by Robyn Grady
‘Of course.’
‘Even if your father had thought to consider it, he wouldn’t give you control.’
After the initial shock, she suppressed a growl. How dared he presume to know her family and their situation so well?
She placed her crystal flute on the bar ledge. ‘It’s not over till it’s over, Mr Scott.’
His blue gaze turned steely. ‘Your father’s company is in financial straits.’
Her thoughts froze. That wasn’t possible. They were one of the leading franchise businesses in the country. Had been for a long time. Her father hadn’t had any financial problems since before her mother had died.
Benton Scott’s voice penetrated the fog. ‘Your father didn’t want to worry you with it.’
I just bet he didn’t.
She absently moved towards the open concertina doors as a wave of dread fell through her. But even if the company were in trouble, that wouldn’t change her mind. A dip in profitability only meant that her innovative ideas were needed now more than ever.
But what did it mean to her hit man?
She rotated back. ‘You’re a successful investor. What do you want with a failing business?’ Her stomach gripped as an answer dawned. ‘Unless it’s to sell off the assets.’
‘I’m not a corporate raider. I see this company as a perfect opportunity to mix business with pleasure. Gambling on the stock market has been lucrative. But I want a business I can get involved with—pardon the pun—from the ground up.’
She studied him, from the top of his coal-black hair to the tips of his polished-Italian-leather shoes. Was she getting this right? ‘You want to mow lawns and drive trucks?’
‘As a matter of fact, when time permits, yes, I do. This company needs tender loving care for it to survive.’
She sent a dry look. ‘And you’re an expert on TLC?’
‘In the right circumstances—’ his gaze licked her lips ‘—absolutely.’
The tips of her breasts tightened as if he’d brushed each bead with the pad of his thumb. What could he do with a graze of his mouth, or the tickling tip of his tongue?
She swallowed against another hot rush of arousal.
Rewind, Celeste. Not in the plan, remember.
She crossed out onto the cool patio. Gazing at the fairy-tale spread of city lights and majestic arch of Sydney’s Harbour Bridge twinkling in the distance, she considered her next move. When he joined her, the scent of earlier rain and damp eucalyptus leaves faded beneath the proximity of another influence…spicy, expensive and achingly male.
Out the corner of her eye, she saw Benton lift the Scotch to his lips. ‘We’re not going to agree,’ he said.
‘I disagree.’
He chuckled and turned to her. ‘You’re one stubborn woman.’
‘I prefer the word persistent.’
She flicked a glance at his left hand. Of course no gold ring. Did he have a girlfriend? More likely he had several, which was fine with her.
Fine, fine, fine.
His eyes, reflecting light from the low slung moon, trailed her jaw. ‘I wish we’d met under different circumstances. It could’ve been—’
‘Mutually beneficial?’
He swirled his drink. ‘That’s one way to put it.’
‘How about memorable? Meaningful?’
A corner of his mouth curved up as his brows nudged together. ‘Why, Miss Prince, are you hitting on me?’
When his eyes twinkled again, her nipples tightened more and an alarmingly vivid image of his white teeth tugging one tip, then the other, bloomed in her mind.
Battling the sparks firing low in her belly, she cleared the huskiness from her throat and explained. ‘Actually I’m suggesting you do the honourable thing and step away from this buyout.’
Disappointment dragged down his smile and he faced the view. ‘Whatever you might believe, your father is being cruel to be kind. So am I. If this business takes one more wrong turn, you could lose everything.’
Sorry? Did she have ‘walking business disaster’ hanging from a sign on her back?
She crossed her arms. ‘Thanks for the confidence boost. When I’m as successful as you are now, I only hope I’m as modest.’
His jaw tensed. ‘Sarcasm is so predictable. I prefer it when you flirt.’
She huffed and mumbled, ‘Well, you are a man.’
‘And you’re a woman,’ he drawled. ‘A beautiful woman, who obviously likes to wear pretty clothes and keep her nails buffed.’ While her brain registered ‘beautiful’, the strong planes of his face softened. ‘Why don’t you take your share of the cash and buy a couple of boutiques to go with your handbag store?’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘I’m not sure whether it’s the sexist nature of your suggestion that rankles most, or the fact you sincerely mean that to be sage advice?’
