Praise for Heidi Rice

‘Heidi Rice is simply brilliant when it comes to writing sharp, sassy and sexy romantic novels!’

—www.cataromance.com

‘The amusing opening spins into an emotional and heartfelt story.’

—RT Book Reviews on

Hot-Shot Tycoon

‘I was actually breathless while reading this book….

It’s a sensual ride you won’t want to lose the opportunity of reading.’

—www.thePinkHeartSociety.com on

Public Affair, Secretly Expecting

About the Author

HEIDI RICE was born and bred and still lives in London, England. She has two boys who love to bicker, a wonderful husband who, luckily for everyone, has loads of patience, and a supportive and ever-growing British/French/Irish/American family. As much as Heidi adores ‘the Big Smoke’, she also loves America, and every two years or so she and her best friend leave hubby and kids behind and Thelma and Louise it across the States for a couple of weeks (although they always leave out the driving off a cliff bit). She’s been a film buff since her early teens and a romance junkie for almost as long. She indulged her first love by being a film reviewer. Then a few years ago she decided to spice up her life by writing romance. Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills & Boon® novel.

Heidi loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at heidi@heidi-rice.com or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com

Also by Heidi Rice

The Good, the Bad and the Wild

On the First Night of Christmas …

Unfinished Business with the Duke

Public Affair, Secretly Expecting

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cupcakes and Killer Heels

Heidi Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For women who love chocolate and cupcakes

and can live with that extra inch on the thighs!

Like moi!

With special thanks to Lorraine

and the nice peeps at the Lincoln’s Inn Library.

CHAPTER ONE

TAKE a chill pill, pal. This is a make-up emergency.

Pouting into her rear-view mirror, Ruby Delisantro tuned out the blare of a car horn from behind her and concentrated on applying a quick coat of Rose Blush Everstay lip gloss to calm jittery nerves.

She’d had the small but exclusive chain of Hampstead brasseries on her hit list for over a year. It had taken her months to get this afternoon’s appointment with their chef and she wanted to look her absolute best before she started the long search for a parking space.

The squeal of brakes and the teeth-jarring jolt that followed was a little harder to ignore though—as it shot her forty-quid tube of Rose Blush straight up her nose.

‘For Pete’s sake!’

Extricating the lipstick from her left nostril and hastily repairing the damage, she leapt out of her car. Having some bozo rear-end her was not the best way to prepare for her career-defining moment. Plus she’d just had Scarlett serviced and MOT’d at a cost of two hundred and twenty pounds. If any harm had been done to her beloved Bug, someone was going to die.

‘Hey, hotshot. What’s your problem? Don’t you know where your brake pedal is?’ she yelled at the man shielded behind the windscreen of the fancy Italian convertible pressed up against her bumper.

Typical. Only in Hampstead. A boy racer driving a lot more car than he can handle.

Gripping the top of the windscreen, Boy Racer jerked upright and jumped out of his car in one athletic movement. Ruby’s lungs ceased to function and the fervent wish that she’d actually lost the six pounds she’d been debating losing for nearly a decade flitted through her mind.

This was no boy. This was most definitely a man.

A tall, strong, long-limbed, super-gorgeous man with close-cropped dark hair, broad shoulders and slim hips expertly displayed in worn, low-slung jeans. His eyes were disguised behind a pair of expensive sunglasses, but the manly dent in his chin and the shadow of stubble defining chiselled cheeks weren’t doing a thing for Ruby’s breathing difficulties, especially when his head dipped.

Is he checking me out?

‘What’s my problem?’ He threw up his hands, making his muscular torso ripple under a T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan: ‘Barristers do it on a trial basis.’ ‘What’s your problem, lady? You’re parked in the middle of the road.’

Ruby gulped in air to kick-start her lungs and took a moment to consider her response.

The good news was, Ruby Delisantro loved to flirt. And she was remarkably good at it. She adored the spark and sizzle of sexual attraction, the tantalising tension of verbal foreplay—and a chance to flirt with someone this good-looking didn’t present itself every day. Not only that, but the figure-hugging dress she’d picked up at Camden Market last week turned the extra weight she’d been carrying around since she was seventeen into a major asset.

The bad news was, Mr Super-Gorgeous also had a super-large stick up his backside about women drivers and seemed to be virtually oblivious to her fabulous frock. Which meant he was either gay, a misogynist or didn’t have a sense of humour. Any one of which should have been a major turn-off.

Unfortunately they weren’t. Quite.

Hold it right there, Ruby.

She raised her gaze from her contemplation of his pectoral muscles. What was she thinking? She didn’t have time to flirt with this guy—no matter how spectacular he might look in a dorky T-shirt. She had to see a man about some cupcakes.

‘There was more than enough room to get past me,’ she replied tartly, sending him a hard stare. ‘And anyhow, it was an emergency.’ Sort of.

The direction of his gaze dipped to her mouth. She mentally crossed ‘gay’ off her list as her tongue slid out to moisten lips that had suddenly turned to parchment.

No flirting, Ruby. This is non-negotiable.

He huffed out an incredulous laugh. ‘Since when is putting lipstick on an emergency?’

‘I had my parking lights on,’ she continued, ignoring the jibe. Men were hard-wired not to understand the importance of lipstick, so she wasn’t about to explain how the simple act of putting it on could bolster one’s confidence in a business situation. ‘And you ran into me.’ She strutted towards him, grateful her four-inch heels went some way to correcting the height disadvantage.

Maybe she didn’t have time to flirt. But she certainly had time to make him suffer.

‘And if you had ever bothered to read your Highway Code,’ she added, ‘you’d know that puts you in the wrong. No matter how much testosterone you’re packing.’

She flicked a contemptuous glance at his crotch to emphasise the point. Only to have her gaze snag on the prominent package displayed by the loose-fitting denims. A flush burned the back of her neck, stunning her even more—Ruby Delisantro was not and had never been a blusher.

He stepped forward—making her far too aware of exactly how tall he was.

‘Those are hazard lights,’ he said, the rich, masculine voice low and amused. ‘Not parking lights.’ He crossed his arms, making his biceps bunch under the short sleeves of his dorky T-shirt, and Ruby lost her train of thought completely.

‘And if you’d bothered to read your Highway Code you’d know that,’ he continued. ‘No matter how much oestrogen you’re packing.’

His head dipped again, the glint of August sunlight on the dark lenses of his shades doing nothing to disguise the fact that he was staring straight at her cleavage.

‘And while I can see that’s rather a lot,’ he continued, a superior smile curving sensual lips, ‘it’s no excuse not to follow the rules of the road.’

Ruby’s nipples puckered into hard points and the throb of something hot and uncomfortable swelled between her thighs. She resisted the urge to squirm. Barely.

Okay, this was just plain wrong. He was telling her off and turning her on at one and the same time. She might love to flirt, but she was not a masochist.

She slapped a hand on her hip.

