More than a Fling?. Joss Wood

to try and come up with ideas for our destroyed world then get your asses back to your desk.’

      He saw a couple of sheepish looks and heard one ‘Sorry boss...’ and hid his smile. These guys were some of his best recruits and weren’t sorry at all.

      Ross felt his mobile vibrate in the pocket of his combat shorts and pulled it out. Lifting it up to his ear, he mouthed zombies versus ghouls at his staff and gestured them to carry on playing while he took his call. ‘Bennett.’

      ‘Ross, darling.’

      Ross sighed at the dulcet tones of his mother. ‘Hi, Mum.’

      ‘Hi, baby.’

      Thirty-three years old and he would always be her baby. Mothers. ‘What’s up?’

      ‘I was wondering when you might be coming back home...back to London?’

      ‘Is there a problem. Is Dad okay?’ Since his father had had a heart attack a couple of months back it was a valid question.

      ‘No, he’s fine. Back to work.’

      Back to work: such an innocuous phrase, except when used in relation to Jonas Bennett. Ross felt the familiar burn of resentment and anger.

      ‘I was just hoping that you might come back for Hope’s thirtieth birthday.’

      His little sister was thirty? How had that happened? ‘I hadn’t really thought about it, Mum. What are you planning?’

      ‘A family dinner.’

      Since he was no longer part of the family her statement was wildly optimistic. Ross lifted his face to the spring sunlight and pushed his long, sun-streaked hair back from his face. ‘Mum, I’m happy to have dinner with you and Hope any time it suits you, but I’m not ready to break bread with Dad yet.’

      ‘Will you ever be? Will this stupid cold war ever end?’

      Her guess was as good as his. It wasn’t up to him. ‘I don’t know, Mum.’

      ‘I hate being in the middle of you two,’ Meg Bennett complained.

      Then stop putting yourself into the middle, where you’re going to get squashed like a bug, Ross silently told her.

      ‘Can’t you just apologise, Ross? You know how stubborn he is. Just apologise and he’ll forgive you. You’ll be part of the family again, he’ll reinstate your position at Bennett Inc., and give you your trust fund back...’

      I’d rather swallow poisonous tree frogs.

      Ross dragged his hand through his hair. His father, and clearly his mother, thought that his inheritance, his trust fund and his position as the heir apparently were all-important, but he didn’t give a rat’s ass about any of that. His independence was far more valuable to him any day of the week.

      He didn’t need his father’s money or approval...he just needed his freedom. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. ‘Mum, I’m not discussing this anymore. I’ve got to go, so...’

      Ross listened to her goodbyes and rested his mobile against his forehead. Then he shoved the phone into the back pocket of his shorts and tossed Table Mountain a look.

      It glinted purple and green today, and was without the tablecloth cloud that was frequently draped over it. It was one hell of a view, he thought. He could look at Table Mountain from his office and the Atlantic Ocean seaboard from his house—two of the many reasons he loved Cape Town. Another reason was the fact that it was halfway down the world, so he didn’t have to deal with his mother’s nagging face to face. He liked Cape Town, liked the laid-back, artistic vibe, and he had no problem attracting young people to live here as it was consistently rated as one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

      What was more, when he’d been trying to establish RB Media the pounds he’d saved had gone a lot further in this city than they would have done in London, and that was what had initially attracted him here.

      Ross looked back towards his huge, multi-functional building and felt a flicker of pride.

      RBM was his—achieved through blood, sweat, swearing and—although he’d never openly admit it—a couple of angry tears. Despite the fact that his father had predicted his failure, he now owned one of the most respected games and animation development studios in the world, had the most successful game on the market—Win!—and employed some of the brightest, and craziest minds in the business.

      And housed on the top floor of the building was his baby: Crazy Collaborations. It funded projects—water purification, renewable energy, search and rescue detection systems—that could really make a difference in the world.

      Yeah, it was all good—even if he still had to endure his mother’s incessant nagging. It would be even better if his guys would stop nattering like old ladies about women—what else?—and do some work.

      His geeks were suddenly silent and Ross looked around to see what had grabbed their attention this time. Silently he whistled behind his teeth.

      Right, so that was why their tongues were dragging on the floor—and he couldn’t blame them.

      Light brown and gold streaky hair pulled back into a bun, sexy black nerd glasses, a knee-length black skirt that hugged surprisingly curvy hips and pulled the eyes down to the most stupendous pair of legs he’d ever seen. Those pins ended in a pair of red heels that seemed to be attached to her feet by magic. The buttons of a classic white open-neck button-down shirt hinted at the lacy bra beneath.

      She looked like the hot, sexy, nerdy librarian of his teenage fantasies, who pulled unsuspecting students behind the bookshelves to shove her tongue down their throats.

      He felt a flicker in his trousers and reluctantly admitted that maybe he hadn’t left that fantasy behind in his teens.

      Her body rocked, but it was her face that kept his feet glued to the floor.

      It was a knock-your-socks-off face—high cheekbones, made-for-sin mouth and a straight nose—a nose that was lifted high enough to give her altitude sickness.

      The noise of the traffic from the road behind them faded as she approached him on those barely there, utterly ridiculous, spiked scarlet heels. Her scent reached him first: a light, citrus, grassy scent that made him think of sunshine and light. Those eyes behind her glasses—real? Fake? Who cared?—were a deep, deep blue. Both guarded and, he thought, irritated. And on closer inspection a little shadowed and baggy... Hot Librarian looked as if she needed a couple of nights of getting a solid eight.

      ‘Ross Bennett?’

      He tipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Who wants to know?’

      ‘Alyssa—Ally—Jones. You’re a hard man to get hold of, Mr Bennett.’

      Good grief, Mr Bennett? That catapulted him straight back to Bennett Inc. and yanked bile up into the back of his throat.

      ‘I’ve sent you no less than three e-mails and left countless requests on your mobile and answering machine for you to call me back. Don’t you have a personal assistant?’

      Ross frowned. ‘Where are you from?’

      ‘Bellechier.’

      Right—the clothing and accessories company. Swiss-based, very upmarket. He recalled the messages, the requests for a meeting to talk about branding and franchise opportunities. He wasn’t interested. Bigger and better brands had approached him and he’d refused them all, but he had to admit it was amusing to see exceptionally well-dressed corporate drones jump through hoops to impress him.

      Ross watched as her eyes slowly swept his body, taking in his red V-neck T-shirt, cargo shorts and battered trainers. Just to see her reaction, he dipped his hand into the pocket of his pants, pulled out the band he kept there and tied the top section of his hair off his face.

      Judging by the slight lift of her nose, Ms Prissy liked short, back and sides...