-shirt that revealed the tantalising outline of her breasts. She’d tied her ash-blonde hair in a ponytail, and her face was completely bare of make-up. Her feet were bare too.
Her completely natural and unaffected beauty left him momentarily speechless.
The last thing Darius had wanted, after he had spent a restless night unable to sleep, and then most of the morning considering picking up the telephone and calling Miranda to cancel their lunch. The only thing that had stopped him from making that call was that he had a feeling Miranda would have seen his excuse for exactly what it was: a deliberate effort on his part to distance himself from her.
Because she was getting too close.
Dangerously so.
And he wanted her to be even closer.
He wanted Miranda close enough that he knew everything there was to know about her. What her favourite food was. Her favourite colour. Her taste in films and books. Who her friends were. What her ambitions were for her dance studio. What else she wanted for her future.
What she looked for in a lover. He especially wanted to discover that.
As he wanted Miranda to know those same things about him. Funny, he had never before wanted any of those things with any woman.
But one look at Miranda now and he felt sure he should have listened to his head and cancelled this lunch.
She tilted her head and eyed him quizzically as she opened the door wider, her ponytail falling across one shoulder. ‘It isn’t too late to change your mind.’
Darius gave her an irritated scowl; were his mood and thoughts really so readable to this woman? Probably—he’d never been good at concealing his emotions, which was why he tried his best to avoid engaging them in the first place.
‘Darius?’ she
