sent her an easy grin. ‘Not at all.’
Crossing her arms, Cassie pressed down on her treacherous boobs, which were still throbbing at the memory of Jace Ryan on that stairwell a million years ago, and studied his profile in the glimmer of the passing streetlights.
Maturity suited him: the light tan, the hint of five o’clock shadow, the thick waves of dark hair, the little lines at the corners of his eyes and the once angry red scar that had faded to a thin white line slashing rakishly across his left eyebrow. He’d grown into those brooding heartthrob features, his hollow cheeks defined to create a dramatic sweep of planes and angles. And from the powerful physique stretching the expertly tailored suit as he shifted gears, he’d also grown into his lanky build.
Cassie huddled in her seat as the powerful car accelerated onto Park Lane. The majestic twenty-foot spruce under Marble Arch glided past, its red and gold star-shaped lights glittering festively in the early winter dusk.
He’d asked her if he’d slept with her—which meant either he suffered from amnesia, or he’d slept with so many women in his time, he couldn’t remember the details. Recalling the never-ending string of girlfriends he’d had at Hillsdown Road, Cassie would take a wild guess it was the latter.
Jace Ryan was the sort of guy no sensible woman would ever want to have a relationship with. But as she watched him drive his flashy car with practised efficiency, sexual attraction rippled across her nerve-endings and the thrum of awareness peaked.
Jace Ryan might be a dead loss in the relationship department, but could he be the ultimate candy man? Because as coincidences went, this one was kind of hard to ignore.
She eased out an unsteady breath.
And did she have a sweet enough tooth—and enough guts—to risk taking a lick?
CHAPTER TWO
THAT would be a no, then, came the answer as Cassie peered out the windshield of Jace’s car. Evergreen garlands of holly and trailing ivy shimmered with a thousand tiny lights on the ornate stone and gold frontage of the luxury hotel.
When Jace had mentioned The Chesterton she hadn’t pictured him having a suite at this art deco palace on Park Lane. The vision of her scurrying into its rarefied elegance in her soiled coat and muddy biker boots plunged her ridiculous candy man fantasy into cold hard reality.
He had offered to get her coat cleaned. He had not offered to perk up her Christmas with prurient sexual favours. And he wasn’t likely to when she looked such a fright.
Jace skirted the hood of the car and took the front steps two at a time. He tossed the car keys to a doorman, whose gold-braided green livery and matching top hat weren’t doing a thing for Cassie’s anxiety levels.
What on earth had she been thinking when she’d accepted his invitation? She felt as if she were thirteen again, getting caught staring at something she shouldn’t on that stairwell.
She slid down in the deep bucket seat as the doorman approached the car. Swinging the door open with a slight bow, he sent her a courteous smile.
‘It’s a pleasure to welcome you to The Chesterton, Ms Fitzgerald.’ He held out a hand. ‘Mr Ryan has requested we collect your dry-cleaning as soon as you are settled in his suite.’
Cassie stepped out of the car, but studiously avoided letting her coat touch the poor man. Like he wanted mud all over his nice clean uniform. Jace waited at the hotel’s revolving doors, looking confident and relaxed and completely at ease in the exclusive surroundings.
She wrapped her arms round her waist as she mounted the steps towards him.
Candy man or not, Jace Ryan was way too much for her to handle. He’d probably known more about seduction when he was seventeen than she ever would. The thrum of awareness that had arched between them had been nothing more than the echo of an old crush. Which she’d grown out of years ago.
She touched his arm before he could direct her through the revolving doors into the lobby.
‘Is there a back entrance?’ she asked, dropping her hand as her fingers connected with the solid strength beneath the blue silk of his suit.
His lips twitched. ‘I wouldn’t know. Why?’
‘I’m all wet.’ Hadn’t he noticed she looked like something the cat had dragged through a puddle?
His gaze wandered over her, and the back of her neck burned. ‘Your coat took the worst of it. Just take it off.’
She slipped off the wet coat and bunched it in her hands, the blush climbing into her cheeks.
A rueful smile curved his lips and she thought he whispered, ‘Pity.’
‘Sorry?’ Was it her imagination or was there a twinkle of mischief in his eyes?
‘Nothing,’ he murmured, but the twinkle didn’t dim one bit.
The simple sapphire tunic skimmed the top of her thighs and was one of her favourites of Nessa’s designs, but the short sleeves and plunging neckline meant wearing it without a coat was a good way to get hypothermia in December. The fragile, bias-cut fabric moulded to her figure as the wind brushed against her skin and made her shiver. She clamped her teeth together to stop them chattering and jumped when his warm palm settled on the small of her back.
‘Here.’ He shrugged out of his jacket and draped the garment over her shoulders. ‘I’ll take that.’ He lifted her coat out of her arms.
She gripped the lapels of his jacket, the tailored silk dwarfing her as he placed his hand on her hip and led her through the revolving doors into the marble lobby. The fragrance of the roses, freshly cut pine boughs and cinnamon sticks arranged in giant urns by the reception desk greeted them, but did nothing to mask the scent of soap and man that clung to his jacket.
‘Wait here.’
Crossing to the desk, he handed over her coat to one of the uniformed receptionists, who took the wet garment without showing a hint of surprise, then sent Cassie an efficient smile. As if it were perfectly normal for half-dressed women to track mud over their foyer.
Cassie tried to look invisible in Jace’s jacket as he led her through an ornately furnished lounge accented by deep-seated sofas in tartan upholstery, polished mahogany occasional tables and wrought-iron planters overflowing with winter flora. A scattering of perfectly dressed people sipped afternoon tea from delicate china cups and watched her pass.
Fabulous. She felt like Cinderella arriving at the ball in her rags.
When they stepped into the lift, she eased back against the panelling, still clinging to the jacket. ‘This place is seriously posh.’
He huffed out a laugh. ‘Don’t let them intimidate you. They’re just rich, they’re not royalty. Or at least most of them aren’t.’
‘Fabulous,’ she said wryly.
He chuckled again, shoving one hand into his pocket as he stabbed the top button on the display panel. She tried not to notice the way the movement made the linen of his shirt tighten across one broad shoulder.
His
