.

chuckle together, but there’s a thread of steel through her words. She hasn’t taken the easy route, preferring to strike out alone rather than sit back on her laurels. And while she’s young for a sole business owner, I can tell she’s not a pushover. She’s clearly a savvy businesswoman or she wouldn’t have made it into my office.

      I slide my eyes over the entire Blair package, caution warring with intrigue. The way she carries herself, the way she’s dressed for a boardroom and her handshake are all clues that this woman values her business. The sky-high heels and the whimsical way she’s simply pushed her sunglasses up onto her head tell me she’s particular, but not rigid, at least when it comes to her own appearance.

      I breathe my first sigh of relief—I have no time for high-maintenance women. Perhaps this is a chance to dust off that rusty charm, use it to my advantage, dispense with this misunderstanding and suggest that lunch.

      ‘So, shall we start?’ she asks, jerking me from pleasure and back to business.

      ‘By all means.’ I quash the flicker of sexual interest, my divorce having cured me of anything...romantic. Sex has become something I slot into my diary along with the gym, dental check-ups and haircuts, although perhaps a little more regularly.

      When I don’t initiate any conversation, Blair reaches for the art case and pulls an A3-sized board from it, laying it on the coffee table.

      ‘I’ve sent through digital files of the technical work I discussed with Graham, but I also brought a mood board to give you an idea of the finished look.’ She looks up, her fingers gliding over the fabric samples and paint swatches stuck to the board. ‘Interiors are three-dimensional. Tactile.’ Her eyes spark with enthusiasm, doubling her attractiveness and sharpening my powers of observation where she’s concerned.

      She continues. ‘I prefer to feel something under my hand, to test its durability, to luxuriate in its texture, to imagine what it would feel like to lie upon, or walk upon barefoot...’

      Her passion, her zeal, does something to my already heightened awareness—a fresh stirring below the belt. Would she trail those elegant hands over my bare chest the way she’s caressing the fabric swatches?

      I snap my attention back to what she’s saying. Until this mistake is cleared up, my libido will have to take a back seat.

      ‘Interiors are sensory, something you experience with your entire body. You can’t appreciate these facets on an iPad.’

      Her mouth is sensual. Mesmerising. My cock twitches in payment for my arse-over-tit priorities. I nod, her enthusiasm shifting something inside a dusty, neglected corner of my chest. She loves her work. I’ll be sorry to disappoint her.

      ‘I can appreciate that.’ I shift in my seat, directing my frown to the swatch of fabric under my fingertips.

      A blink, a sniff and my focus returns. Not to her passion or her rocking body, but the reason she’s here. I abandon her mood board. Time to nip this in the bud. ‘Excuse my confusion—I’m playing catch-up a little here. What exactly did you and Graham discuss?’

      Her face falls a fraction, a hint of uncertainty entering her eyes, which seem to change colour in the light—are they blue or green? I can’t decide. And why have I never noticed before?

      ‘Well...he wanted me to start as soon as possible. I’ve managed to reschedule a few other projects, so—’

      ‘Start what?’ I brace myself for confirmation of what I’ve already guessed, my fingertips gripping the armrests.

      Her brows cinch, a tiny crease forming above the bridge of her nose. ‘Renovations. On the Faulkner.’

       Damn. I knew it. No way.

      ‘You are joking?’

      Confusion wrinkles her brow. ‘No. Why would I joke?’

      My enamel creaks from the tension in my jaw. ‘I don’t need to tell you it’s peak season—the hotel is booked solid for the next three months.’ I keep my face neutral while my mind whirrs at how much it might cost us financially to extricate ourselves from whatever Dad has set in motion, and how much it will cost me personally, in my time to...deal with Blair Cameron, which, outside of this cock-up, isn’t a wholly unpleasant reality.

      ‘Yes, I did question the timing.’ She shrugs one shoulder. ‘But Graham was adamant.’

      I stroke my chin, contemplating my next move. No matter how gorgeous she is, no matter how, under different circumstances, I’d welcome dealing with this beautiful, passionate woman, there’s no way she’s laying a single elegant finger on my fucking hotel. The feeling that I’m a caged lion builds, an urge to quash this quickly and at all costs.

      ‘I’m sorry, but Graham...’ I clear my throat, my natural inclination to hedge. ‘Let’s just say he’s currently indisposed.’ No need to go into details of his health with a woman whose family, at least professionally, I could consider rivals. If she’s unaware of Graham’s health issues, the family friendship can’t be that strong. My stomach pitches at the reminder of those health issues—I’d love to blank them out, pretend they’re just a bad dream.

      Her stare widens with sympathy. ‘I’m sorry to hear that—I didn’t know. I hope it’s nothing serious.’

      I incline my head, neither confirming nor denying, while my stomach knots with frustration that there’s little I can do on that score currently. I focus on the easier to solve—and easy on the eye—predicament sitting opposite.

      ‘So I’m afraid whatever arrangement you might have had...’ I wave my hand over her colour-coordinated and detailed mood board ‘...is no longer required.’ I slide the offering back along the table.

      Her face registers quickly concealed shock. Her stare bounces up from the ‘teal’ and ‘taupe’ swatches and hardens, an expression I’ve never seen her wear before.

      ‘Arrangement?’ Her luscious mouth lingers over the word as she takes a slow sip of her drink, her lips caressing the rim of the glass, a distraction my libido in no way needs. She stares directly at me, as if I’m suggesting something illicit.

      I’m tempted, and I have plenty of other illicit distractions if she’s up for a brief fling.

      But the look in her eyes tells me I face an admirable adversary. And I put business first. Always.

      ‘We had no arrangement,’ she says.

      For a second a weight on my shoulders lifts at this easily rectified situation. ‘Great—that’s all sorted.’ I smile—now seems like the perfect time to switch on the charm, to salvage something from this serendipitous meeting, to get to know the stunning Blair Cameron better. ‘Perhaps you’d allow me to take you out for lunch, so we can catch up properly.’

      My offer, layered with my usual confidence, seems to do the trick. Her pupils dilate, blocking out most of the blue-green hologram of her irises, her pulse picks up, thrumming rapidly in her neck, and her legs shift, presumably as she presses her thighs together. She’s turned on by my suggestion, her mind perhaps imagining the same satisfying outcome, although her scenario is probably a little less graphic than the one rendering me stuck in the chair by the beginnings of a hard-on.

      I lounge back against the leather. Who knew that what, only ten minutes ago, felt like a thorn in my side would end so...gratifyingly? That she doesn’t seem perturbed by our age difference? And if it’s just a fling, why should it matter?

      My mind shuffles through my engagements for the rest of the afternoon, my dick stuck on the fact she didn’t turn down my offer of lunch flat. There’s nothing that can’t be...reprioritised.

      Then she sits a little straighter and tilts her head. ‘Another time perhaps.’ The eyes are back to flinty, although her pulse still trills nineteen to the dozen. ‘Why don’t we keep this about business, for now?’

      For now...? Promising.