Prologue

      ‘YOU’VE GOT THE Prime Minister calling in ten minutes.’

      Jack nods, showing not a flicker of response at the prospect of this. Then again, nothing about Jack Grant is what you’d expect. For a self-made billionaire-investor-cum-philanthropist-cum-sex-god, he is wild, disrespectful of authority and the establishment, and rough around the edges. Deliciously so.

      Take this situation: Jack, in his bed, naked as the day he was born, uncaring that he should have been at his desk an hour ago. That I can see most of his beautiful back and backside. That my insides are clenching with hot, steamy lust.

      ‘About...?’

      It’s a lazy drawl as he flips over and pierces me with those intelligent green eyes. His accent is pure Irish brogue. Like Colin Farrell after a night of cigarettes and booze: deep, hoarse and throaty.

      ‘The latest episode of The Great British Bake Off.’

      I roll my eyes. We’ve been negotiating to buy a huge swathe of Crown land for the last six months; it’s at the highest level of negotiation and, given the media interest, the Prime Minister has become involved.

      ‘What do you think?’

      His laugh is a rumble that barrels out of his chest. ‘Well, every man needs a good scone recipe.’

      ‘And you’ve got one?’

      ‘Sure.’

      He grins. It’s a grin that is at once devilish and charming, and I know how easy it must be for him to get women into bed. And that’s before you factor in the body, the money, the power.

      ‘Nine minutes,’ I snap.

      His grin unfurls like a ribbon on his face. My heart kerthunks. I ignore it. Stupid heart.

      ‘Did you book Sydney?’

      ‘Yes.’

      He arches a brow at my impatient tone and, as if to contradict it, stretches in the bed, his arms high over his head, his body