‘I don’t do rules,’ she purred, pointing a coral-tipped nail at the centre of his chest. A muscle in his jaw clenched and power surged through her. ‘It makes life so dull, don’t you think?’

She lifted her finger, satisfied she’d won, only to gasp when his hand shot out and long fingers clamped on her wrist. He pulled off his sunglasses, and she shivered involuntarily, stunned by the deep forest-green of his irises.

‘Sounds to me like you need more than just driving lessons,’ he murmured, the emerald stare so penetrating her thigh muscles turned to mush.

She tugged her hand free, hoping he hadn’t felt her pulse hitting warp speed under his thumb. ‘And like all men, I suppose you think you’re man enough to teach me,’ she scoffed. So what if she was playing with fire? She could see the heat smouldering in his eyes, making the rush of adrenaline so intoxicating it didn’t leave much room for caution.

He gave a gruff chuckle. ‘I’m not like other men,’ he said softly, his confidence matching those come-to-bed eyes.

Ruby rubbed her wrist where the skin sizzled. ‘That’s what they all say.’

‘No doubt,’ he said, not sounding daunted. ‘But I can prove it. The question is are you woman enough to let me?’

The husky invitation detonated the heavy weight already pulsing at her core.

Ruby blinked, and stepped back.

Whoa there, Ruby. Slow the hell down.

The situation had spiralled out of her control, and she wasn’t sure how.

She might be an incurable flirt but she wasn’t about to date a guy after knowing him for approximately ten seconds—even if he did have the uncanny ability to short-circuit her hormones.

Plus her sixth sense was yelling at her that this guy was nowhere near her type. Beneath those mouth-watering pecs and that sexy, laid-back self-confidence, Ruby detected a control that was unnervingly focused and intense.

She flicked her long curls of chestnut hair over her shoulder. ‘What a tempting offer,’ she said with as much sarcasm as she could muster. The guy’s ego was enormous enough already. ‘But I’ve already got a date this afternoon,’ she said, ensuring her appointment with the chef at Cumberland sounded personal. ‘And I don’t do threesomes.’

The rich, resonant sound of his laughter rippled up her spine as she waltzed back to her car. She sashayed her hips—to make it clear this was a dignified retreat, and in no way a surrender.

‘Pity,’ he called after her. ‘And there I was thinking you were a bad girl.’

She glanced at him as she opened the door. ‘Wrong again,’ she shot back, stifling the twinge of regret. Did he have to look quite so spectacular leaning against his sports car, the sun turning his short dark hair to a gleaming ebony and the challenge in those striking green eyes all but irresistible?

‘I’m not a girl. I’m a woman.’

Callum Westmore laughed as the statuesque young beauty climbed back into her fire-engine red car. ‘You got that right,’ he murmured appreciatively.

The car suited her, he thought as it puttered to life. With its classy curves and bold, in-your-face style. He winced at the crunch of gears. And like its owner, it wasn’t used to being driven.

As the car pulled away she flicked her hand out of the window in a flippant wave. He chuckled and sent her an equally flippant salute back. Not easy with the heat pulsing hard in his groin.

A slow grin split his features. And the heat pulsed harder.

Wasn’t that a surprise?

When had he ever found a firebrand like her so tempting? And one who had given him the brush-off for no good reason. Because he’d bet a month’s salary the date she’d mentioned didn’t exist. He’d seen the way her glaze faltered—the classic tell for an unreliable witness.

His smile died as her car paused at the end of the leafy London lane, and he noticed the cracked brake light and the tilting bumper. The car turned onto Hampstead High Road and he read the words ‘A Touch of Frosting: Bespoke Cupcakes’, a web address and a telephone number written in glittering pink lettering on the door.

She disappeared into the traffic and he turned to examine the front of his own car, astonished to realise he’d been so distracted by their sparring match he hadn’t checked to see if there was any damage to his treasured new Ferrari.

Luckily there was only a small scuff mark on the bumper. He rubbed it with his thumb, then climbed back into the car and retrieved his phone from the glove compartment.

However much he might have enjoyed arguing with the girl, the fender-bender had been primarily his fault. She might have been double parked, but he’d taken the corner too fast and run into her. And as she’d pointed out so provocatively, the Highway Code was fairly clear on the subject. He keyed her number into the phone.

Cal always played by the rules. The law wasn’t just his profession, he demanded order and accountability in his personal life too. So he’d have to track the girl down and pay for the damage.

He squinted into the sun and put on his shades, the smile returning.

The thought of seeing her again wasn’t exactly unappealing. He usually preferred the women he dated to be predictable and undemanding. Which made his instant attraction to The Lush Ms Reckless a bit disconcerting. The woman had high-maintenance written all over her—in mile-high neon letters.

But his social life had been non-existent ever since Gemma had called a halt to their occasional sleepovers a month ago—just because he’d refused point blank to let her move in. He liked his own space, his solitude, what was so hard to understand about that? With two high-profile cases lined up already for next month, he’d resigned himself to a celibate summer.

But now the thrill of the chase beckoned—and he had the whole of the August Bank Holiday weekend to play.

Cal tapped his thumb on the steering wheel, remembering the petal-soft skin on the inside of the girl’s wrist, the frantic punch of her pulse and the way her brown eyes had melted to a molten chocolate. The live-wire attraction between them had been mutual. He was sure of it.

Cal’s grin widened as he turned on the ignition. The smashed brake light and damaged bumper gave him the perfect excuse to tussle with Ms Reckless again. And next time she wouldn’t be able to give him the brush-off so easily.

CHAPTER TWO

‘How did it go?’

Ruby glanced up at her assistant Ella’s eager enquiry as she flung her bag and the hefty file folder of product photos onto the brand new leather sofa in Touch of Frosting’s freshly painted reception area.

She kicked off her heels and flopped onto the sofa.

‘Don’t ask,’ Ruby moaned, propping her aching feet on the maplewood coffee table—which she’d splurged on a week ago along with the sofa and paint job, convinced she was going to secure the Cumberland order today.

Ella plopped down beside her. ‘But I thought it was in the bag?’

‘It would have been, if Scarlett’s bumper hadn’t fallen off and made me twenty minutes late for my appointment.’ Ruby dropped her head against the sofa cushions and let out a heartfelt sigh. ‘Unfortunately, chefs with two Michelin stars aren’t known for their patience and understanding. Gregori Mallini refused to see me, then his sous chef gave me a ten-minute lecture about how precious the great Mallini’s time is and informed me he didn’t do business with people who couldn’t bother to be prompt.’

‘Oh, no.’

Ruby swivelled her head to see the sympathetic frown on Ella’s face and the usual dusting of icing sugar on her nose and cheeks—and the tide of guilt almost swamped her. ‘That would be the child-friendly way of putting it.’

Ella’s frown deepened. ‘But didn’t you have Scarlett serviced, like, a week ago?’

‘Yes … but that would be before she got hit on by a swanky Italian sports car.’

And my hormones led me astray with its equally swanky owner.