Maybe he was bigger, wealthier…hell, maybe he was smarter than her. That didn’t mean she couldn’t fight for what was hers. Anita Prince would be cheering her daughter on all the way.
He considered her for a long moment. Then the mask cracked. He groaned and tugged an ear lobe. ‘What are you proposing?’
She faced him full on. ‘Compassion. You can buy any business you like but PLM is personal to me. My parents lost blood, sweat and tears getting it started.’ She remembered the highs and lows as if it were yesterday—the flying champagne corks as well as the fights. ‘You say you have our best interests at heart. Prove it. I know this business backward. Give me three months to show my father I can get the company back on its feet.’
The tugging on his mouth told her he was chewing his inside lip. After another nerve-racking delay, he exhaled. ‘One month.’
Snap!
She hid a smile. ‘Two.’
‘Six weeks and with one condition. I’ll be here, working beside you the whole time.’
‘I don’t need to have my hand held.’
‘Plenty of damage can be done in six weeks. I have no intention of cleaning up any more mess than I need to.’
Her smile was tight. ‘If I had thinner skin, I’d be insulted.’
She had to think fast. To have Benton Scott around would be far too distracting. For more reasons than one she needed her mind set on accomplishing her goal, not watching her back. Perhaps a different tack would dissuade him…something to make his super-sized ego jump.
She feigned a sigh. ‘When I first saw you tonight, I assumed you were a man who enjoyed a challenge. A man who took risks. Guess I was wrong.’
When she turned away, he caught her wrist and flames leapt up her arm, colourful and consuming enough to ignite her body like a Roman candle. What was this guy’s secret? Sex appeal pills with every meal?
Hoping the blistering effect didn’t show on her face, she counted her heartbeats, then cautiously met his gaze.
While his eyes flashed, the grip on her arm eased. ‘That’s the deal. Take it or leave it. But something else needs to be out in the open.’ He spoke to her lips. ‘Six weeks is a long time. I’m not sure we can work that close for that long without…consequences.’
The innate heat radiating from his body toasted hypersensitive places Celeste hadn’t realised she possessed—and had no intention of letting on she’d discovered.
She kept her words slow and even. ‘You’ve come a long way since this isn’t the time for introductions.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Consequences are fine. As long as you know I’m not after a Mrs Scott, no matter whose daughter I’m with. Or what that daughter wants.’
Celeste almost gasped. He was suggesting she’d try to manipulate him into marriage to keep the business! How many times had Benton Scott had his face slapped this week? ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but listen carefully…I am not interested.’
‘No?’
She coughed out a laugh. ‘No.’
He chewed his inside lip again. ‘I’m not convinced. Being a thorough as well as cynical man, b
efore we go any further, I’ll need to have proof.’
He left her no time to think. With a single arm he brought her near and like an apple falling to Earth—as if it was always meant to be—his mouth dropped and landed on hers.
The first few seconds were a blackout—all brain function shut down and energy funnelled to a suspended point a notch below zero. Then, as if waking from a coma, one by one every erogenous cell in her system zoomed up and blinked on. A heartbeat later, a ground-shaking surge of heat zapped like a lightning bolt right the way through her. When the palm high on her back pressed her closer, the intensity grew—brighter, hotter—until the magnetic inferno he’d created inside threatened to burn her alive.
This wasn’t a kiss.
It was an assassination.
With skilled reluctance, he drew away, but only until the tip of his nose rested on hers. Caught in the prisms of his half mast eyes, she tried to make sense of her surroundings while her chest rose and fell, her limbs hung like lead and her core compressed around a tight, glowing coil of raw physical want.
When his head slanted as if he might kiss her again, she held her breath. But then his mouth hooked up at one side and he released her. Thank God she didn’t teeter.
‘I’m staying the week,’ he said. ‘If you’re still interested—or was that not interested?—tomorrow we can talk more, perhaps over a drink.’
By some miracle she steadied her breathing and dredged up a smile.
‘A drink sounds good. But just so we’re clear, I’ll take mine with plenty of ice.’ She took his glass and pitched the warm Scotch over the rail. ‘And so, Mr Scott, will you.’
