Worth The Risk. Zara Cox
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Leonie
AT A QUARTER to seven I stood by the limo in the private airstrip that serviced Nice airport. A few more phone calls this morning had finally furnished me with the info of at which airport Gideon would be landing.
As his private jet landed and taxied closer, I eyed the gleaming silver Aston Martin DB11 parked next to the limo.
Although currently driverless, it still evoked irritation. There were no other planes scheduled to land for another hour—I checked with VIP staff. Which most likely meant one thing.
The client I’d risen at the crack of dawn to pick up had arranged his own ride.
Deep breaths...
I despised the careless waste of money his unreasonableness triggered. Which was a little ironic considering the line of business I was in but still... I shrugged away my ire and watched the sleek private jet come to a standstill.
Two minutes later, the jet’s engines powered down and short steps dropped onto the tarmac.
And from fifty feet away I caught my first glimpse of Gideon Mortimer.
Holy God.
I’d thought his sex-stroking voice was sinfully aggravating. But the man’s face, lean hips and long-limbed body...everything about him was captivating enough to make my jaw sag in wonder for three embarrassing seconds before I caught myself.
Still I couldn’t look away.
Dark brown wavy hair, glossy beneath the resplendent sunshine, tossed about in the morning breeze. As I watched him approach in a slow saunter, I could’ve sworn every movement he made was precisely choreographed by the director of a perfume ad.
Aviator shades perched on a patrician nose stopped me from seeing his eyes, but that didn’t even matter. I was already preoccupied with the square jaw that held an I-didn’t-bother-to-shave-deal-with-it stubble that prompted fingers—not mine—to test its roughness.
As he drew nearer, my gaze dropped to his mouth.
Dear heaven. Every millimetre of that mouth was built for filthy, decadent sin. For making fast and furious friends with a woman’s lady business, and not disengaging until someone was clawing at silk sheets, screaming for mercy.
Thank God I took the edge off last night, otherwise I’d have a hard time functioning right now. Gideon Mortimer was the epitome of everything I’d thought him to be—sinfully handsome and very much aware of his power over women.
Just like the man whose blood unfortunately ran through my veins; the man I’d never called Dad because he didn’t deserve the title. A no-good son of a bitch I’d never forgiven for what he did to my mother. To me.
Those reminders helped shore up my foundations as I briskly tugged on my bespoke Armani jacket and pinned a cool professional smile on my face. ‘Mr Mortimer?’
He ignored me, peering first into the limo and then, frowning, at his immediate surroundings before his jaw clenched. ‘Jesus, she didn’t even bother to turn up,’ he muttered. ‘Fucking unbelievable.’
I took a deep breath and stepped forward. ‘Mr Mortimer?’ I waited for him to pluck his sunglasses off his face before I thrust out my hand. ‘Welcome to Nice. I’m—’
‘Not who I’m expecting. As much as I appreciate a pretty smile and saucy little chauffeur’s uniform, your boss should’ve come here herself, like she promised. I should’ve guessed that promise of flexibility was too good to be true. Probably that bragging about her gold medals, too,’ he muttered under his breath as he turned towards the Aston Martin.
‘First of all, this isn’t a chauffeur’s uniform. It’s bespoke Armani. Second, I don’t believe she promised she would be here. If you would just—’
‘What are you? Her assistant? Her driver? Are you even old enough to drive this thing?’
‘Mr Mortimer—’
Again he cut me off. ‘Fucking typical. Forget it.’ He pointed his electronic key at the sports car. The boot popped open and he threw his weekend bag into it and slammed it with repressed force. ‘When someone gives their word I expect them to abide by it.’ The set to his jaw suggested he wasn’t talking about the wrong he believed I’d committed. ‘Tell her she just lost my business.’
‘Did she even have it in the first place?’ I snapped. ‘Or were you just toying with her in between playing with your millions?’
He froze with one hand on the door. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Are you sure you want to be excused? Only you seem to enjoy riding roughshod over anyone who so much as throws the tiniest protest your way.’
He slowly leaned his rangy body against the car, crossed his ankles and folded his arms. It was really hard to know which part of his body to look at. Or to avoid looking to prevent sensory overload. He moved like the gears of a well-oiled machine, with impressive fluidity and contained power. I tried not to think of what all that power could do if concentrated between a woman’s legs.
Because the potential to unleash mayhem was there. Barely restrained. Waiting to explode. Something about his unshaven face and the beaten leather jacket draping his body spelled unbridled danger I had every intention of avoiding.
‘You have something to say to me?’ he asked in a tone saturated with English boarding-school arrogance.
I steeled myself to hold his gaze. ‘Funnily enough, yes. Question is, are you going to listen or keep talking over me?’
Dark grey eyes flecked with gold and hazel, surrounded by the most lush lashes I’d ever seen on a man, raked me slowly from head to toe, and back again. He lingered on my legs, my hips, paused the longest on my breasts. Gideon Mortimer was a breasts man. And my breasts were tightening, tingling, in preparation to savour that revelation.
Oh, hell, no.
I clenched my fist over the car key until faint pain in my palm distracted my body from the thick, drugging sensation swirling through me. I couldn’t be attracted to Gideon Mortimer. I just couldn’t.
Before he could respond, I held out my hand once more. ‘Good to meet you, Mr Mortimer. I’m Ms Branson.’
His arms dropped and he looked from my outstretched hand to my face. ‘You’re Leonora Branson?’
‘Yes.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Shit. I thought she...you fobbed me off with an assistant.’
‘I know. You made your feelings very clear on the matter.’
He had the grace to grimace. ‘Apologies. I’ve had a testy few weeks.’
A little mollified, I attempted another smile. ‘Apology accepted.’
He took my hand as his gaze made another subtle pass over my body. ‘How old are you, Leonora Branson?’
Nope, not going near that one. ‘Old enough to have run a successful company for six years with a portfolio of satisfied customers.’
‘Doesn’t really answer my question, does it?’ he said.
‘No, it doesn’t. Besides not playing games I also don’t give out personal information. Is that going to be a problem?’
‘Only if you have a problem with me being impressed that someone so young would be in the position you’re in.’
The unexpected compliment blew a hole through my irritation, just as the pressure of his hand on mine was eroding my intention not to be seriously seduced by his drop-dead gorgeousness.
I knew I was younger than I looked, a fact that had surprised