If only she hadn’t got sidetracked by the guy, she would have noticed the damage to her car … Or at the very least given herself enough time to get to the precious appointment on time.

She wanted to kick herself. And she would have to, if her toes weren’t screaming in agony after racing across half of Camden in the high-heeled shoes she’d bought specially to impress a chef she’d failed to actually meet.

‘You were in an accident!’ Ella gasped. ‘Are you all right?’

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Ruby said calmly, Ella’s concern making the wave of guilt crest. Her partner in A Touch of Frosting was also her best friend. They’d been BFFs since nursery school. Ella was ditzy, impossibly sweet and a poet when it came to designing cupcake icing. She deserved better than this. ‘I’m fine.’

Or at least she would be when she got over wanting to commit hara-kiri on one of her own kitchen knives. When was she going to start behaving like a grown-up—and stop getting distracted by every handsome guy that caught her eye? She’d been being so good lately, so why the heck had she picked today of all days to fall off the wagon?

Mr Swanky Italian Sports Car probably hadn’t even been all that good-looking. She could see now she had probably exaggerated his appeal because of her nerves over the appointment at Cumberland and the shock of getting rear-ended and having her lipstick shoved up her nose.

Ruby frowned.

Damn.

And here she was obsessing about him again. A guy whose name she didn’t even know. And who probably wasn’t anywhere near as gorgeous as she remembered. When she’d promised herself she was going to stop doing that hours ago.

‘Are you sure you’re okay? You look really upset,’ Ella murmured.

Ruby forced a tight smile onto her lips. ‘If I’m upset it’s only with myself.’ She sighed again. ‘I’ve let you down, El. I’ve let us both down. Getting Touch of Frosting cupcakes onto the afternoon tea menu at Cumberland’s could have put us on the map. The orders would have come flooding in.’ She gave a heavy sigh as she let the dream slip away once and for all.

Blast and double blast.

‘We would have become the queens of cupcake design,’ Ruby added, struggling to find some humour in the situation. ‘A Nobel Prize for Baking would have been within our grasp at last.’

Ella grinned, her round pretty face lighting up as Ruby had intended. ‘Just don’t stop dreaming, Rubes. That’s what you’re good at.’

Shame I’m not as good at flirt control.

Ruby pushed the thought away and sat up.

Ella was right, there would be other opportunities. As long as they didn’t stop dreaming big. And making the best damn cupcakes in the known universe. And beating herself up over Gregori high-and-mighty Mallini and the Cumberland order—and her flirt-control problems—wasn’t going to get it done.

She’d just have to do better next time.

Standing up, Ella offered Ruby her hand. ‘Come on,’ she said, hoisting Ruby off the sofa with one swift tug. ‘I’ve got something for you to taste. I think I’ve found the perfect frosting to complement your new mango-and-passion-fruit sponge base.’

Ruby felt the familiar flicker of excitement as she followed Ella, anticipating their latest culinary delight. Discovering a great new sponge-frosting combo was a lot more fun than contemplating her love life.

If only cupcakes could give her an orgasm—and she could flirt with them—her life would be perfect. She resolutely banished the image of Mr No-Name from her morning fender-bender and the thought that he might be the equivalent of the perfect cupcake in bed. No such man existed.

The usual swell of pride tightened Ruby’s chest as she strolled into the kitchen she and Ella had mortgaged themselves to the hilt to buy the leasehold on two years before.

This was where she belonged. This was what mattered in her life. She adored the quick heady rush of falling in love, but she’d learned to her cost that it never lasted long—and then there was always the sticky business of falling back out of love again to handle. Love was fickle. It had certainly never been able to provide the same constancy or depth of satisfaction as her state-of-the-art catering kitchen. Tucked away in a Hampstead backstreet, the light, airy space with its utilitarian stainless steel surfaces and sink, the open shelves stacked with cake-baking equipment, the two top-of-the-range ovens, and its wardrobe-size cold room, probably wasn’t most women’s idea of bliss. But it was everything she wanted in her life. Because she and Ella had built it themselves from the ground up. And they got to call all the shots.

As long as she had her business, she was perfectly content to do without Mr Right. For the time being at least. Maybe one day she’d be ready to start searching for him, but she’d never been great at multitasking—as Johnny, her latest Mr Not Quite Right, had pointed out six months ago when they’d parted ways. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but she had. Being cast in the role of femme fatale wasn’t high on her list of experiences to repeat any time soon, so she’d made a conscious decision not to get involved again for a while. And so far that was working out fine—give or take the odd hormone-induced blip, like this morning’s.

Ella rushed ahead to the industrial-size mixing bowl and, scraping out a spatula of pale yellow buttercream icing, swirled it on the sponge samples Ruby had baked before she’d left for her appointment.

‘Try that and tell me what you think,’ Ella said, her voice reverent with hope, her eyes bright with anticipation.

The taste exploded on Ruby’s tongue, spicy and citrusy and luxuriously fresh.

She hummed with pleasure. ‘It’s an overused phrase, but that seriously is better than sex.’ Or better than the vast majority of the sex she’d had.

Ella laughed and clapped her hands. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not good, El. It’s orgasmic. I can taste orange and lemon and maybe a hint of cinnamon, but there’s something else there. What is it?’

Ella touched her nose, her grin widening. ‘That would be telling, but it took me two hours of sampling before I figured it out.’

‘Well, it was worth it. We should add it to the menu right away. It’ll be perfect for summer events. Let’s debut it on the cupcake tower at Angelique Devereaux’s wedding.’ Ruby’s mind raced with the logistics of getting the new recipe maximum exposure.

‘Talking of love and orgasmic sex,’ Ella interrupted, typically uninterested in the details that Ruby was so good at taking care of, ‘I had a very nice chat with the new man in your life an hour ago.’ Ella’s grin turned cheeky. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d lifted your boyfriend embargo? If he looks half as good as that delicious voice sounds I’m guessing you hit the jackpot this time.’

‘What new man?’ Ruby said, her whirring mind grinding to a halt.

‘Callum Westmore, that’s who,’ Ella replied easily, obviously still convinced Ruby was keeping secrets.

Ruby searched her inventory of names. She’d gone out with a few guys in the last six months, just to keep her hand in. But she hadn’t agreed to a second date with any of them—always mindful of her new business-first-romance-last strategy. ‘I don’t know anyone called Callum.’

Ella’s brow creased. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. I may be flighty but I always get a guy’s name before I date him. It’s fairly essential information,’ she finished wryly.

Ella touched her fingers to her lips. ‘Oops.’

‘Why oops?’ Ruby demanded. She didn’t like the guilty look on Ella’s face.

‘I thought you were dating him. He sounded so confident and … Well, he had this amazing voice. A bit posh but not too posh and really deep and purposeful. And he said he needed to see you. Urgently. So I told him we finished at 5:30 p.m.’

‘You gave him the address to the kitchen?’ It was Ruby’s turn to frown. She had a rule, which Ella was very well aware of, not to give casual dates her workplace info, because it only confused things. ‘Oh, Ella, you didn’t.’

