Nice Girls Finish Last. Natalie Anderson

holding her hostage with just that look. She couldn’t drag her gaze away. It hovered between them—knowledge, awareness, honesty. With his sunglasses off, she saw the hunger in him. Her hormones rejoiced and the sensible, safe, walk-away decision of twenty minutes ago got fried in the heat roiling inside her. This might be a first for her but that didn’t make it bad. Crazy confidence flared, coiled inextricably around recklessness. In that instant she knew she’d do whatever the hell she wanted.

      He was what she wanted. She would be the vixen she’d once been branded. Just for one night.

      She undid her seat belt. ‘Okay, you can cook dinner. But I’ll help.’

      She turned from his victory smile and got out of the car to unlock her flat. She was halfway across her lounge when she heard her front door shut with a thud.

      She paused; her sense of intimacy screamed higher. So did her pulse. So did her until-this-afternoon-dead sex drive. Blood rushed and hunger pooled, relentless in its demand. She turned to look at him. Yes. This wasn’t a desire to fill an emotional need—a renowned playboy wasn’t the guy for that. But she was sure he could satisfy the physical void she was suddenly acutely aware of. He was the most impressive man she’d ever met. And given where she worked, that was saying something. It seemed she’d been stabbed with an adrenaline injection. Okay, a lust injection.

      ‘Nice place.’ He carelessly dropped his keys onto a table near the door.

      ‘You sound surprised.’ She watched him slowly turn full circle in the centre of her room. The opportunity to ogle him was too tempting. Just looking made her more restless. A tall man in suit trousers and a cotton shirt—how could so simple be so sexy?

      Erotic urges clamoured for her to act. In part because she couldn’t believe this actually might happen. It was as if she was driven to push it fast now, for fear he’d change his mind—that this was all a joke or something. But she could hardly jump his bones two seconds after letting him into her house. She tensed her pelvic muscles to get the hot, hungry feeling under control, only that made it worse.

      It was sick. And, frankly, sensational.

      ‘No flatmates?’

      ‘Not right now,’ she squawked an answer. She’d been thinking about getting a flatmate to help expand her woefully small social life but hadn’t had the time to advertise yet.

      ‘It’s very comfortable.’ His attention lingered on her big sofa. It faced a big TV screen. Yes, she had a sub to the satellite sports channel.

      Dazed by the rushing feeling, she half managed to keep the conversation going. ‘You didn’t expect that?’

      ‘For some reason I thought you’d have a more minimalist approach.’

      Lena laughed. This was no cool, clutter-free room; instead almost every area could be sprawled on. The oversized sofa and big armchair were covered with rich fabrics, rafts of cushions and a couple of soft wool throws tossed over for good measure. Which was the point. She wanted her home to offer comfort, not be filled with the trophies of siblings, or photos of other people’s success. The house where she’d grown up had been filled with mementos of family glory—none of which had been hers. It had been the environment where success and achievement were all that mattered. Here there were no tick charts or training programmes or study guides pinned to the walls. This place was her sanctuary.

      ‘I just wanted a place to relax, you know?’ She tried to joke but sounded too husky.

      He faced her directly, his blue eyes bright. ‘If I get onto that sofa, I don’t think I’ll get off it again.’

      ‘Then no sofa just yet.’ She flicked her tongue over her hot, tight lips. ‘I’m hungry.’

      ‘Hungry is good,’ he said softly. ‘Because I’ve got lots to offer.’

      O-o-okay. So the entendres were appalling. And irresistible.

      ‘But, you know, I didn’t get to the shops.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘Didn’t get anything fresh.’

      ‘You were waiting at the stadium the whole time?’ She had only just worked it out now. It had been Dion she’d heard leave.

      He looked softly amused. ‘Well, I didn’t want you to change your mind and disappear on me.’

      She felt the now familiar heat burn hotter in her cheeks. Yes, he’d known she’d been going to. She turned towards the kitchen. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have much in my pantry.’

      ‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’ He brushed past unnecessarily close, the slight touch sizzling that tiny patch of skin.

      Oh, hell, were they still talking with double meanings?

      Smiling at her insane need and even more insane thoughts, she counted to three before following him to the kitchen. She perched on one of the stools by the bench and tried not to stare.

      Clearly he’d noted the nothing much in the fridge because he was now frowning into the small freezer, obviously not a fan of the microwave meals she usually existed on. She nipped her lower lip, stopping herself from justifying their tragic existence, but she often worked late and was tired when she got in…. Yeah, so much for fresh.

      ‘You like pizza?’ He slammed the freezer door and spun to face her. ‘I know a great place that does delivery.’

      ‘Your world-famous crusts?’ She knew it was the pizza business he’d launched then sold when still in his teens that had netted him his first million.

      ‘And buns.’ He chuckled. ‘You’ve tried them before?’

      She shook her head. ‘I don’t usually do fast food or takeaway.’

      His grin widened. ‘Didn’t think so.’ Still that damn doubletalk. ‘Means we’ll have half an hour or so to wait for it,’ he noted with a teasing lilt. ‘What do you think we should do?’

      His gaze met hers and held it firm. Time expanded…. It might have been an hour or so before she answered.

      ‘Have a drink,’ she croaked eventually. ‘Chat.’

      They had to talk. Even just for ten minutes. That meant they’d have talked for about fifteen minutes before flinging into bed together. ‘So—’ she fought for some kind of conversation starter ‘—you’re not even Italian and you sold everyone pizza.’

      ‘Pizza’s a universal thing.’ He reopened her fridge and pulled a bottle of wine from the depths with a pleased smile. ‘I wanted to see if I could take an already established product and compete against the big corporates in a new way.’

      ‘But then you sold out to them.’ She set two glasses on the bench between them.

      He chuckled as he poured, seeming to appreciate her challenge to his entrepreneur credibility. ‘I’d proved my point and was ready to move on.’

      ‘Oh, right.’ She lifted her glass and jabbed a little more for the fun of it. ‘You don’t just get them to a level of success so you can then sell, make the money and bail before they crash and burn?’

      His gaze went rapier sharp. ‘No. If they crash and burn that’s because the management that took over was incompetent.’

      She smiled wickedly. ‘So it’s not that you’re dealing in smoke and mirrors? Making something look amazing when really there’s very little there. Nothing that has durability.’

      ‘Well, the tee shirts are still going. The pizza, they took the marketing concepts and made them their own. The buildings are increasing their value—what’s the basis for all this doubt?’

      ‘The fact that you always move on,’ she said simply. The guy never stuck at anything for more than a few years, frequently less, which was why the property game suited him—acquire, improve, sell. ‘Isn’t it that you don’t actually believe in your own products?’