Bedroom Seductions: Two Weeks in the Magnate's Bed. Nicola Marsh

you want to be.’

      Only when he needled her enough that she forgot her shyness.

      ‘Mainly when putting guys like you back in your place.’

      He leaned forward, close enough to whisper in her ear. ‘Guys like me?’

      Resisting the urge to jerk back from his proximity, she settled for a subtle slide of her hand out from under his instead.

      ‘Over-confident. Smooth. Charming. Used to getting your own way.’

      Rather than being offended, he laughed. ‘Guilty as charged.’

      He leaned into her personal space again, crowding her, overwhelming her, confusing her.

      ‘So, is it working?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘My charm.’

      ‘Not a bit.’

      She crossed her fingers behind her back at the little white lie. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else, let’s get these forms done so I can enjoy my holiday.’

      ‘Actually, there was something else.You know I owe you?’

      ‘Uh-huh.’

      The instant wariness in Lana’s eyes made Zac chuckle.

      ‘How about a tour when we dock in Suva? I’ve got the day off, so I could show you the sights. What do you think?’

      Her eyes lost their cautious edge as her lips curved into a smile—the type of genuinely happy smile that could easily tempt a man to want more, a lot more.

      ‘Sounds good. Know any hot spots?’

      Yeah. Just below her ear, above her collarbone, and dead on her soft lips…

      ‘Several.’

      His tone must have alerted her to his thoughts, for her eyes widened, glowed with understanding, till he could distinguish the tiniest green flecks in the molten caramel before the shutters quickly descended.

      ‘A tour sounds great.’

      She dropped her gaze in record time, her tongue darting out to moisten her top lip. The nervous action did little to dissipate his growing interest in discovering what really made this tantalising woman tick.

      Considering how much he wanted to get to know her, perhaps he should rethink Suva—especially his idea about taking her to his favourite secluded beach. If he could barely keep his hands off her here, what hope did he have in blissful isolation on the most spectacular stretch of pristine sand he’d ever seen?

      ‘Right, it’s a plan.’

      He’d almost said a date, but dates implied more of that physical stuff he was afraid would scare her off. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t wipe a vivid fantasy of the two of them splashing in the lagoon, him play-wrestling her, her wrapping her legs around him, her wet skin plastered to his, no clothes…

      She stood abruptly, the chair almost toppling. ‘Look, I really appreciate the offer to help, but I’ll be fine with these forms. I’ll holler if I need anything.’

      Judging by her shaky voice she knew exactly what he was thinking, and she reacted the way she usually did: by erecting verbal barriers and making a run for it.

      She scooped up the papers and made a dash for the door in an awful fluorescent flurry of floral ankle-length skirt the colour of a lifejacket. Her hurried departure left him shaking his head as she slammed the door.

      After she’d left, he sank into his chair and wiped a hand over his face. No—didn’t help. He could still see her wide-eyed guarded expression, the hint of suspicion in those hazel depths, the wary curve of her lips.

      She didn’t trust him—didn’t accept his interest as real. Not that he blamed her. He’d given her no indication to the contrary, playing the flirt, keeping things light-hearted, seeing how far he could push her before she reacted.

      Someone or something had destroyed her belief in her attractiveness, and he’d hazard a guess that some jerk had done a number on her. It would explain her naivety, her lack of artifice when it came to playing coy or flirting back. Which meant he should give her a wide berth. Instead, he wanted her with a staggering fierceness, and the depth of his need was obliterating every common sense reason why he shouldn’t do this.

      He didn’t need the distraction. He had a job to do. But if his head kept spinning like a compass needle his concentration would be shot anyway so maybe he should spend a bit of time getting to know her—the real her, not the cagey woman who hid her mistrust behind lowered eyes and fiddling hands.

      Muttering a few curses which wouldn’t make many of his colleagues blush, he picked up the phone and placed his daily call to Jimmy.

      The phone rang three times precisely—the same number every day—which proved his uncle waited by the phone, despite his protests to the contrary that he totally trusted him that the company was in safe hands.

      ‘Hey, Uncle Jimmy, it’s me.’

      ‘Zachary, my boy. How’s things?’

      Where should he start? With the part where he still felt like a fraud, running the company from behind the scenes until their culprit was caught, or the part where he was crazy for a woman who bolted every time he got close?

      ‘Fine. I’m making progress.’

      He didn’t need to spell it out. His uncle had been the first to notice the ever-increasing number of ‘accidents’, the first to see the bad publicity begin to affect sales, and the one to notice the pattern of the incidents and predict the Ocean Queen would be next.

      And, though he’d never admit it, the ensuing stress hadn’t helped his battle with the illness that was slowly but surely killing him.

      ‘Good. Because once you sort out the Australian side of things, there’s that Mediterranean problem that needs attention.’

      ‘All under control.’

      He’d decided to run things from the London office for a year. More to do with the old man needing him there rather than with business. Not that Jimmy wanted to be mollycoddled. He’d made that perfectly clear. But under all that gruffness was a scared man fighting to stay alive, and Zac would be damned if he left the only father he’d ever known alone at a time like this.

      He wanted to ask Jimmy how he was feeling, how the treatment was going, but knew he’d get the usual brush-off.

      ‘So how’s things in London?’

      ‘All good here.’

      He heard the strain beneath the forced upbeat tone.

      ‘And you? How’re you feeling?’

      A slight pause followed by a grim throat-clearing. ‘Can’t complain.’

      James Madigan wouldn’t. He hadn’t complained when Zac had left him in the lurch for a year, after he’d run off to marry Magda, hadn’t complained when he’d had a near-fatal heart attack as a result of the stress from his increased workload—picking up the slack because of Zac’s selfishness—and hadn’t complained when Zac had outlined his plans for a future in direct opposition to his.

      He was that sort of man: rock-solid, steadfast. And he was the man Zac owed everything to—the type of man he aspired to be.

      ‘Your PR stint working out okay?’

      ‘Yeah, the staff are buying it, and I’m getting the info I need, so that’s the main thing.’

      Jimmy coughed—an ear-splitting, hacking cough that chilled Zac’s blood. Aware that his uncle hated appearing weak in any way, he quickly tried to distract him.

      ‘Get this. I had Helena Rock on my case this morning, going berserk. Can’t tell you how close I was to telling her I actually run the company now. That would’ve