The Right Mr Wrong. Natalie Anderson

wicked and tempting. ‘Isn’t that part of what you’re doing now? Isn’t your move to Paris all about proving things to yourself?’

      ‘You still think you’re so smart.’

      ‘No, but I know when I’m right.’ He brushed that strand of hair behind her ear for her. ‘You’re out here on your own. Proving you can do it. You can handle it.’

      ‘And I can,’ she whispered.

      He smiled. ‘Yet you won’t even try to handle me.’

      THREE

      ‘You do not have to see me to my door.’

      ‘Yes, I do.’ Liam wasn’t letting Victoria walk out of his life again. At least, not yet. Not when there was this much unfinished between them. He was going to get something from her today. Even just an admission. He wanted to hear her say it only the once, a whisper even. She reckoned she didn’t want him? She reckoned wrong. He knew that as well as she.

      ‘I have to work.’

      He knew that too. ‘I’m not asking to stay the night.’ Though he would if she offered. One night was all he’d need. Why she could do this to him, he didn’t know, but from the first second he’d seen her it had been there. That hot response in every cell of his body.

      Want.

      But he wasn’t the kid he’d once been. He wasn’t going to lose it as he had back then—he was in control of everything now, right?

      He’d experienced lust plenty of times. Course he had. Had acted on it too. But it had never been as extreme as it had that night he’d first met Victoria. When she’d opened her mouth and answered him back? When she’d been as enthralled as he had?

      She still was. He’d seen it flash in her eyes when he’d walked into that room, before she’d had a second to school her face. He saw it now in the way she went out of her way to avoid touching, or even looking at, him.

      But he looked at her. And he wanted to touch. In fact he wanted to provoke—that would only be fair. Because that rampant lust was back as bad as it had ever been.

      He followed her up the stairs, trying hard not to stare at her sweet curves. Instead he glanced around, checking out her digs. The distraction was not good.

      The stairwell was poorly lit but he could still see the grimy, peeling paintwork and he could smell something horrendous—like several stale dinners mixed with the stench of wet wool. How many tiny apartments were squished into this ugly building? They passed a million doors as they marched on. No wonder she was looking fit given all these stairs she had to climb.

      ‘So you’re doing the garret-in-Paris thing?’ He ground the feeble joke out. This place was hardly the Left Bank and giving her a nice view of the river.

      ‘I’m not starving. I’m doing very well,’ she said as they finally got to the top floor. She unlocked her door and paused. ‘And calligraphy is a craft as much as it is an art. I’m happy.’

      ‘Good for you.’ He ignored the ‘goodbye’ in her tone and walked right past her, into the shoebox of an apartment— a child’s shoebox at that. ‘But there are better garrets. With better views.’ He frowned, learning all there was to know in a swift glance. One room with a cupboard for a kitchen and another for a bathroom. The place sucked.

      ‘I don’t need a better view. I only need good light.’

      She’d set up a small workspace in the room. The biggest bit of furniture was her desk. Angled and pushed against the window to maximise use of the natural light. On a flat desk beside it was her computer. Against the far wall—as if it were an afterthought—was the smallest single bed he’d ever seen.

      The place wasn’t miniature doll’s-house cute, it was cramped.

      ‘How can you work in here?’ He looked away from the itty, bitty bed. ‘It’s hardly a ‘studio’ is it?’ It wasn’t big enough for anyone to be comfortable in. Not even petite blondes with leaf-green eyes.

      ‘That’s exactly what it is.’ Her chin lifted high, as if she was just waiting for the criticism.

      Confronted with that expression, much as he wanted to criticise, he found he wasn’t going to. She was trying—­independent and alone. Far more than she’d been five years ago. Good for her, right? Except for some reason it annoyed him more. Why should it matter? Couldn’t he, of all people, understand the need to succeed?

      ‘Why don’t you come to my hotel and work there? I have a suite—it’s three times the size of this place.’ He knew before he’d finished saying it that it was a mistake. He knew how she’d react—call him worse than a flirt. Thing was, he meant it. Grudgingly. It wasn’t a line.

      ‘Oh, please, that was so unsubtle.’

      Yep, she boxed him right back into flirt mode.

      ‘But we wouldn’t have to share a bathroom this time.’ He walked up to her, giving into her expectations—and his own need to provoke. And stand closer. ‘Unless you wanted to.’ He smiled and lifted a hand to her jaw, unable to resist touching her again. ‘Now, that was unsubtle.’

      He’d never forget the time he’d walked in on her in the bathroom. It had been his first night there that Christmas break. To his relief she hadn’t screamed the place down. She’d been mortified. In truth so had he. He’d covered up by joking, of course. But he’d soon got derailed. The towel had covered her most private parts—parts he’d ached to see. But there’d been so much damp skin on show and with the steam and the sweet scent of her soap? Of course he’d made a play. A huge one.

      It wasn’t until the next morning that he’d learned she was Oliver’s girlfriend—the one he’d been with for a couple of years. Who Oliver’s family loved and expected him to marry. The good girl who slept in her own room when she stayed—not Oliver’s. It was all so perfect.

      But it was already too late. Liam had been young and dumb and so callow. He’d mistaken insta-lust for love at first sight. He’d been unsubtle in his attention. Unable to stay away.

      ‘That wasn’t just unsubtle.’ Victoria lifted her chin sharply, so his fingers slipped from her skin. ‘That was sledgehammer.’

      ‘This is a dodgy neighbourhood,’ he said, wishing he could see her out of here.

      ‘Don’t try to get me there under the pretext of caring for my welfare.’ She looked amused.

      There was no shifting her. And—albeit reluctantly— he respected that. ‘So where do you see it—’ he waved his hand at her desk ‘—in a few years?’

      ‘You want to know my business goals?’

      Yep, oddly he did. ‘How are you going to expand when it’s so dependent on you? What happens if you sprain your wrist or something?’

      ‘I have business insurance. In terms of expansion—is it necessary? I only need to make enough for me to live comfortably.’

      A single bed was never comfortable, no matter how slight she was. She clearly needed to make more than she currently was. ‘How are you going to factor in holidays? When you own your own business, it’s very easy to forget about holidays.’

      ‘How do you factor in holidays?’ She laughed at him.

      ‘I love my work. Work is a holiday for me.’ Sailing was and always would be his first, his ultimate, passion. He loved the challenge on the water. It was his home—the place he felt safest. And the most free.

      She turned and looked at him. Her green eyes were very bright—he felt their power right into his bones.

      ‘And you don’t think it’s possible for me to feel the same about my work?’ she asked.

      Frankly? No. ‘Not in this environment.’ This place