The Dare Collection November 2018. Christy McKellen
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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 a few people who thought at twenty-six I had no business running a multimillion-pound company. ‘I...’ God, what had he said? Something about being impressed? ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said in a deep, gravel-rough voice that reminded me of what I did to myself last night.
I tugged at my hand. He kept a hold of it for another long second, a frown flicking over his face as his jaw clenched and unclenched.
The depth of his examination began to grate. Then the grating turned into something else. Something darker, saucier. Something that emphatically reminded my pussy that a vibrator wasn’t enough any more and what it truly yearned for was a hard, experienced cock.
Please. Not now.
I exhaled in relief as he dropped my hand and then relief morphed to irritation as he turned to the sports car.
‘Are you leaving in that?’
‘I should hope so, since I asked for it to be delivered for that very purpose.’
It took monumental effort not to grit my teeth. ‘You should’ve informed me you would be driving yourself. As you can see, I came to pick you up.’
He tossed a mocking glance at the Rolls Royce and his mouth quirked. ‘It’s a gorgeous ride, but I’m in the mood for a little more horsepower this morning.’
Calm. Be calm. ‘Very well. Shall we arrange a time to meet later?’
‘I have meetings scheduled all day. Then a hot date with the sexy roulette table at the Casino de Monte-Carlo later. She’s always a tease, but an enjoyable one.’
In anticipation of a hectic Monday getting the crew ready to sail, I’d given myself the day off tomorrow. I watched it disappear in a puff of smoke. ‘Why did you ask me to come here this morning if you can’t meet with me?’
‘I asked you to come because it’s a half-hour drive to my hotel. And I believe in time efficiency.’ With that, he opened the passenger door and raised an eyebrow at me. ‘So are you coming, Miss Branson?’ The suggestive decadence in his tone should’ve made me madder. But my traitorous pussy grew damper.
‘I can’t just leave the car here.’
‘There you go again, throwing obstacles in the way of our fledgling...liaison.’
I cast a look towards the hired driver of the limo and nodded, dismissing him and the waste of money Gideon had just cost me.
I grabbed my small purse and the folder I’d brought with me before heading over to the Aston Martin, where Gideon Mortimer stood holding the door open for me.
That small act of chivalry was still unravelling a tiny wave of shock through me as he slid behind the wheel. The throaty engine roared to life the same time I was hit with a lungful of whatever delicious aftershave he was wearing. It was like a shot to the chest from a double-barrelled gun. Compounded by the power of the car when he accelerated out of the airport and the play of his thighs when he aggressively changed gears, I was struck dumb for several minutes.
The busy streets of Nice were filled with tourists at this time of year but Gideon seemed to know how to avoid getting caught up in traffic. At the first set of red lights, he slanted a glance at me. ‘Is the crew issue resolved?’
Shit, he had to give me the tough question straight off the bat. I took a moment to savour