And more importantly, who the heck was this guy? He certainly wouldn’t be the first to try and get her details out of Ella. But no one had ever managed it before. Ella was usually a complete Rottweiler when it came to guarding Ruby’s privacy—because she knew just how determined Ruby was to resist temptation, especially since the messy break-up with Johnny.

So how had Callum Westmore, whoever the heck he was, managed to wheedle the information out of Ella with such apparent ease?

The image of Mr Super-Gorgeous popped into her mind. The man she hadn’t been able to get out of her head all afternoon. Despite all her best efforts.

‘What exactly did this Callum Westmore say? In his sexy voice?’ Ruby asked, but she was already fairly certain. He had to be the one. Who else did she know who would be arrogant and confident enough to ring up and brazenly muscle the information he wanted out of her best friend without breaking a sweat?

‘Just that he needed to see you,’ Ella said carefully. ‘In fact, he sort of demanded to see you,’ she added, as if the thought had only now occurred to her. ‘But to be honest, it didn’t even cross my mind to refuse him. He sounded so sure of himself.’

I’ll just bet he did.

Ruby cursed softly under her breath.

Still, at least she had a name, now. Callum Westmore. It sounded like the name of a twelfth-century Scottish warlord. Which fitted him down to a T. Commanding, completely uncompromising and defiantly masculine—and prepared to swoop down and carry off any female who caught his fancy, whether she wanted him to or not.

The frisson of heat at the fanciful, romantic and utterly un-PC image stunned Ruby for a moment. Callum Westmore was about as far from her ideal date as it was possible to get. She should have found his pushy behaviour exceptionally galling. So why was her heart kicking giddily in her chest at the prospect of seeing him again?

The bright trill of the doorbell made them both jump.

She glanced at her watch. Five-thirty precisely.

‘That’s him,’ she muttered. Trust him to be ridiculously prompt. Which was another good reason to dislike the man. Promptness was a skill she’d never quite managed to master herself—as this afternoon’s fiasco with Gregori Mallini proved—and one she found slightly intimidating in other people.

‘Do you want me to tell him you’re not here?’ Ella whispered, as if their uninvited guest could hear through walls.

Ruby considered the offer. For about a second.

‘No. He’s probably spotted my car.’ And even if he hadn’t, she somehow knew Callum Westmore would see straight through the ruse. Ella, with her open, uncomplicated nature and big doe eyes, couldn’t lie worth a damn—and, anyway, Callum Westmore clearly wasn’t the sort of guy who took no for an answer.

‘Don’t worry,’ Ruby said, marching out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll handle this.’

She threw the words over her shoulder as she strode through the reception area to the front door of the business unit.

Okay, maybe her attraction to him was a little surprising … and ever so slightly disconcerting. But she had no doubt at all that she could handle Callum Westmore just fine.

He might have the name and the dominating masculinity of a twelfth-century Scottish warlord, but she was no simpering little virgin.

The prickle of irritation, though, was twinned with the heightened hum of arousal as she spied Westmore’s tall frame silhouetted against the frosted glass of the door. She took a deep breath and turned the knob, secure in the knowledge that no man got to sweep Ruby Delisantro off her feet …

Not unless she wanted him to.

CHAPTER THREE

‘MR WESTMORE, I presume,’ Ruby remarked to broad shoulders—their width accentuated by the perfectly tailored jacket of a dark blue business suit—and the short-cropped hair on the back of his head.

She swallowed as he turned, and those heavy-lidded emerald-green eyes locked on her face.

Damn.

She should have taken the time to put her shoes back on. Without the benefit of the four-inch heels, she was at eye level with his chest, which, even clad in a white shirt and royal-blue silk tie instead of the bicep-hugging T-shirt of earlier in the day, still looked remarkably impressive. She jerked her eyes back to his face, in time to see a slow, distinctly knowing smile curve his lips.

He slung a hand into the pocket of his suit trousers, disarming dimples appearing in his cheeks—which were now clean-shaven, but no less chiselled.

‘Ms Delisantro, I presume,’ he murmured, the husky tone making her pulse points throb.

Her breath escaped from her lungs in a rush.

Her imagination had not exaggerated his attractiveness, or that industrial-strength sex appeal, one bit. He really was Super-Gorgeous. Even in a suit. Which was saying something. She didn’t usually go for the slick, executive type. She’d dated an accountant once and it had been a total disaster, his fastidious timekeeping and clinical attention to detail driving her batty within a week.

She concentrated on breathing evenly and getting her heart rate back under control. Somehow she doubted Callum Westmore was an accountant—or the fastidious type, despite the razor-sharp crease in his trousers. Maybe it was just that force field of raw machismo that radiated off him, but she couldn’t imagine him bothering to crunch numbers.

‘Now the introductions are done,’ she said, trying not to sound too breathless, ‘I’m intrigued to know what you’re doing here.’ She paused to think of an appropriate put-down. ‘And why you saw fit to wheedle personal information out of my business partner.’

‘I don’t wheedle,’ he said as his gaze glided over her figure. ‘Even in extenuating circumstances.’

She resisted the urge to curl her toes, the painstakingly slow and thorough perusal making her feel as if it weren’t just her feet that were naked.

His eyes lifted back to her face, the penetrating green alight with amusement. ‘And I’d say why I’m here is fairly obvious.’

The suggestive comment and the gruff tone, thick with innuendo, made her feel warm all over, but she refused to fall for the ploy. She wasn’t walking into that one. What did he think? That she was an amateur?

She cocked her head to one side, and let her gaze rake over him in return. Pursing her lips, she sent him a deliberately quizzical look, pleased when his eyes flicked to her mouth. ‘I guess it’s not as obvious as you thought, because I can’t think of a single reason.’

He chuckled, acknowledging the hit with an unsettling lack of concern. ‘Why don’t I spell it out, then, Ms Delisantro?’ he said, lingering on her name. ‘So you can stop worrying about it.’

‘I’m not worried,’ she said, emphatically. ‘Just mildly curious.’

He raised one dark brow. ‘Only mildly?’

He had her there—given that she was about to spontaneously combust with a lot more than mild curiosity. ‘That’s right,’ she lied.

‘I see.’ The assured smile made it obvious he wasn’t fooled. ‘Well, happily I’m willing to satisfy your mild curiosity.’ He put the emphasis on satisfy and her whole body began to throb. ‘But only if you’re willing to satisfy me first.’

Why did she have the feeling they weren’t talking about curiosity any more, mild or otherwise? And why couldn’t she resist the challenge in those smoky green eyes?

‘What do you want, Mr Westmore?’ she said boldly, rising to the bait he had so purposefully dangled in front of her.

‘I’d like to get to know you better.’ His eyes flashed, the predatory gleam triumphant. ‘A lot better.’

She’d been expecting the invitation. Had been prepared to turn him down—and put him in his place. But the words refused to come out of her mouth.

