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‘So I’m not about to give her or any other woman here a lap dance.’ I lean close. ‘Though I’d make an exception for you.’
That colour deepens her skin but I’m struck by the molten emotion in her bottomless eyes. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m like some lecherous party guest. But she provoked me and we had shared a moment in that storeroom. Now she presses her trembling lips together—not pursing them in disapproval, but suppressing her smile. That ache tugs deep inside me again and I want everyone in this room to vanish so we can be alone.
‘Can I please get a coffee too?’ I mutter. ‘Black. No sugar.’
‘Of course.’ She swiftly operates the machine.
Even though I never do this—I never usuallyhaveto—I somehow end up telling her who I am. ‘My name is Dain Anzelotti.’
Her expression is back to bland. ‘Am I supposed to recognise your name?’
‘Many people would.’ My name is on a lot of contracts.
But I’m not surprised she didn’t recognise my face. I avoid all kinds of media. I can get some stories scrubbed before they hit the mainstream press and I only attend social events where discretion is assured. I’m not on any social media platforms. I don’t have a personal email address. When you’re as wealthy as I am it’s advisable to remain as unreachable as possible. So as far as I’m aware there are no social media pictures of me anywhere now and, yes, I’m too precious but I’ve had more than enough of those in my past when I was used as a pawn during my parents’ drawn-out separation and brutally public divorce.
She looks down at the coffee cup she’s filling. ‘You’re not local, right?’
‘Right. But...’ But most people recognise my name.
‘Are you famous or something?’
‘Or something.’
‘By that you mean wealthy.’ She shoots me a cutting glance. ‘So what? In Queenstown every other customer is an arrogant billionaire. Which sort are you? Tech? Rural? Some sort of amazing eco-friendly attire?’ Her gaze rakes over my suit. ‘Snowboard champion?’
‘Property development,’ I mutter.
She doesn’t look impressed. ‘Hotels?’
‘Apartments.’ I don’t know why I’m suddenly like a schoolboy struggling to impress the girl he fancies on the bus.
‘Good for you.’ She shrugs dismissively.
‘You’d prefer I was an...entertainer?’
She pauses. ‘Well...’ Her voice drops. ‘It does seem like a waste of your other assets.’
I’m so shocked I can only stare as that husky little sass repeats in my head. Desire paralyses me. The images in my head—how I could use the ‘assets’ she’s thinking of—are shockingly inappropriate. I don’t lose control of myself like this. Definitely not in public. I blink, needing to distract myself before this very crowded room sees the effect this woman has on me. My gaze drops and I see the latte she’s made for Simone. I’ve seen fancy patterns on top of frothy milk before, but this one is particularly artistic with a highly detailed bird hovering over a flower.
‘That’s amazing,’ I mutter hoarsely.
‘Yes.’ She glances up and looks me directly in the eyes. ‘Tastes even better.’
I’m gone. Brain dead. Body slammed. Stunned into silence. I don’t respond at all. Where did this vixen come from? I’ve been hit on more times than I can remember but this tiny attempt has me sizzling in a way I can’t handle. I recall the moments in that storeroom where she was pressed against me. I want that again. I’m all but overpowered by the urge to toss her over my shoulder and carry her back there to finish what we started.
But I don’t. I can’t. I remain still and silent. Struggling to process, to regain control of myself. It takes too long. Belatedly I realise a flush has swept over her face. Before I can think to respond or am able to un-gum my mouth, she drops her gaze. Swiftly she sets the coffees on a small tray. Distractedly I notice other differences between my small, plain drink and Simone’s.
‘Don’t I get a cookie too?’ I ask feebly.
It’s too late. She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t look me in the eyes. Since when was I so incompetent with a woman? I follow her like a redundant fool. She’s mortified. Even the tips of her ears are scarlet. I slip back into my seat.
‘Have you been giving her a hard time?’ Simone asks quietly as I watch Talia march back across the room—stiff-backed, scarlet-cheeked.
Not the kind of hard time I want to give her, no.
‘She’s not your usual type,’ Simone adds speculatively.
‘Surely you don’t think I have a singular type.’ I sip my scalding coffee to hide the frustration overflowing within me but I can’t lift my attention from Talia.
