Tycoon's Terms of Engagement. Natalie AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
chuckled, appreciating the less than subtle implication. ‘I’m tougher than I look. Can’t be chewed up and spat out as easily as all that.’
‘Oh?’ She sounded disbelieving. ‘So you don’t want to go to the zoo? Where do you want to run away to?’
Anywhere. As long as it was with her.
He looked at her silently, trying to ride out the intense impulse sweeping over him. The car seemed to be shrinking. She was so near he saw her breath hitch, heard that faintest gasp. The urge to kiss her was overwhelming.
Sex. The body’s happy place. And for him the ultimate avoidance activity. He’d bury himself in her hot, tight body and screw their brains out. Until he could think of nothing else. Until he was exhausted and could sleep—not lie awake for hours and hours and hours, wondering and worrying and worrying and worrying…
It wasn’t such a bad idea, was it?
Wrong. It was the worst idea ever. He hadn’t succeeded as much as he had by bedding possible business partners.
He’d never done that.
Steffi Leigh was the excuse he’d given for making this trip to Australia. His brothers had been on his back about working too hard, but he’d said he needed to assess the viability of this acquisition himself. Truth was, he was hunting for something far more personal and he didn’t want to hurt his family by telling them yet. Not until he knew for sure. Not until he’d found everything out—even if it was the worst.
‘Jack…?’ A soft query.
He’d been silent too long—staring… all but eating her with his eyes. And in her eyes now was not just that spark that lit brighter as he neared, but the concern he’d turned away from the first moment he’d seen her.
She’d seen his anxiety again. And he hated it just as much as he had in the hotel foyer.
Unable to take the heat any more, Jack shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the ludicrously small back seat of the femininely sweet car.
Her eyes widened. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m hot.’ No lie. And it wasn’t because of the sun beating down on them.
He loosened his tie. Then thought better of it and took it off entirely, lying it on top of his jacket. Then he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, undid the cufflinks and rolled his sleeves to just below his elbows.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked as he worked.
‘Of course not.’
But not even the make-up could mask her blush now.
So he wasn’t the only one feeling it.
He knew that. Knew there was no way she wasn’t feeling the electricity arcing between them.
His phone beeped again. Sighing, he twisted to retrieve it from his jacket pocket and glanced at the screen to read the message. His private investigator had gone all efficient and diarised their meeting for him.
Reading it in black and white, he felt his lungs tighten. As did every one of his muscles. Anxiety returned in an unexpected tsunami. He gritted his teeth. He’d travelled the world over—going into war zones, danger zones, crossing arid deserts and ice floes. But he’d never felt as freaked out as he had when he’d taken that call ten minutes ago. As he did now.
But he’d been waiting over twenty years for this meeting—what was another forty-eight hours?
Torture. That was what it was. Pure, poisonous torture.
And hell, yes, he wanted to run away for the duration.
He needed time to speed up. Needed something else to think about for the next day or two or he was going to go insane.
Unable to help himself, he looked at her again and drank in the sight of her strawberry blonde hair, so intricately curled and coiled against her head, and her flawless pale complexion. Her eyes were bright, her lips glossy, and her petite figure was shown off to perfection in that pressed mint-green dress.
She didn’t look exactly like the profile picture on her blog. She looked better. It was the spark in her eyes. Not the make-up and the ‘look-but-don’t-touch’ dress, but the underlying attitude. That hint of something more dangerous within her—the certainty that she was keeping part of herself back.
He found her as irritating and as attractive as hell.
Yeah, he’d do anything to avoid thinking about that meeting. Absolutely anything. And everything.
He’d bite through those layers of rich, sweet icing. There was definitely more substance—more cake—than he’d first thought. And he did like cake.
But it wasn’t all about him. He wanted to see her fall into it—fall apart. He wanted to watch her eyes glaze and her cheeks redden without the aid or the mask of make-up. He wanted to see her sweaty and wet and flushed and laughing. And then crying her release. He wanted her mindless and begging to be tipped over the edge. He wanted to be the one to make her.
So inappropriate. Borderline insane. Sexual harassment stuff.
He had to rein it in.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had sex in years. He enjoyed holiday affairs with women who didn’t know who he was. When they found out he moved on. They were a short escape from his real world.
He wanted to escape now. He wanted to scoop her up and toss her into the nearest swimming pool so he could see her clearly. He wanted to see her wet.
The urge to provoke her was irresistible. The urge to touch her he was restraining. Just.
Because he hadn’t lied. Jack Wolfe wasn’t like his playboy brother George. Or his bona fide hero James.
Truth was, they weren’t related at all. And there was the cause of the ache. He was no Wolfe.
‘Are you going to answer that?’ she asked, her soft voice rasping.
His phone was ringing.
She watched him. No expression creased that immaculately painted face. But in her eyes all was emotion—all concern.
He hated it. He wanted nothing but that heat again.
He forced himself to tear his attention away from her. Glancing down, he read his brother’s name on the screen.
‘No,’ he said shortly.
He wasn’t going to answer. He couldn’t speak to his brother at this moment without giving himself away. If his brother heard his anxiety he’d be hounding him for the reason. And Jack wasn’t ready to explain it yet. But the second his phone stopped ringing it chimed to signal another text message.
‘Busy guy.’
He put his phone on the back seat again. ‘I run a company. “Busy” comes with the territory.’
A phone chimed. Hers this time.
‘Do you mind?’ She echoed his words as she opened her small bag.
‘Not at all.’ He watched as she quickly scanned the screen, a very faint frown pulling at her eyebrows. ‘Busy blogger?’
‘Of course. As you know, my audience is global. People like to have their comments acknowledged.’
‘So you’re always on call?’
‘Not for just anyone.’ She sent him a look. ‘Only my followers.’
He smiled, finding her slight snarkiness oddly soothing. ‘Your fans?’
‘People who like what I do,’ she said proudly. ‘I like to keep them happy.’
‘You’re not out to please everyone, then?’
‘We