‘So that’s why you went to all the trouble of tracking me down,’ she replied, putting just the right amount of indifference into her tone. ‘To ask me on a date?’ She battered her eyelashes. ‘I suppose I should be flattered.’

He didn’t seem fazed by the put-down. If anything, he looked more assured than ever. Drat the man.

‘Actually, that’s not the primary reason why I phoned and spoke to your partner.’

‘Don’t forget the wheedling,’ Ruby added cheekily, enjoying the sizzle as his eyes narrowed.

Sparring with this man had an edge of danger that only made it more irresistible. Which was definitely a bad thing. But she was finding it hard to care. She’d had a monumentally crappy day—and he was partially responsible. It seemed only reasonable she should allow herself a moment to flirt with him, as a consolation.

‘As I said, Ms Delisantro, I don’t wheedle. That was the fine art of persuasion.’

Ruby shrugged, admiring his dimples. He was definitely more dangerous when he smiled. ‘So what was the primary reason you tracked me down, then? And wheedled?’

The dimples deepened. ‘I came to pay for the damage to your car.’

She was so surprised, the statement left her momentarily lost for words. ‘You’re joking?’

‘I caused the damage, I pay. Those are the rules,’ he said, as if that kind of gallantry were the norm.

‘Don’t you ever break the rules?’ she asked.

‘Never.’

‘That’s fortunate,’ she murmured, astonished to find his conformity as sexy as the rest of him.

She wasn’t big on rules and regulations herself. As long as she wasn’t hurting anyone, where was the harm in bending them a bit? And she’d always been drawn to men with the same free and easy attitude.

She would never break the law, not since she’d been egged into shoplifting at the tender age of twelve by a boy she’d idolised. The guilt had eaten at her for days, until she’d finally told her father. He’d marched her down to apologise to the shopkeeper in question and pay for the candy necklace she’d taken. The shame had nearly killed her, and she’d promised herself she’d never do anything illegal again.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t prepared to question the status quo—whenever necessary. If a boundary was presented to her, she felt honour-bound to push at it. She suspected Callum Westmore’s code of ethics was so unyielding, he would insist on pushing back.

But since when had she found that sort of rigidity appealing?

‘On the contrary,’ he said, his deep green eyes glinting at her. ‘That’s civilisation.’

Funny, that gleam in his eyes wasn’t what she’d call civilised.

His gaze dipped to her feet. ‘Put some shoes on, and we’ll discuss how much I owe you over dinner.’

She bristled at the dictatorial tone. The man was far too used to ordering women around. But she decided not to challenge him. Yet. The thought of spending the evening with him, the sexual energy humming between them, was tantalising. Especially as she already knew their date couldn’t possibly lead anywhere. This guy was so not her type, on so many levels. And spending the evening with him would make that blatantly obvious.

‘I’ll go to dinner with you on one condition,’ she said, deciding to test his limits. ‘I get to pick the venue.’

Her friend Sol’s Cuban bar on Camden Lock hosted a salsa evening on Friday night. It was a popular hang-out for her and her wide circle of friends and neither the fiery tapas nor the dance moves were for the faint-hearted.

Westmore would feel instantly uncomfortable in the Bohemian surroundings in his suit and tie and she doubted he’d have the guts to brave the dance floor, no matter how arrogant he was. She almost felt sorry for him. But seeing him struggle to fit in at Sol’s would be a quick fix for the bizarre effect he had on her. And she’d be able to blow him off at the end of the evening without a single regret. Plus Dave, her mechanic, had already quoted her two hundred pounds for the repairs to Scarlett and the offer Westmore had made, which would mean she didn’t have to dig into her no claims bonus, wasn’t something she could afford to pass up.

He nodded, completely oblivious to his impending ordeal. ‘As long as the food’s edible and I’m footing the bill, I don’t have a problem with that.’

As Ruby went to get her shoes and repair her make-up she felt the tiny stab of guilt. Normally she insisted on going Dutch on a first date, so the guy didn’t get the wrong idea, and making the man pay for his own humiliation seemed a bit mean. But as she left Ella to lock up, and stepped out into the early evening sunshine to see Callum Westmore leaning against the gleaming black paintwork of his pricey Italian convertible, confidence oozing from every pore, the guilt turned to anticipation and the pleasant hum of arousal peaked. The man needed to have his ego taken down a peg or two, and her body needed a wake-up call. And she’d found the perfect way to do both.

Once tonight was over, the all-conquering Callum Westmore would have discovered that not every woman who fancied him was prepared to fall at his feet.

The minute they walked into the bustling bar tucked away on the canal path at the bottom of Camden Market, Cal knew exactly what Ruby’s game was.

Her hourglass figure moved enticingly in the fifties-style cotton dress as she waved to the barman and shouted a greeting. A swarthy youth in his early twenties rushed over and directed them to a secluded table on the other side of the dance floor—while slanting Cal an assessing stare.

Cal pressed his palm to the warm bare skin of Ruby’s back to guide her through the crowded tables and felt the slight jolt she couldn’t disguise. A smile edged his lips as he caught the waiter’s glare before the younger man hurried away.

The crowd were young and trendy, the music from a band in the corner loud and vibrant and the smell of fresh sweat and exotic spices all but overwhelming. Couples followed the intricate steps of the salsa with easy grace on a terrace overlooking the canal, their lithe young bodies entwined as they moved in time with the throbbing bongo beat that accompanied the blatantly sexual dance. At barely six o’clock, the place was already packed. One of the waitresses, hefting a tray laden with tapas dishes and bottles of Mexican beer, stopped to give Ruby a quick kiss and then grinned and whispered something in her ear while giving Cal a deliberate once-over. By the time they’d reached their table, they’d been stopped a dozen times, with Ruby shouting introductions over the blare of the music and voices, her face glowing with a potent blend of expectation, excitement and casual confidence.

Shrugging off his jacket, he draped it over the chair, then pulled off his tie and slipped it in his pocket. Undoing the top buttons of his shirt, Cal made himself comfortable, more than ready to take whatever Ms Ruby Delisantro had to throw at him.

She’d planned to show him up by bringing him here, that much was obvious. No doubt expecting him to be some boring suit who would balk at the idea of getting down and dirty at a neighbourhood bar where she was the queen bee. The ploy made him smile.

Unfortunately for her, she’d miscalculated. He didn’t give in that easily. He wasn’t the snob or the killjoy she’d obviously mistaken him for. And he happened to enjoy dancing, especially when it was with a beautiful woman whom he’d been desperate to get his hands on all day. Latin dancing in particular could be a very satisfying form of foreplay, especially when you knew the steps—and he had a feeling Ruby knew this dance very well indeed. What she didn’t know was that so did he.

He settled in his chair and waited for her to finish chatting with yet another friend who had crossed the bar to greet her. He stiffened then forced himself to relax when the young man grabbed her round the waist and hauled her up for a quick kiss. He suspected Ruby’s bright, breezy, social-butterfly act was for his benefit so he should sit back and enjoy the show.

