Stripped. Nicola Marsh

eyes blaze with lust and I clench my thighs together, swamped with a ferocious heat like I’ve stepped too close to a smouldering volcano. After a long pause, he drawls, ‘Nice to know you think I’m hot.’

      That’s the problem with being a smart-ass. Sometimes my mouth runs ahead of my brain. I should’ve omitted the part about him being hot.

      ‘What I think is you need me to make you look good so let’s start.’

      ‘I need you to make this resort look good.’ He leans forward, rests his forearms on the desk, smug and insufferable. ‘I’m doing just fine without your help.’

      Heat creeps into my cheeks, scorching and utterly embarrassing. I should’ve turned tail and run the moment I entered this office. But I need to ensure this job is the best work I’ve ever done and if that means battling wits with this inscrutable man, I’ll do it.

      Maybe I’m playing this all wrong? If I acknowledge what happened in a fun way, perhaps we can move on to work?

      ‘Look, we really need to move past this. I acted on impulse last night, something I never do, and it was a kiss, nothing major.’ His eyes widen, as if he can’t believe I’m being so blunt. ‘As for the debate regarding your hotness, I’m not in the habit of kissing random guys I just meet. I ended my engagement a year ago and haven’t dated much, so considering the way we went at it last night I guess my libido classifies you as hot even if I don’t want to acknowledge it myself.’

      That’s another thing that happens when I’m floundering. Verbal diarrhoea. It’s too late to take it all back and he’s gaping at me in open-mouthed shock.

      I bite my bottom lip and start typing, bringing up my presentation. ‘Now we’ve got all that uncomfortableness out of the way, let’s get to work.’

      I could kiss him—again—when he nods. But he doesn’t stop staring during my entire spiel and I’ve never been more grateful for my obsession with preparation, because if I didn’t have slides I wouldn’t have been able to speak.

      I blather about social media campaigns and photo shoots and upgrading websites. I manage to sound halfway intelligent but the intensity of his stare is unnerving.

      When I give my final spiel about a newsletter blitz to tourism boards around the world, I’m ready to snap my laptop shut and bolt.

      ‘Your work is excellent.’ He steeples his fingers and rests them on the desk in front of him, channelling a guy double his age. ‘But you can forget about doing most of what you just said.’

      I struggle to hide my shock. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I won’t do it.’

      With those four little words, I realise I’m in for the fight of my life.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      Hart

      THE POCKET ROCKET is gaping at me in a most unladylike manner. Her hazel eyes glitter, the gold and green flecks glowing like cut glass when she’s angry. I saw it earlier, when I dismissed that kiss as nothing. A crock of shit considering the memory kept me up all night.

      When she walked into my office full of bright-eyed optimism I was stunned by the irrational urge to bend her over my desk. I don’t give in to impulse as a rule so the fact her boldness bamboozled me last night into making out on the beach had already put me on edge this morning. But I’d chalked it up to a brief encounter that meant little, until Daisy strutted in here and I remembered exactly how good she tasted...

      I hid my reaction well. I’m a master of the poker face. No one can get a read on me. Only Pa has ever seen the real me—to a point.

      How he had the patience to coax my angry, recalcitrant sixteen-year-old self into a new life I’ll never know. After discovering my existence, a wiser man would’ve thrown money at the problem. But Pa insisted I live with him: sent me to the best school for the final two years of my studies, funded my university degree, gave me everything.

      But all that didn’t make much of an impression: it was his unswerving faith in me, despite not really knowing me, that made me eventually trust him. I wish I’d realised it sooner and that I’d had the guts to tell him.

      ‘What do you mean you won’t do it?’ She bristles like an indignant echidna, making her even cuter. Her honey-blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a loose topknot, to add extra height I assume. She’s five foot two max, with the kind of curves that beg for a man’s touch. I obliged for an all too brief time last night and now we’re working together I can’t touch her despite the urge to do just that.

      It makes me extra tetchy. ‘Unless you’re hard of hearing, I mean exactly that. I won’t do social media. It’s not my thing, posting nonsensical, egotistical garbage for all the world to see in the hope of making people “like my brand”.’

      I make those annoying inverted comma signs with my fingers that I hate. ‘And I’m not doing photo shoots to promote the resort. Focus on the scenery, the ocean, the island, the resort’s many drawcards, that’s it.’

      I jab a finger in her direction. ‘And no way in hell will you get me doing live podcasts or videoconferencing on the beach.’

      If she was bristling after my initial refusal she’s practically livid now. A vibrant pink stains her cheeks, making her eyes glow even more, and her hands are clenched so tightly I can see her knuckles pop where she’s resting them on the desk.

      When she forces a sickly-sweet smile, I know I’m not going to like what she says next. ‘That’s a pity, considering you were more than willing to do other stuff on the beach last night.’

      Wham. She’s hit me in a weak spot: my foolish attraction to her. It’s wrong, fantasising about this woman, especially when she’s working under me.

      Fuck, bad analogy, and my dick hardens.

      I have to admit, she’s gutsy. A lesser woman would back down and defer to me because of my wealth and status. I’m the CEO of fifteen five-star hotels around the country and the media have been all over the story of Pa’s passing and my return home to fill his proverbial shoes. It’s why I hired this PR firm—because reports haven’t been favourable.

      The media dug into Pa’s health decline and the accompanying effect on the hotels, making wrongful assumptions and generally painting him as an incompetent old fool who wouldn’t move into the twenty-first century. Bookings at all the hotels plummeted as a result, as if morons think the hotels will close their doors unexpectedly at any minute. Gem Island has taken the worst hit and considering it was always Pa’s favourite, it jolted me into doing something proactive.

      Enter Daisy Adler, with her too-tight black power suit better suited to a city glass tower, her immaculate make-up, her towering stilettos and those expressive eyes that sucked me into a vortex I have no intention of going near again.

      She’s smart. Her ideas are original and clear-cut. I need her to make the Rochester brand look good. So I’ll have to say the C word, something I hate.

      ‘I’m willing to compromise.’

      The last word sticks in my throat. I don’t do well working alongside other people. With my foster-kid charities around the world I have full autonomy. I work better that way. Not many people know about my involvement in establishing outreach centres in high-risk cities and I prefer to keep it that way. The last thing I need is my face bandied around as part of the Rochester empire and scaring off kids who might see me as a rich prick flinging his cash around rather than a guy who was once like them willing to give them a break.

      I don’t need accolades or publicity for what I do for those kids. I don’t expect anything in return.

      I help them because it’s a way to pay my dues.

      ‘You’re willing to compromise? Lucky me.’