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‘You’re not allowed to touch your phone. Nor am I allowed to touch mine,’ said Jack. ‘Not for the next six hours. Not even if they ring or beep or spontaneously combust.’
‘Six hours?’ They were going to be out that long? ‘That okay?’ ‘I… I guess.’ It was better than staying the night, right? ‘First to cave loses.’ ‘Loses what?’ His sudden unexpected smile was too wicked for her liking. ‘What you should be asking is what the winner receives.’ Stephanie turned in her seat, her heart drumming heavy-metal style. ‘What do you win if I cave?’ ‘A taste.’ ‘Of…?’ ‘What do you think?’ he asked, too softly. ‘My blog is ready to be bought but I’m not on the table, Mr Wolfe,’ she breathed, trying to be icy. And failing. ‘Not yet—and it’s Jack.’ ‘Not ever, Mr Wolfe.’ ‘You’re afraid I’ll bite? I won’t. I’m talking about one kiss.’ She stared at him. He was driving along as if he hadn’t a care in the world. As if he hadn’t just suggested something wildly inappropriate. And so wildly tempting. Finally he glanced over at her. ‘You can’t tell me you haven’t considered the idea already.’ NATALIE ANDERSON adores a happy ending—which is why she always reads the back of a book first. Just to be sure. So you can be sure you’ve got a happy ending in your hands right now—because she promises nothing less. Along with happy endings she loves peppermint-filled dark chocolate, pineapple juice and extremely long showers. Not to mention spending hours teasing her imaginary friends with dating dilemmas. She tends to torment them before eventually relenting and offering—you guessed it—a happy ending. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, with her gorgeous husband and four fabulous children. If, like her, you love a happy ending, be sure to come and say hi on facebook/authornataliea, on Twitter @authornataliea, or at her website/blog: www.natalie-anderson.com
Tycoon’s Terms of Engagement
Natalie Anderson Table of Contents ‘YOU’RE NOT TO leave me alone with him, you understand?’ Stephanie Johnson—Steffi Leigh to her quadrillion blog subscribers—closed the passenger door and glared at her best friend. ‘Stop stressing. It’s not like he’s dangerous.’ Tara rummaged in her oversized handbag as she walked round to the footpath, not bothering to look up or to lock the car. ‘He’s more than dangerous. He’s like God,’ Stephanie argued. Because Jack Wolfe held her whole world in his hands. ‘And you know I can’t keep the act up for long.’ Long enough for the ninety-second vlogs she recorded in the corner of her bedroom—sure. But staying as ‘Steffi Leigh’ for a three-hour meeting out in the real world? She hadn’t a hope. At least not without help. Absently she nibbled on her fingernail, only to get a bite of fabric. Ugh. She’d forgotten she was wearing sleek white gloves—their purpose to hide the chewed-to-the-quick ugliness of her nails. Her whole vintage look was to hide her real, slightly screwed-up self. ‘Well, if you’d stop rubbing your face…’ Tara stepped in close, her blusher brush raised like the weapon it was. ‘And stand still…’ As if that was possible. Her kitten-heeled shoes were half killing her toes, her stomach was churning and she was freezing, despite the weather app on her phone reckoning it was thirty-two degrees already. Stephanie waved Tara’s annoying brush away and checked the time on her phone again. ‘Let’s go. We can’t be late.’ She didn’t need the blusher—she’d probably turn beetroot the second he asked her a tricky question. As she turned towards the hotel her panic sharpened. She was going to give herself away in the first five minutes… Because Steffi Leigh was all fiction. And Stephanie Johnson was a phony. ‘Of course you can be late,’ Tara scoffed, burrowing in her bag again. ‘You’re Steffi Leigh. You’re going to make an entrance.’ Stephanie winced. That was going to happen anyway, given she looked as if she’d just stepped out of a nineteen-fifties sewing catalogue—all full-skirted dress, nipped-in waist, kid gloves, kitten heels and pin-curled hair. She could see people driving past and turning their heads, probably wondering if it was a photo shoot—what with the make-up artist touching up her face on the street. If only she was a model. If only she wasn’t going to have to speak and try to sell her site as some stellar