She wriggled out of the guy’s arms and gave him a jaunty pat on the cheek, making it subtly clear with her body language that, while she enjoyed the attention, their friendship was purely platonic. The guy gave him a brief nod as Ruby introduced them, then wound his way through the crowd, obviously used to getting the brush off.

Boy, but she was good. A natural flirt, who had the ability to make guys feel great without leading them on.

He’d hazard a guess that Ruby Delisantro only chose to date men who let her dictate all the moves. And he guessed she’d have no shortage of willing candidates mesmerised by that voluptuous body, her boldly beautiful face and her vibrant personality.

But that was before she’d met him.

He stretched out his legs, relishing the battle of wills ahead.

When was the last time he’d had to actively seduce a woman? To put some effort into the chase?

He’d chosen Gemma and nearly all of her predecessors in his bed, specifically because they’d been willing to let him set the pace. What he hadn’t realised until today was that his decision to always take the path of least resistance had resulted in his sex life becoming remarkably dull.

What was it they said about no pain, no gain?

He had the feeling Ruby, with her impulsive, flirtatious nature, her smart mouth and her desire to be in charge, had the potential to be a royal pain in the backside, but those very same qualities also made her electrifyingly sexy and a major challenge. And if the arousal flooding through his veins at the glimpse of cleavage as she propped her elbows on their table was anything to go by, the gain was going to be worth the pain.

Slinging his arm over the back of her chair, he leaned in close and brushed the unruly curls of hair behind her ear.

‘Nice choice,’ he murmured, loving the way she shivered as his breath brushed her ear lobe. ‘Why don’t you order for us? You seem to have the connections to get the best service and I’m famished.’ She probably knew the menu off by heart. ‘And then we can dance it off before we discuss damages.’

Her big brown eyes widened beautifully as her head whipped round. ‘You know how to salsa?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ he said, stroking the back of her neck with his thumb under the heavy fall of hair. ‘But I think you’ll discover I have a few talents.’

Salsa being the least of them.

She shivered again—and he had to resist the urge to throw back his head and laugh at the sparkle of irritation in her eyes and the dark sheen of stunned arousal.

Score one to me.

For goodness’ sake.

The infernal man didn’t look uncomfortable in the least. If anything, he looked positively smug. And if that weren’t bad enough, the light rub of his thumb against her nape was making her want to roll over and purr. Pulling away from the sensual torture before she did just that, Ruby signalled Sol’s wife, Chantelle, and ordered a selection of tapas dishes and a margarita for herself. Westmore then chimed in and ordered a beer—in fluent Spanish. Chantelle carried on a brief conversation with him of which Ruby only managed to catch about two words. Giving a throaty laugh, the waitress leaned over to clear the empty plates and glasses that had been left on their table and whispered in Ruby’s ear.

‘He’s a hot one, querida’, she said in her thick Spanish accent, the tone husky with humour. ‘Maybe even too hot for you to handle, eh?’

As Chantelle strolled off, the tray perched expertly on her arm, Ruby assessed her date. And struggled to regroup.

Well, he was certainly hot.

With his sleeves rolled up, her eyes were drawn to the muscles in his forearm as he tapped his fingers on the table to the beat of the music. Acknowledging the twist and throb of desire, she dismissed it.

So what if he was hot? He couldn’t possibly be too hot for her to handle.

‘Where did you learn to speak Spanish?’ she asked. Maybe polite conversation was the best way to cool things down a bit. She liked heat as much as the next girl but getting incinerated wasn’t part of her plan.

‘I lived in Barcelona for a few years after law school.’

‘You’re a lawyer?’ Which would explain his affinity for the rule of law, Ruby thought. But not her overwhelming attraction.

‘I’m a barrister,’ he corrected easily.

She could just picture him in court, directing a jury in robes and a white wig. Instead of making him seem ridiculous, the image only made him seem more commanding.

‘And you make cupcakes for a living?’ he countered.

‘I do.’ She straightened, waiting for the derogatory comment. People often thought what she did was frivolous and inconsequential. Given the gravity of this guy’s profession, she could just imagine what he was thinking about her little bakery business.

‘And according to the Standard, they’re the best cupcakes in the known universe.’

‘You read Ed Moulder’s review?’ The veteran food writer had gushed about A Touch of Frosting, and Ruby was inordinately proud of the review, but still the admiration in Callum’s voice took her by surprise.

‘The man had quite a crush on your cupcakes,’ he added. ‘And he’s notoriously hard to please.’

‘My cupcakes can be very seductive,’ she said, her pleasure at the unexpected praise making her purr after all.

‘I can well imagine.’ His eyes darkened as he picked her hand up from the table, and turned it over. The hum of voices, the defiant throb of music seemed to fade away, until all she could hear was the hammer of her own heartbeat and the low murmur of his voice, whispering across her sensitised skin. ‘But the question is, do they taste as good as you?’

She watched transfixed as he raised her hand to his mouth and bit softly into the pad of flesh on the base of her thumb. The shot of heat pounded into her breasts making them peak painfully against her push-up bra.

The breath lodged in her throat.

The line was corny, cheesy even—and from the mocking twist of his lips she guessed he knew it. But she was struggling to breathe, so scoffing was out of the question.

The sound of the bar came flooding back as Chantelle’s arrival broke the spell. Her friend laid out their order on the table, then shot Ruby a teasing wink. Studiously ignoring the rush of blood to her cheeks, Ruby took a hasty sip of her margarita as her friend strolled off. The sweet icy tang of citrus, triple sec and tequila felt like nectar as it slid down her raw throat.

Cal saluted her with the frosty bottle of lager before bringing it to his lips. Her gaze landed on the strong column of his throat as he swallowed and she began to feel lightheaded.

Holy moley. He is too hot to handle.

Unfortunately, just looking at those long fingers gripping the neck of the bottle and the sheen of sweat on his Adam’s apple was making her feel euphoric. And more aroused than she had been in months. She’d been so careful lately, so cautious. But as the pounding salsa beat throbbed through her veins and she watched Cal drink thirstily Ruby felt her inhibitions float up and fly off across the Lock into the sultry summer night.

What the heck? She didn’t intend to fall at his feet, but surely there was no harm in having fun for one night. It had been so long since she’d had the chance to indulge her inner flirt to the full. And frankly, Callum Westmore came in such a mouth-watering package, he was fast becoming too hot not to handle.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘RUBY, are you trying to lead again?’ Callum teased, his breath making her earlobe tingle. ‘Because I may have to show you who’s boss.’

‘I’d like to see you try,’ Ruby quipped, then laughed and clung on as he swung her round.

His answering chuckle made her head spin as he dipped her over his arm for one tantalising second. ‘Consider yourself shown.’

She inhaled a lung full of the woody scent of his soap masked by the hint of fresh male sweat—and basked in the sultry rhythm of the salsa as he whisked her upright. His arm banded around her waist so tight she could feel every single inch of his hard, lean physique.

