A Bride For The Brooding Boss. Bella Bucannon

on the door. The light flutter in her pulse at the raspy ‘Come in’ startled her. As did the unexpected allure in the deep guttural tone.

      * * *

      Without looking up, the man with a mobile held to his left ear gestured for her to enter and take the seat in front of his desk. Matthew Dalton was definitely under pressure. No jacket or tie, shirt unbuttoned at the top, and obviously raked through, thick chestnut-brown hair. He continued to write on a printed page in front of him, occasionally speaking in one-or two-word comments.

      Lauren sat, frowning at the oblique angle of his huge desk to the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling windows with an incredible view of the Adelaide Hills. Made of dark wood, it held only a desktop computer, keyboard, printer, land phone and stacked document trays. The only personal item was a plain blue coffee mug.

      The man who’d requested her urgent presence swung to his right, flicking through pages spread on the desk extension. His easy fit in the high-back leather chair with wide arms suggested made to measure. And he needed a haircut.

      She continued her scan, fascinated by the opulent differences from the usual offices where she was welcomed by lesser employees. From the soft leather lounge chairs by the windows to the built-in bar and extravagant coffee machine, this one had been designed to emphasise the power and success of the occupier.

      The down light directly above his head picked up the red tints in his hair, and the embossed gold on his elegant black pen. She shrugged—exclusive taste didn’t always equate with business acumen. If it did she might not be here.

      Reception had been bare and unmanned, the blonde woman agitated. How bad was the company’s situation?

      Normally tuning out sounds was an ingrained accomplishment. Today, nothing she tried quite prevented the gravelly timbre skittling across her skin, causing an unaccustomed warmth low in her abdomen. She steadied her breathing, mentally counting the seconds as they passed.

      Then the man she believed to be a complete stranger flicked a glance her way. Instantly, with a chilling sensation gripping her heart, she was thrown back ten years to that night.

      * * *

      The dinner dance after a charity Australian Rules football game organised by interstate universities and held here in Adelaide. Limited professional players were allowed and her parents insisted the whole family come over in support when her elder brother agreed to represent Victoria.

      The noisy function seemed full of dressed-to-kill young women draped over garrulous muscular males, many of whom twitched and pulled at the collars of their suits. Though only two or three years separated her from most of them, at sixteen it was a chasm of maturity and poise. Unfamiliar with the football scene and jargon, she blushed and stammered when any of them spoke to her.

      Escaping from the hot, crowed room, she found a secluded spot outside, at the end of the long balcony. Hidden by tall potted plants, she gazed over the river wishing she were in her hotel room, or home in Melbourne. Or anywhere bar here.

      ‘Hiding, huh? Don’t like dancing?’

      The owner of the throaty voice—too much enthusiastic cheering?—was tall. Close. Much too close. The city lights behind him put his face in shadow.

      She stepped back. The self-absorbed young men whose interests were limited to exercise, diet, sport, and the women these pursuits attracted held no appeal for her. Men like her brothers’ friends who teasingly came on to her then laughed off her protests. Never serious or threatening, merely feeding their already inflated egos. Shy and uncomfortable in crowds, with a tendency to blush, she was fair game.

      ‘I saw you slip out.’ She detected a faint trace of beer on his breath as he spoke. When he took a step nearer, causing her to stiffen, a fresh ocean aroma overrode the alcohol. Not drunk, perhaps a little tipsy.

      ‘We won, you should be celebrating. You do barrack for South Australia?’ Doubt crept into the last few words, the resonance telling her he’d be more mature, maybe by two or three years, than she was. So why seek her out when there were so many girls his age inside?

      ‘Y... Yes.’ How could one word be so hard to say? How come her throat dried up, and her pulse raced? And why did she lie when she didn’t care about the game at all?

      He leant forward. ‘I did kick two goals even if I missed out on a medal. Surely I deserve a small prize.’

      He was like all the others. Her disappointment sharpened her reply.

      ‘I’m sure you won’t be disappointed inside.’

      ‘But an elusive prize is much more rewarding, don’t you think?’

      Before she could take in air to answer, he gently covered her lips with his.

      And she hadn’t been able to take that breath. Hadn’t been able to move. Hadn’t been able to think of anything except the smooth movement of his mouth on hers.

      The urge to return the kiss—have him deepen the kiss—had shaken her. Terrified her. The quick kisses from the boys she knew were just being friendly had been gentle, nice. Never emotionally shattering.

      Why did she sigh? Why were her lips complying, pressing against his, striving to be in sync? Until the tip of his tongue flicked out seeking entry and she panicked.

      Frantically pulling away, she fled past him to the safety of the packed ballroom and a seat behind her parents and other adults in a remote corner. As she drank ice-cold water to wet her dry throat, she realised all she could recall was a glimpse of stunning midnight-blue eyes as his head had jerked back into the light.

      * * *

      The same midnight-blue eyes that had fleetingly met hers a moment ago.

      Why was she so certain? She just knew.

      Would he recognise her? He’d had a drink or two and it had been dark. She finally had a reason to be thankful for her mother’s instructions to the hairdresser. Darker colouring with extensions woven into a fancy hairdo on top, plus salon make-up, had altered her appearance dramatically.

      She’d been a naive teenager who’d panicked and run from an innocent kiss. He’d been an experienced young man who’d have known scores of willing women since.

      Gratitude that she hadn’t seen his face flowed through her veins as she studied the man to whom she’d attributed so many different features over the years in her daydreams. If, along with those memorable eyes, she’d imagined high cheekbones, a square firm jaw and full lips, she doubted she’d have slept at all. Even his lashes were thicker and darker than she’d pictured.

      She dipped her head whenever he looked at her, wasn’t ready for eye-to-eye contact. Forced steady breathing quelled her inner trembling.

      Matt Dalton’s mind ought to be totally focused on the information he was receiving. Instead his eyes kept straying to the brunette sitting rigid on her seat, politely ignoring him. The one who’d caused a tightening in his gut when he’d glanced up at her.

      In an instant he’d noted the sweet curve of her cheek framed by shoulder-length light brown hair. If she hadn’t dropped her gaze, he’d also know the colour of her eyes.

      Shoot! He asked the caller to repeat the last two figures. Blocking her out, he carefully wrote them down. After ending the call, he clipped all the pages together, and dropped them into a tray.

      He could now concentrate on this woman, and her technical rather than physical attributes. Her employer’s high fees would be worth it if she found out what the heck had happened in the company’s computer system.

      ‘Ms Lauren Taylor?’ He pulled a new document forward.

      She turned, and guarded brown eyes met his.

      He immediately wished they hadn’t as a sharp pang of desire snapped through him and was instantly controlled. Women, regardless of shape, colouring or looks, were off his agenda for the foreseeable future. Probably longer. Betrayal made a man wary.

      ‘Yes.’