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

into him first thing this morning, it looked as if fate was having a mighty big chuckle at her expense.

      Zac watched Lana bolt, hiding a triumphant grin as he flipped the pages on his clipboard. He had her thoroughly rattled, if that stunned, wide-eyed gaze when he’d touched her lips was any indication.

      Maybe he’d pushed the boundaries a tad there, but he hadn’t been able to help it; he wanted to see if anything disturbed that cool-bordering-on-haughty mantle she wore like a fine fur.

      He’d disconcerted her last night to the point where she’d thrown out that challenge. He was in little doubt she would never have been that brazen, that sassy, if she’d been thinking straight. After all, a woman who turned up to her first dinner on a luxurious cruise liner wearing a drab black dress with oversized buttons, a God-awful belt, and barely a slick of make-up, and who rarely spoke, wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence.

      Yet he’d wanted to push her buttons anyway.

      Must be the pressure. He had a job to do, a saboteur to uncover, and some bad publicity to bring to a screaming halt. His uncle was relying on him, and he owed Jimmy big-time. He’d let him down once. Never again.

      He needed to concentrate on business—needed to convince everyone he was just the new PR guy. The success of his plan depended on it. Even if he was actually the CEO of the whole damn company, and usually had bigger fish to fry.

      And concentrating on business meant not giving Lana a hard time—challenge or not. Though there had been something about the spark in her eyes when she’d fired back at him last night, something about her wary yet indignant expression that had him wanting to delve beneath her prim surface to discover the hidden depths.

      Maybe if he unnerved her enough, unsettled her enough, he’d get to see the real her?

      An interesting proposition, but for now work came first. Work was reliable, dependable, and never let him down. It wasn’t clouded by emotions and it didn’t change when he least expected it. Work was the one constant in his life. The only constant.

      Exactly the way he liked it.

      Lana studied Neptune’s News, the ship’s daily planner, as she lounged around the lido pool, staggered by the array of activities on board: lectures on ports they were due to visit, wine-tasting, art auctions, dance lessons—the list went on for ever. She studiously avoided any activities with Zac’s name pencilled next to them, and finally decided on ballroom dancing—something she’d always wanted to try but never had the guts to. Hopefully mastering a waltz or two might give her a quickstep in the right direction to boosting her self-confidence.

      Finding her way to the ballroom proved easier said than done. Maps were clearly visible around the ship, but understanding the difference between port and starboard was the first hurdle to overcome in figuring out directions, and only after several botched attempts did she finally find the room. So much for her sure-fire navigational skills; apparently they only applied to the maze of one-way streets around Sydney and to convoluted museum corridors.

      Several women stood to one side of the ballroom, while a few men loitered on the outskirts of the dance floor. She learned from Mavis, the woman standing next to her, that the men were hosts, hired by the ship’s company for single women who needed a dance partner.

      ‘This is my seventh cruise, dear. Why do you think I keep coming back? Though I’m seventy, these dance hosts make me feel twenty-one again, whisking me all over the dance floor. Not to mention their youthful good-looks.’

      Lana smothered a smile as the youngest host appeared to be a greying fifty-five. She observed that the men were skilled at mingling with the women, and soon everyone had paired off. Predictably, she had no partner. Story of her life, really.

      ‘Don’t worry, love, you’ll be the lucky one paired with the instructor.’

      Mavis, veteran cruiser, obviously knew how these things worked.

      ‘I hope he’s good.’

      Because she was a dervish out there on the dance floor? Yeah, right. She moved her feet to an imaginary samba rhythm and almost took a tumble.

      ‘I’m better than good. Let’s just hope you can keep up.’

      Her nerve-endings snapped to attention as the deep voice rippled over her, and she didn’t have to turn around to know who it belonged to. Fickle fate dealing her a bum hand yet again.

      ‘Okay, class, let’s get to work. As you can see, I’m not Rafe, our illustrious dance instructor. He was called away to a last-minute rehearsal for tonight’s extravaganza, so you’re stuck with me instead. For those who don’t know me, I’m Zac McCoy, the PR manager. Though I’m not a professional entertainer, I can safely say I don’t have two left feet, and I’ve managed to learn a thing or two during my years working with the entertainment staff. So, how about a waltz to start with?’

      ‘Anything you want, handsome. Oh, if only I was thirty years younger.’Mavis fanned her face, a twinkle in her eyes.

      ‘If only I’d decided on taking the chess class,’ Lana muttered, wondering if she could feign a sprained ankle.

      ‘Did you say something?’

      She had two choices. Duck and run, as she usually would in an uncomfortable situation like this, or ignore the blush burning her cheeks, discount the fact she’d never done this before, and suck it up and see if she could get through this awkward encounter without making a fool of herself.

      She shook her head, managing a tight smile resembling a grimace. ‘No.’

      ‘Right, then. Shall we dance?’

      Zac grinned and held out his hand, leaving her no option but to take it. She tried to relax, she really did, but as he pulled her closer, his body grazing hers, she inadvertently stiffened.

      His knowing smile didn’t help. ‘See—a perfect fit.’ ‘I thought we were doing a waltz. The way you’re holding me seems more like the Lambada.’

      ‘Fancy a bit of dirty dancing, do you?’

      ‘Don’t flatter yourself. You certainly don’t hold a candle to Patrick Swayze.’

      A glint of hidden excitement lit his extraordinary eyes.

      ‘And here I was thinking you were falling under my spell. You disappoint me.’

      She averted her gaze, focussing on anything other than those all-seeing eyes, wishing her heart would stop racing. ‘Don’t you ever stop flirting?’

      His grin widened. ‘I’m sure Fred did his fair share of flirting while he whisked Ginger around. I’m just taking my role seriously.’

      ‘Your role as the resident Casanova, you mean?’

      The naughty glint in his eyes alerted her to the fact she hadn’t insulted him. Moreover, he was enjoying their sparring way too much.

      ‘We’re both adults here. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of harmless flirtation. Besides, you dared me—remember?’

      More fool her.

      ‘Look, this is silly. You were taunting me last night. I bit back. Let’s just forget it, okay?

      The naughty glint didn’t let up. If anything it intensified as his lips kicked up into an all too sexy grin.

      ‘Unfortunately for you I have a very good memory, so I can’t forget it. But I’m willing to concentrate on our dance steps for now.’ And with that he spun her outwards, at arm’s length.

      ‘If that’s your way of changing the subject, I’m not buying it.’

      He reeled her in with a slight tug on her hand. ‘Who said anything about needing to change the subject? I enjoy flirting. You’re the one with the problem.’

      If he only knew.

      She didn’t know how to flirt—had absolutely no experience