He was a good dancer. An exceptionally good dancer. Not only did he know the steps, but he moved with a fluid, natural grace unencumbered by his height, throwing her into the spins and dips with masterful strength and confidence.

Unfortunately, after two margaritas, only a nibble of the spicy tapas dishes and an hour of full-on flirting, Ruby was finding it impossible to concentrate on the dance, instead of all the parts of her body that were throbbing with need.

The desire to feel those hard, callused fingers on her naked skin—to lick the divot of his throat and taste the salty aroma of his sweat—overwhelmed her and her intoxication had nothing to do with the heady cocktails or the lack of food.

A small voice in her head kept telling her that he’d engineered this, that he’d been stoking the need all evening. Making her feel like the only woman in the bar with those long penetrating looks; tempting her as his gaze flicked to her mouth every time she licked dry lips; goading her as they vied for top spot in a seductive game of one-upmanship.

And now he was sealing his conquest in time-honoured tradition by holding her body close and leading her in a sensual dance of challenge and retreat. Promise and provocation.

But the more she breathed in his scent; the more she felt the muscles bunch beneath the fine cotton of his shirt; the more the husky tone of his voice played havoc with her senses; the quieter that dissenting voice became. Until all she could hear, roaring through every cell of her overwrought body, was the voice yelling, ‘Go for it, Ruby.’

She’d never had a one-night stand before. Had always thought the concept highly overrated. Why would you want to share that kind of intimacy with a man you didn’t know? And who didn’t know you? But suddenly the glorious anonymity of one night of passion held a giddy thrill that was impossible to resist.

She’d sworn off relationships for the time being, but surely one night of indulgence didn’t count.

And if you were going to have a one-night stand, who better to have it with than someone who had the sex appeal of Casanova—and about half as much depth?

She wouldn’t be able to hurt a man like Callum Westmore, even if she tried.

The music slowed to a stop and Cal’s hand rode down to rest on her hip. Her legs straddled one hard thigh, forcing her to press against the muscled sinew. Her eyes fixed on his lips and she noticed the shadow of stubble on his cheeks.

He swore softly, then clasped her head, and captured her mouth.

The contact was electric. His lips firm and warm. The insistent throbbing between her legs exploded as he deepened the kiss. She opened to accept the invasion, the strong sure strokes of his tongue leaving her breathless as he drew back.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said, his gaze shuttered, his voice rough with lust. ‘I don’t do sex as a spectator sport.’

Yes, please.

Her mind screamed the words, but she could only nod, mute with longing, her lips still burning from the intensity of his kiss.

Damn it, he was about to explode.

Cal’s hand squeezed Ruby’s as he hauled her through the bar determined not to let her loose for a second. What had been fun at first, the exhilarating foreplay of flirt and counter-flirt, had turned to a torturous need that was about to send him hurtling over the edge into insanity if he didn’t get her naked really, really soon.

Grabbing his jacket up from the chair, he pulled out his wallet and threw a bunch of twenty-pound notes on the table.

‘It won’t be that much!’ Ruby said as he clasped her hand and led her through the crowd to the exit.

He looked over his shoulder at her flushed face, the lips red where he’d all but devoured her on the dance floor. ‘You want to wait for the change?’

She gave it a moment’s thought, before her full lips spread into a smile. ‘Chantelle’s going to get extremely lucky tonight.’

He laughed, the sound strained. ‘I certainly hope she’s not the only one.’

The still evening air did nothing to quell the heat as he showed Ruby to his car. ‘Where do you live?’ he asked as he yanked open the passenger door.

‘Tufnell Park.’

He slammed the door, then skirted the car and leapt into the driver’s seat. Firing the engine, he shifted into gear.

‘I live on the south end of the Heath.’ The powerful hum of the engine was nothing compared to the driving need in his gut as he roared away from the kerb, then had to brake at the traffic lights on Camden High Road. He glanced at his passenger, fisting his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘My place is closer.’

The smile got bigger. ‘Excellent point.’

Leaning across the steering wheel, he plunged his fingers into her hair and hauled her close—unable to wait another moment to taste her again.

Her lips softened, her tongue tangling with his as he claimed her mouth.

The blast of a car horn forced him to release her as every last ounce of blood surged south. ‘My place it is, then.’

She nodded, looking as dazed as he felt.

He stamped his foot on the accelerator. The screech of burning rubber as they shot away from the intersection made him jerk his foot off the pedal.

Get a grip, Westmore. It’s sex. Not life or death.

He eased out a breath, holding his car under the speed limit as he made the series of turns through the backstreets of Hampstead then drove up the hill past the Heath.

By the time they reached the Victorian mansion block, he’d managed to get his breathing back under control, just about. He adjusted his trousers as he climbed out of the car to ease the pressure. Ruby stepped out the other side, her lush breasts pressing against the thin bodice of her dress. He extended his hand, but, instead of taking it, she clasped her bag to her midriff and a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, more curtly than intended.

If she changed her mind now, it would probably cause him a serious injury.

She cleared her throat. ‘Two things.’ She clutched her bag tighter. ‘Firstly, I don’t have protection with me tonight. I wasn’t expecting this.’

The relief that coursed through him almost made his knees give way. He locked them. ‘I have protection,’ he said. He would have used condoms anyway, he always did. But he had to give her points for foresight and practicality, especially as he knew she was as blindsided by lust as he was if her shallow pants were anything to go by. ‘What’s the other thing?’

‘This feels a bit rushed,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘And rushed doesn’t really work for me.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Clearly the loss of blood to his head had damaged his brain cells because he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

She huffed. ‘We’re obviously very attracted to each other.’

Great, so what the hell is the problem?

‘Agreed,’ he said, damping down on his frustration. Whatever the problem was, it would be better to let her say it. He wasn’t going to risk scaring her off.

‘But I’ve never done this before.’

The bold statement, delivered with obvious bravado, made him feel even more clueless. He frowned, his frustration all but strangling him.

‘What exactly is this?’ he asked carefully. If she was about to tell him she was a virgin, he was going to be exceptionally annoyed with himself. How could his radar have been so spectacularly off?

‘This is a one-night stand. I usually date a guy for a while before I consider going to bed with him.’

Relief coursed through him. Relief and something else, which he decided not to examine. So she didn’t jump into bed with every guy who took her fancy. So what? Why should her sexual history matter to him? He’d always considered the double standard when it came to sex completely illogical. If a guy wanted a woman and acted on it, he certainly shouldn’t hold it against her if she did the same.

‘So what’s your point?’ he asked. And wished like hell she’d hurry up and get to it.

‘The point is …’ she began, her gaze darting away from his.

Finally.

‘I’m not the sort of woman who has spontaneous orgasms to order.’ She rushed the words as she met his gaze, her lips flattening into a firm line and her cheeks flushing a becoming shade of pink. ‘So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t rush things,’ she finished.

