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In truth, she was intrigued.
His properties had a reputation for unrivalled luxury, and she’d read that A-list celebrities booked up to a year in advance to hold their private soirees in his West End club. His latest venture, in Paris, was meant to be even more glamorous and exclusive.
She puffed out a breath. She’d run out of arguments, or at least any that were valid. Telling him she couldn’t have dinner with him because he made her feel hot and bothered was hardly an option. She stood up. ‘Fine. A business dinner,’ she said, putting a clear emphasis on ‘business’.
One evening. She could grit her teeth and bear it, couldn’t she? And, when it was over, he would disappear, to New York or Spain or Dubai or wherever, and Emily would get on with doing what she did best.
Running The Royce.
* * *
Two days later, standing in her bathroom, Emily applied a final coat of mascara to her lashes, stepped back from the mirror and gave her reflection a critical once-over.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d devoted this much effort to her appearance.
She smoothed the front of her dress with both hands. It was a safe choice. The scooped neckline revealed only a hint of cleavage and the hem stopped just above her knees. The midnight-blue fabric clung softly to her body and the subtle shimmer woven through it kept it from being boring. It was classy enough for an exclusive venue, but not attention-seeking.
She uncapped a tube of tinted gloss and slicked it over her lips. She’d gone for more make-up than usual, enhancing her grey eyes with soft, smoky colours, and lightly rouging her cheeks.
Recapping the gloss, she looked at her hair and felt a stab of uncertainty. Her curls were shiny, well-conditioned, but they were thick and unruly. She should have left them in the neat chignon she’d worn to work.
She pulled open a drawer filled with hair cli
ps and bands as her doorbell chimed from the hallway.
With a fresh bout of nerves making her hands unsteady, she glanced at her watch.
Six-fifty p.m.
He was ten minutes early.
And standing at the front door of her flat, she thought with a flash of unaccountable panic.
Quickly, she slipped her bare feet into a pair of high-heeled navy sandals and went to the door.
Her renovated flat was on the top floor of a converted three-storey Victorian mansion. She had told Ramon to text her when he arrived and she would meet him on the street. She paused by the hall table and checked her phone. No message.
Maybe a neighbour was calling and it wasn’t Ramon. How would he have gained access? Unless Mr Johnson, her elderly ground-floor neighbour, had forgotten to lock the main door again.
Taking a deep breath, she calmed her spinning thoughts and opened the door.
And forgot to breathe out.
Ramon stood there and he was...
Oh.
He was breathtaking...tall and powerful and a bit edgy-looking, dressed entirely in black. He wore a jacket, no tie, an open-necked silk shirt and he hadn’t shaved, leaving a dark five o’clock shadow on his lean jaw that served only to magnify his sex appeal. He looked relaxed, yet lethal—a heady combination that turned her knees watery and her insides hot.
She steadied herself with one hand on the door, slowly growing aware of Ramon conducting his own appraisal—of her.
His gaze travelled all the way down to her coral-tipped toes and back up to her face.
Their gazes locked and Emily couldn’t misinterpret the dark, appreciative smoulder in his hooded brown eyes.
Heat saturated her skin.
This was business, she reminded herself, not an evening of pleasure, but the electrifying hum of physical awareness didn’t lessen.
