CHAPTER THREE

      Gideon

      AFTER TWO LONG weeks of self-enforced celibacy—maddening, unrealistic and utterly fucked-up celibacy I’d imposed on myself because I’d never been a half-measures kind of guy—the delicious challenge of Leonora Branson was like a shot of morphine in my bloodstream.

      Hell, she’d nearly made me blow my load with that ‘say please’ shit.

      I’d never begged for anything in my life.

      She’d made me want to beg. For the damned towel and a whole lot more besides. It was that combination of sexy stubbornness and pure defiance that did it. Not to mention that unfettered boldness.

      But if I was honest, she’d floored me back at the airport by being the polar opposite of what I’d expected. Her stiff intransigence over the phone had reminded me of a schoolmistress, and instead she’d turned out to be a nineteen fifties pin-up bombshell.

      Simply put, Leonora Branson—even her name was cruelly deceptive—was too bloody gorgeous for her own good. Coupled with the intelligence that shone from her eyes and her impressive achievements with such a new business success, it was enough to throw me seriously off guard.

      It was almost amusing that she was doing her damnedest to wrestle all that brain power and fist-biting perfection into a military-like Armani suit. Leonora would command attention adorned in a sack and still have sex-starved fuckers like me at her mercy.

      Or seconds away from stroking their cocks in the shower in full view of her.

       Bloody hell.

      I sucked in a shaky breath, knew that if I didn’t shut off the image of those wide, delicious ocean-blue eyes, I’d come all over the bathroom tiles.

      Her expression was cool and collected when I stepped into the living room five minutes later, save for the telltale pulse beat at her throat. I barely managed to resist the urge to test her resolve.