His lips twitched at the defiant tone.

She was actually serious. The guys she’d dated had to be idiots.

He tried to keep a good firm grip on the amusement tightening his chest. Honestly, he did.

Maybe it was the extreme sexual frustration that made him lose it, or more likely the sight of her full lips pouting adorably as she laid down the law about how she expected to be made love to. But whatever it was, he was powerless to stop the rumble of laughter rising up and bursting out of his mouth.

‘What’s so funny?’ she said, her voice ripe with exasperation.

He grasped her wrist, hauled her into his arms. ‘Why don’t I take it from here, Ruby?’ He continued to chuckle as she struggled against him.

‘You see, this is exactly the problem,’ she said, her eyes flashing, her indignation not abating one bit. ‘You don’t know me and yet you’re assuming …’

He silenced her with a kiss. Hunger quickly overwhelmed the hilarity, and she stopped wriggling. So he took his time. Hearing the sharp intake of breath as he traced her lips with the tip of his tongue. Revelling in her soft little moan as he nipped her plump bottom lip. He explored in slow, determined strokes. Breathing in her scent, he tasted the delicious mix of lemon and vanilla—a cocktail of flavours that were both sweet and intoxicating. His erection swelled painfully as she writhed in his arms, her fingers threading into his hair and her tongue duelling with his in a sensual dance that made him ache.

He cradled her face in his palms as he touched his forehead to hers, listened to her ragged breathing.

‘I’m not going to rush you,’ he murmured, the humour gone. ‘I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you the whole damn day. So believe me, I intend to savour every single second.’

His lips quirked as he lifted his head and took in her dilated pupils—and the little crease of consternation on her forehead.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ he added.

‘Yes, but you don’t—’

‘And I don’t need instructions,’ he interrupted, grinning. Damn, but she was persistent. ‘I find it ruins the spontaneity.’

She moved out of his arms, propped her hands on her hips, the little crease turning into the Grand Canyon. ‘I should have guessed you’d be difficult about—’

‘That’s enough talk.’

‘Excuse me?’

Stepping forward, he whipped her bag out of her hand.

‘Hey, give that back.’

Ignoring the astonished protest, he grasped her wrist with his other hand, bent over and hefted her onto his shoulder.

‘What are you doing?’ she yelped, although he figured it was fairly obvious as he marched to the front door of his block.

‘I like talk as much as the next guy,’ he said conversationally as he keyed his code into the security panel. ‘In fact, I make a very decent living at it.’ He kicked open the door. ‘But even I have my limits.’

‘Put me down!’ she yelled, wriggling and kicking now as she got her wind back. ‘This is absurd.’

He elbowed the light switch.

‘And probably illegal.’ The protest came out in pants, her midriff rocking against his shoulder blade. ‘I’ll sue.’

Adrenaline surged through him as he climbed the stairs, two at a time.

‘Go ahead and try.’ He dropped her to her feet—and chuckled at her mutinous expression, and the flush of arousal on her cheeks. ‘No judge would convict me.’

Her chin took on a mulish tilt, her colour rising. ‘She would if she was a woman.’

‘Wanna bet?’ He reached into his pocket, palmed his key and slid it into the lock. Opening the door, he took hold of her hand and pulled her inside.

‘Has anyone ever told you you’re remarkably arrogant?’ she announced as he slapped his palms above her head, caging her against the wall.

‘Yes. You.’ He buried his face against her neck. ‘And more than once now.’

Her quickened breathing gushed out against his cheek. His lips at her pulse point, he heard the soft sob of surrender. He lifted his head, traced his fingers along the elegant line of her neck, over her collarbone, then ran his hands down her curves. She bucked, her body quaking as his thumbs circled the tight buds of her breasts through her clothing.

‘And you’re remarkably bossy,’ he murmured, his hands settling on her hips. Why did he find that so incredibly sexy?

Her big brown eyes widened as he pushed his body hard against hers. ‘Which makes us even.’ Capturing her wrist, he led her down the hallway towards his bedroom.

Her heels clicked on the polished wood floor as she raced to keep pace with him. But for once she didn’t have a comeback—which made him feel invincible.

CHAPTER FIVE

RUBY had never been so grossly manhandled in her entire life. Unfortunately, she’d never been so turned on, either.

Had he actually carried her up the stairs? Like Rhett Butler to her Scarlett O’Hara?

Of course, she didn’t find his domineering behaviour romantic in the least—because it wasn’t, in the slightest, she told herself staunchly. But there was definitely something exhilarating about a guy who could heft her up two flights of stairs. After all, she wasn’t exactly light as a feather.

And then there was the feel of him to consider, pressing against her belly as he gave her one of the biggest love bites of her life. She was so excited, her pulse points weren’t just throbbing any more, they were dancing a jig. And her nipples were so erect she could probably drill for oil with them.

As he propelled her into the bedroom she took in the terraced doors that opened onto a wrought-iron balcony overlooking the Heath. But she barely had a chance to register the dying sun turning the trees on Parliament Hill a brilliant orange before the hiss of her zipper had her whipping round.

She clasped her sagging bodice to her chest. ‘Now wait a minute!’

Oblivious to her outrage, he placed a finger on her shoulder, and gave a gentle shove. The backs of her knees hit the bed, and she toppled unceremoniously onto the pale blue duvet. She scrambled up, abandoning her grip on the bodice, which promptly fell to her waist revealing her red lace bra.

‘I told you, I don’t like to be rushed.’ She heaved out a breath, her insides going molten at the wicked glint in his eye as he knelt on the bed.

One strong hand clamped around her ankle.

‘Who said anything about rushing?’ The rough murmur vibrated across her nerve-endings as his hand tightened.

Slipping off her shoe, he flung it over his shoulder. Then dug his thumb into the tight muscles of her instep. She groaned, her body bowing back, as heat shimmered up her calf and made her thigh muscles quiver. He massaged with strong fingers until the muscles went liquid, then transferred his attention to the other foot.

Her heart lurched into her throat as he lifted her foot to his lips, those emerald eyes locked on her face, and bit into the arch.

She gasped, astonished to realise he was discovering erogenous zones she hadn’t known existed as his callused fingers trailed up her legs, stroking and caressing with purpose. Butterfly kisses followed in their wake, distracting her as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties.

She raised her bottom as he drew the scarlet lace down, welcoming the slight breeze from the terrace as he lifted the hem of her dress, bunching the skirt round her waist. She glanced down, and realised on a surge of horrified excitement that she was completely exposed to him.

‘What are you doing?’ She shuddered, so breathless, her lungs felt as if they were about to explode.

He looked up, the deep green dark with appreciation. ‘Savouring you, remember.’

‘But you can’t … I’m not …’ Her protest got lodged in her throat when his tongue swirled across the inside of her thigh. She didn’t even recognise the low, guttural moan of longing that echoed in her ears as her own. Her head dropped back on the pillow as she surrendered to the delicious torture of his open-mouthed caress.