Powerful and Proud: Beneath the Veil of Paradise / In the Heat of the Spotlight / His Brand of Passion. Кейт Хьюит
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skin, felt like a bomb going off inside her body. Not just the usual tingle of attraction, the shower of sparks that was your body’s basic reaction to a good-looking guy. No, a bomb. She jerked her hand away, heard her breath come out in a rush. ‘Don’t—’
‘Whoa.’ He held his hands up in front of him. ‘Sorry, my mistake.’ But he didn’t look sorry. He looked like he knew exactly what she’d just experienced. ‘I meant what I said, Millie. It’s going to be a fun evening. I like a challenge.’
‘Oh, please.’ His stupid comment made her feel safe. She wanted this Chase to be exactly what she’d thought he was: attractive, arrogant and utterly unthreatening.
Chase grinned. ‘I knew you’d expect me to say that.’ And, just like that, she was back to wondering. Millie snatched up a menu.
‘Shall we order?’
‘Drinks first.’
‘I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay with ice, please.’
‘That sounds about right,’ he murmured and rose from the table. Millie watched him walk to the bar, her gaze glued to his easy, long-limbed stride. Yes, she was staring at his butt. He looked good in board shorts.
By sheer force of will she dragged her gaze away from him and stared down at her phone. Why couldn’t she have one work crisis? She’d had a dozen a day when she was in the office. Of course she knew why; she just didn’t like it. Jack had insisted she take a week’s holiday with no interruptions or furtive tele-commuting. She hadn’t taken any in two years, and new company policy—supposedly for the health of its employees—demanded that you use at least half of your paid leave in one year.
What a ridiculous policy.
She wanted to work. She’d been working twelve-, fourteen- and sometimes even sixteen-hour days for two years and screeching to a halt to come here was making her very, very twitchy.
‘Here you go.’ Chase had returned to the table and placed a glass of wine in front of her. Millie eyed his own drink warily; it looked like soda.
‘What are you drinking?’
‘Some kind of cola.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s cold, at least.’
‘Do you have a drinking problem?’ she asked abruptly and he laughed.
‘Good idea, let’s skip right to the important stuff. No, I don’t. I’m just not drinking right now.’ He took a sip of his soda, eyeing her thoughtfully. Millie held his gaze. All right, asking that had been a bit abrupt and even weird, but she’d forgotten how to do chit-chat.
‘So, Millie, where are you from?’
‘New York City.’
‘I suppose I should have guessed that.’
‘Oh, really?’ She bristled. Again. ‘You seem to think you have me figured out.’
‘No, but I tend to be observant. And you definitely have that hard city gloss.’
‘Where are you from, then?’
He gave her one of his toe-curling smiles. His eyes, Millie thought distantly, were so warm. She wanted to curl up in them, which was a nonsensical thought. ‘I’m from New York too.’
‘I suppose I could have guessed that.’
He laughed, a low, rich chuckle. ‘How?’
‘You’ve got that over-privileged, city-boy veneer,’ she responded sweetly, to which he winced with theatrical exaggeration.
‘Ouch.’
‘At least now we understand each other.’
‘Do we?’ he asked softly and Millie focused on her drink. Sip. Stare at the ice cubes bobbing in the liquid. Don’t look at him. ‘Why are you so prickly?’
‘I’m not.’ It was a knee-jerk response. She was being prickly. She hadn’t engaged with a man in any sense in far too long and she didn’t know how to start now. Why had she agreed to this? She took another sip of wine, let the bubbles crisp on her tongue. ‘Sorry,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’m not usually quite this bitchy.’
‘I bring out the best in you?’
‘I suppose you do.’ She met his gaze, meaning to smile with self-deprecating wryness, but somehow her lips froze in something more like a grimace. He was gazing at her with a sudden intentness that made her breath dry and her heart start to pound. She wanted him to be light, wry, shallow. He wasn’t being any of those things right now. And, even when he had been, she had a horrible feeling he’d simply done it by choice.
‘So why are you on St Julian’s?’ he asked.
‘Holiday, of course.’
‘You don’t seem like the type to holiday willingly.’
Which was all too true, but she didn’t like him knowing it, or knowing anything. ‘Oh?’ she asked, glad to hear she was hitting that self-deprecating note she’d tried for earlier. ‘And you know me so well?’
He leaned forward, suddenly predatory. ‘I think I do.’
Her heart still pounding, Millie leaned back as if she actually felt relaxed and arched an eyebrow. ‘How is that?’
‘Let’s see.’ He leaned back too, sprawled in his chair in a manner so casually relaxed and yet also innately powerful, even in an ocean-side bar wearing board shorts. ‘You’re a lawyer, or else you’re in finance.’ He glanced at her, considering, and Millie froze. ‘Finance, I’d say, something demanding but also elite. Hedge-fund manager, maybe?’
Damn it. How the hell did he know that? She said nothing.
‘You work long hours, of course,’ Chase continued, clearly warming to this little game. ‘And you live in a high-rise building, full-service, on— Let’s see. The Upper East Side? But near the subway, so you can get to work in under twenty minutes. Although you try to jog to work at least two mornings a week.’ Now he arched an eyebrow, a little smile playing about his mouth. ‘How am I doing so far?’
‘Terrible,’ Millie informed him shortly. She was seething inside, seething with the pain of someone knowing her at all, even just the basics. And she hated that he’d been able to guess it, read her as easily as a book. What else could he find out about her just by his so-called powers of observation? ‘I run to work three mornings a week, not two, and I live in midtown.’
Chase grinned. ‘I must be slipping.’
‘Anyway,’ Millie said, ‘I could guess the same kinds of things about you.’
‘OK, shoot.’
She eyed him just as he had her, trying to gain a little time to assemble her thoughts. She had no idea what he did or where he lived. She could guess, but that was all it would be—a guess. Taking a breath, she began. ‘I think you work in some pseudo-creative field, like IT or advertising.’
‘Pseudo-creative?’ Chase interjected, nearly spluttering his soda. ‘You really are tough, Camilla.’
‘Millie,’ she reminded him shortly. Only Rob had called her Camilla. ‘You live in Chelsea or Soho, in one of those deluxe bachelor loft apartments. A converted warehouse with views of the river and zero charm.’
‘That is so stereotypical, it hurts.’
‘With a great room that’s fantastic for parties, top-of-the-line leather sofas, a huge TV and a high-tech kitchen full of gadgets you never use.’
He shook his head slowly, his gaze fastened on hers. He smiled, almost looking sorry for her. ‘Totally wrong.’
She folded her arms. Strange how her observations of him made her feel exposed. ‘Oh? How so?’
‘All right, you might be right about the loft apartment, but it’s