Cupcakes and Killer Heels. Heidi Rice

Somehow she doubted Callum Westmore was an accountant—or the fastidious type, despite the razor-sharp crease in his trousers. Maybe it was just that force field of raw machismo that radiated off him, but she couldn’t imagine him bothering to crunch numbers.

      ‘Now the introductions are done,’ she said, trying not to sound too breathless, ‘I’m intrigued to know what you’re doing here.’ She paused to think of an appropriate put-down. ‘And why you saw fit to wheedle personal information out of my business partner.’

      ‘I don’t wheedle,’ he said as his gaze glided over her figure. ‘Even in extenuating circumstances.’

      She resisted the urge to curl her toes, the painstakingly slow and thorough perusal making her feel as if it weren’t just her feet that were naked.

      His eyes lifted back to her face, the penetrating green alight with amusement. ‘And I’d say why I’m here is fairly obvious.’

      The suggestive comment and the gruff tone, thick with innuendo, made her feel warm all over, but she refused to fall for the ploy. She wasn’t walking into that one. What did he think? That she was an amateur?

      She cocked her head to one side, and let her gaze rake over him in return. Pursing her lips, she sent him a deliberately quizzical look, pleased when his eyes flicked to her mouth. ‘I guess it’s not as obvious as you thought, because I can’t think of a single reason.’

      He chuckled, acknowledging the hit with an unsettling lack of concern. ‘Why don’t I spell it out, then, Ms Delisantro?’ he said, lingering on her name. ‘So you can stop worrying about it.’

      ‘I’m not worried,’ she said, emphatically. ‘Just mildly curious.’

      He raised one dark brow. ‘Only mildly?’

      He had her there—given that she was about to spontaneously combust with a lot more than mild curiosity. ‘That’s right,’ she lied.

      ‘I see.’ The assured smile made it obvious he wasn’t fooled. ‘Well, happily I’m willing to satisfy your mild curiosity.’ He put the emphasis on satisfy and her whole body began to throb. ‘But only if you’re willing to satisfy me first.’

      Why did she have the feeling they weren’t talking about curiosity any more, mild or otherwise? And why couldn’t she resist the challenge in those smoky green eyes?

      ‘What do you want, Mr Westmore?’ she said boldly, rising to the bait he had so purposefully dangled in front of her.

      ‘I’d like to get to know you better.’ His eyes flashed, the predatory gleam triumphant. ‘A lot better.’

      She’d been expecting the invitation. Had been prepared to turn him down—and put him in his place. But the words refused to come out of her mouth.

      ‘So that’s why you went to all the trouble of tracking me down,’ she replied, putting just the right amount of indifference into her tone. ‘To ask me on a date?’ She battered her eyelashes. ‘I suppose I should be flattered.’

      He didn’t seem fazed by the put-down. If anything, he looked more assured than ever. Drat the man.

      ‘Actually, that’s not the primary reason why I phoned and spoke to your partner.’

      ‘Don’t forget the wheedling,’ Ruby added cheekily, enjoying the sizzle as his eyes narrowed.

      Sparring with this man had an edge of danger that only made it more irresistible. Which was definitely a bad thing. But she was finding it hard to care. She’d had a monumentally crappy day—and he was partially responsible. It seemed only reasonable she should allow herself a moment to flirt with him, as a consolation.

      ‘As I said, Ms Delisantro, I don’t wheedle. That was the fine art of persuasion.’

      Ruby shrugged, admiring his dimples. He was definitely more dangerous when he smiled. ‘So what was the primary reason you tracked me down, then? And wheedled?’

      The dimples deepened. ‘I came to pay for the damage to your car.’

      She was so surprised, the statement left her momentarily lost for words. ‘You’re joking?’

      ‘I caused the damage, I pay. Those are the rules,’ he said, as if that kind of gallantry were the norm.

      ‘Don’t you ever break the rules?’ she asked.

      ‘Never.’

      ‘That’s fortunate,’ she murmured, astonished to find his conformity as sexy as the rest of him.

      She wasn’t big on rules and regulations herself. As long as she wasn’t hurting anyone, where was the harm in bending them a bit? And she’d always been drawn to men with the same free and easy attitude.

      She would never break the law, not since she’d been egged into shoplifting at the tender age of twelve by a boy she’d idolised. The guilt had eaten at her for days, until she’d finally told her father. He’d marched her down to apologise to the shopkeeper in question and pay for the candy necklace she’d taken. The shame had nearly killed her, and she’d promised herself she’d never do anything illegal again.

      But that didn’t mean she wasn’t prepared to question the status quo—whenever necessary. If a boundary was presented to her, she felt honour-bound to push at it. She suspected Callum Westmore’s code of ethics was so unyielding, he would insist on pushing back.

      But since when had she found that sort of rigidity appealing?

      ‘On the contrary,’ he said, his deep green eyes glinting at her. ‘That’s civilisation.’

      Funny, that gleam in his eyes wasn’t what she’d call civilised.

      His gaze dipped to her feet. ‘Put some shoes on, and we’ll discuss how much I owe you over dinner.’

      She bristled at the dictatorial tone. The man was far too used to ordering women around. But she decided not to challenge him. Yet. The thought of spending the evening with him, the sexual energy humming between them, was tantalising. Especially as she already knew their date couldn’t possibly lead anywhere. This guy was so not her type, on so many levels. And spending the evening with him would make that blatantly obvious.

      ‘I’ll go to dinner with you on one condition,’ she said, deciding to test his limits. ‘I get to pick the venue.’

      Her friend Sol’s Cuban bar on Camden Lock hosted a salsa evening on Friday night. It was a popular hang-out for her and her wide circle of friends and neither the fiery tapas nor the dance moves were for the faint-hearted.

      Westmore would feel instantly uncomfortable in the Bohemian surroundings in his suit and tie and she doubted he’d have the guts to brave the dance floor, no matter how arrogant he was. She almost felt sorry for him. But seeing him struggle to fit in at Sol’s would be a quick fix for the bizarre effect he had on her. And she’d be able to blow him off at the end of the evening without a single regret. Plus Dave, her mechanic, had already quoted her two hundred pounds for the repairs to Scarlett and the offer Westmore had made, which would mean she didn’t have to dig into her no claims bonus, wasn’t something she could afford to pass up.

      He nodded, completely oblivious to his impending ordeal. ‘As long as the food’s edible and I’m footing the bill, I don’t have a problem with that.’

      As Ruby went to get her shoes and repair her make-up she felt the tiny stab of guilt. Normally she insisted on going Dutch on a first date, so the guy didn’t get the wrong idea, and making the man pay for his own humiliation seemed a bit mean. But as she left Ella to lock up, and stepped out into the early evening sunshine to see Callum Westmore leaning against the gleaming black paintwork of his pricey Italian convertible, confidence oozing from every pore, the guilt turned to anticipation and the pleasant hum of arousal peaked. The man needed to have his ego taken down a peg or two, and her body needed a wake-up call. And she’d found the perfect way to do both.

      Once tonight was