revealed a man.
A tall man. With dark hair, dark stubble. Dark eyes.
Dark eyes that met her own directly. Very directly.
Momentarily April felt frozen beneath that gaze.
So this is what a mysterious tech billionaire looks like.
Jaw-droppingly handsome.
She blinked. ‘Good morning,’ she said, well practised from years of socialising at every event anyone could imagine. ‘I’m April Spencer. Are you Mr Bennell?’
He nodded. ‘You got here quickly.’
‘I did,’ she said. ‘The agency emphasised the urgency of this placement.’
Silence. But, despite her usually sparkling conversational skills, April didn’t rush to fill it. Instead she simply stood still beneath Hugh Bennell’s gaze.
He was still looking at her. Unreadably but intensely. It was a strange and unfamiliar sensation.
But not entirely uncomfortable.
There was something about him—the way he stood, maybe—that created a sense of calm. And of time.
Time to take a handful of moments to study the man before her—to take in the contrast of his black hair and olive skin. To admire the thick slashes of his eyebrows, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the elegance of his mouth.
He was more interesting than gorgeous, she realised, with a slightly crooked nose and an angular chin. His too-long hair and his stubble—forgotten, she was sure, rather than fashionable.
But it was that sum of those imperfect parts that made a darkly, devastatingly attractive whole.
And definitely not what she’d been expecting.
Whatever she’d thought a mysterious billionaire who deliberately shunned the spotlight would look like, this was not it.
He was also nothing like Evan.
That realisation came from left field, shocking her.
April blinked again. What was she doing?
‘Please come in,’ Hugh Bennell said. As naturally as if only a beat of time had passed.
Maybe it had?
April felt flustered and confused—and seriously annoyed with herself.
She’d just met her new boss. She needed to pull herself together.
She was probably just tired from the long hours she’d been working.
But did tiredness explain the way her gaze documented the breadth of her new boss’s shoulders as she stepped inside?
Nope.
There was no way she could pretend she didn’t know what the fireworks in her belly meant. It had just been a long time since they’d been associated with anyone but her husband.
And a pretty long time since she’d associated them with Evan.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a second.
No. No. No, no, no.
She had not flown halfway around the world to turn into a puddle over a man. Over her boss. No matter how mysterious.
That certainly wasn’t why she was working two jobs and sharing a room in a truly awful shared house.
She’d come to London to live independently. Without her mother’s money for the first time in her life and without Evan for the first time since she was seventeen.
And she needed this job. She certainly needed the very generous hourly rate.
She didn’t need fireworks, or the heat that had pooled in her belly.
‘Miss Spencer?’
April’s eyes snapped open. ‘Sorry, Mr Bennell.’
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
He did have gorgeous eyes. Thoughtful eyes that looked as if a million things were happening within them.
‘Of course,’ she said with a deliberate smile.
He inclined his chin, somewhat sceptically. ‘I was just saying that we’ll run through your responsibilities in the kitchen.’
She nodded, then followed him down the narrow hall beside the rather grand if dusty staircase.
As they walked April did her absolute best to shove all thoughts of fireworks or heat firmly out of her mind—and her body. Frustratingly, Hugh’s well-worn, perfectly fitted jeans did nothing to help this endeavour.
Neither did the unwanted realisation that—for the first time since Evan had told her he didn’t love her and her sparkling life had been dulled—she felt truly alive.
* * *
April Spencer was beautiful.
Objectively beautiful. As if she’d stepped off the pages of a catalogue and into his mother’s house.
For a while he’d stood and just looked at her, because he’d felt helpless to do anything but.
He’d looked at her chocolate-brown hair, at her porcelain skin and her crystal blue eyes. At her lips—pink, and shining with something glossy. At her fitted clothes and the long coat cinched in tight at her waist.
He’d expected a backpacker. Someone younger, really. Someone he could actually imagine lifting and shifting boxes.
This woman was not it.
This woman was poised and utterly together. Everything about her exuded strength and confidence. As if she was used to commanding a room. Or a corporation.
Not rummaging through boxes.
It just didn’t fit.
He’d let her in, but then he had turned to face her—to question her.
He needed to know who she was and what she was doing here.
But when he’d turned her eyes had been closed.
He’d watched her for a second as she’d taken deep breaths. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. And it was in that moment—while that knowledgeable gaze had been hidden—that he’d sensed vulnerability. A vulnerability that had been completely disguised by her polish and her smile.
And so, instead of interrogating her, he’d asked her if she was okay.
And instead of calling the agency back, asking for someone more suitable, he’d led her into the kitchen and handed her a confidentiality agreement to sign.
That
