I’ll do it.’
Bart smirked as he shrugged into his suit jacket. ‘So who’s the lucky lady going to be?’
‘Leave that to me,’ Cash said, mentally scrolling through his list of female friends and coming up empty.
Half of them he’d dated and would never go there again. The other half wanted more and would see this week of lovey-dovey crap as a full-blown declaration.
Uh-uh. He needed someone without any romantic illusions.
Someone without any view to the future.
Someone without cunning, ulterior motives or the urge to shackle him to a ball and chain.
As he walked Bart out and Lucy acknowledged him with a curt nod, he knew.
He needed someone like Lucy.
* * *
‘Damn it.’ Lucy’s pruning shears slipped and she hacked off a chunk of ivy leaf violet when Cash appeared at the front door.
The guy had that effect on her. The ability to raise her hackles and make her want to chop something off—not of the flora variety.
Not his fault entirely, that she had a healthy disregard for millionaires in slick suits. It was a personal aversion, one she’d honed to a fine art nine years ago.
And Cash seemed more charming than most, with his ready smile and quick wit. But that was what put her on guard: his ability to flirt without trying, his easy-going approach when she knew it would be a practiced façade presented to the world.
Go-getters like him wouldn’t get anywhere if they were that laid-back all the time. And she knew enough about her number one client Cashel Burgess, courtesy of Google, to assume he would be a tiger in the boardroom.
Self-made millionaire by the time he was twenty-eight. High IQ, skipped a year at high school. Economics degree. MBA. Impressive jobs at elite actuary firms before opening his own financial advisory business to the stars.
He moved in A-list circles, often gracing the social pages and gossip columns in Melbourne media. Par for the course, considering he always had a busty blonde actress on his arm. She half expected to see the entire female cast of Melbourne’s top-rating soap opera stroll out of his house the mornings she worked here, but surprisingly she’d never seen a woman do the walk of shame out of his enviable mansion. Perhaps he spirited them away out the back.
No, she didn’t trust guys who behaved one way in public and another in private. Which was why she preferred ignoring him when they crossed paths every two weeks.
She knew her aloofness was why he deliberately went out of his way to seek her out. He saw her coolness as a challenge. She didn’t let it bother her. If anything, she notched her haughtiness up further. No way in hell would she ever let down her guard, because then she might have to face reality: that a small part of her was super attracted to the whole casually mussed brown hair, piercing blue eyes, chiselled jaw, dimpled smile thing he had going on.
Unfathomable. And wrong on so many levels, considering she’d vowed to never go for a suit again.
Must be her dating drought making her secretly lust after her boss. Maybe she should say yes the next time the guy at the hardware shop asked her out?
Cash’s visitor slid into a Porsche and backed out of the drive with a jaunty wave in her direction. She managed a terse nod in response and gripped the pruning shears, ready to resume work.
However, rather than heading back into the house, Cash started down the path towards her.
Crap.
They’d already done their usual him-flirt-her-avoid dance this morning so what did he want now? An encore?
She opened the shears then snapped them shut with a loud metallic clink that carried clear across the garden and she could’ve sworn she saw Cash falter, wince or both. Probably wishful thinking but she did it again for good measure.
‘Is that a warning?’ he said, eyeing the shears with a mix of wariness and amusement.
The corners of her mouth twitched against her better judgement. ‘No, but it could be if you keep hassling me while I’m trying to work.’
He smiled and the impact of those lips curving hit her somewhere in the vicinity of her solar plexus. ‘Why don’t you put the DIY castrating tool down so we can talk?’
This time, she couldn’t stop the laughter spilling from her lips. ‘About?’
‘Wow.’ He clutched his heart and staggered a little. ‘You’re gorgeous when you smile.’
‘And you’re full of it.’ She waved the shears in his direction. ‘What do you want?’
He flinched. ‘Not that.’
Damn, she loved sparring with a quick-witted guy. And if she were completely honest with herself, she missed it. Missed the fun of swapping banter with a guy who could fire back.
‘I’m busy—’
‘I really need to talk to you.’ His sincerity scared her as much as his overt flirting. ‘Would you like to come inside for a drink?’
‘No thanks.’ She shook her head. Bad enough bumping into him outside. No way would she set foot inside his place and risk pining for what she’d once had.
She’d put her past behind her a long time ago but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit there were times when she missed the luxury, the wealth, the glamour. ‘What’s up? Is it my work—?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ He huffed out a breath and for the first time since she’d started working for the tycoon six months ago via referral, he appeared uncertain and unsure. And damn, if that hint of vulnerability didn’t make him all the more appealing.
‘I have a problem I need your help with.’ A frown appeared between his brows. ‘Actually, it’s more than a problem. More like an impending catastrophe.’
Her curiosity was piqued. ‘Unless it has something to do with your jasmine wilting or your compost needing mulching, not sure what I can do to help.’
His frown eased as his mouth lost its pinched quirk. ‘This isn’t a gardening matter.’
‘Then I’m not sure what I can do—’
‘I need a fake girlfriend for a week and you’d be perfect.’
TWO
The shears slipped from Lucy’s hand and clattered to the path, thankfully missing her steel-capped boots, which had cost a small fortune.
She stared at Cash in disbelief. ‘You’re crazy—’
‘Just hear me out, okay?’ He held up his hands. Yeah, as if that would stop her from knocking some sense into him. Figured. The smart, gorgeous, funny ones were always certified lunatics.
‘My