CHAPTER TWO
EARLY the next morning, Ben Scott woke up face down on the sheets, hugging a comfortless pillow, painfully aware of a mean morning hard-on.
He cracked open one eye.
Strange room. No one beside him. Good Lord, he needed to roll over.
Taking the pillow with him, he groaned as spears of light spliced through the sheer blowing curtains. Then the night before flooded his mind, foremost his conversation with the irrepressible Miz Prince. Relaxing back, he closed his eyes and remembered their bombshell kiss and her clever parting remark.
He grinned. She wanted ice? More like she wanted gasoline poured on her fire. However, while he would very much like to help, common—and business—sense told him if he played too close to those flames, someone would likely get burned. He was here to take control of a high-profile business that needed an injection of funds and his undivided attention to bring it back from the edge. But if Rodney Prince viewed this takeover as a saving grace, so did Ben. He couldn’t wait to plunge in.
Soft laughter drifted in through his bedroom’s second-storey doors. Setting the pillow aside, Ben strolled out onto the balcony. Celeste Prince was in the yard, ruffling the heads of two mid-sized poodles. When she threw a ball, they raced off like chocolate-brown rabbits across the wide-open lawn.
Crouched in the shade of an enormous Morton Bay fig tree, golden tresses framing her face, she might’ve been a fairy from the garden. Then she pushed up onto shapely long legs, her rounded cleavage popped into view, and those innocent thoughts flew from his mind.
He combed back his hair and, fingers thatched behind his head, stretched his arms and spine. While he’d been wrong to take advantage and kiss her last night, he couldn’t regret it. In fact, if he had less moral fibre he’d do it again.
He finished his stretch, then cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Ahoy down there!’
She glanced up, but her widening gaze stopped short of reaching his eyes. Rather it got stuck on his bare chest, which suddenly felt twice its usual size. His mouth twitched. What was that about moral fibre?
Lowering his hands and setting them apart on the rail, he deliberately leaned forward. Realising what he’d done—given her a better look—she stiffened, then quickly dropped her gaze. When she peered back up, although her smile was controlled, her green eyes were glistening, just as they’d glistened last night.
‘You’re up early,’ she said.
He thought of his crotch. ‘I’m an early riser. Mind if I join you?’
‘I was hoping you would.’
His brow lifted. ‘I take it you’re ready to get down to business.’
‘I’ve never been more ready in my life.’ She wound her arms up under that delectable bust. ‘Let’s do it.’
Thirty seconds later, Ben was face up under a cold shower, getting a good grip on himself.
He’d had women before. He’d respected and enjoyed every one. But, from the moment their eyes had met across the room, there’d been something different about Celeste Prince. He should’ve guessed she was Rodney’s daughter. Later, in her father’s study, he should’ve known she was laying a trap, leading him into a plan that would hopefully see him surrender his bid on the company.
He stepped from the shower recess and, dripping, grabbed a towel.
Yes, his normally clear sights had been blurred where Celeste was concerned. But he had her number now. She was a lady on a mission. He was in her way. She’d knock him down and drag him out any way she could.
He rubbed his chest and grinned.
It’d be fun letting her try.
Halfway out the front door, the thin middle-aged housekeeper caught up with him to hand over a note.
Benton, an urgent personal matter has called me away. Deepest apologies. Celeste is aware and will make sure you’re comfortable. Rodney Prince.
That bought Celeste a little time to think of a way to explain this situation to her father, Ben thought, pushing the note into his pocket and walking out onto the veranda. It was clear she believed filling Daddy’s shoes would make him proud. Ben sympathised with her—even envied her a touch. He’d give anything to have known a real father. A mother, too.
But he’d got something at least from his foster-home days…a survival technique, which had later crossed over into business: the uncanny ability to quickly and accurately sum up people and situations. Case in point, he had no doubt this deal would go through; Rodney Prince would never entertain the idea of passing on his ailing business to his pretty young daughter.
And Celeste? She was all about deportment classes and new season fashion. She didn’t want to accept it yet, but she was better off following her more feminine sway. He was rarely wrong and he sure wasn’t wrong about that.
When he met Celeste in the yard, despite the cold shower, the sight of her fresh face—those cute freckles sprinkled over her nose—had his toes stiffening in his heavy-duty boots.
He bent to ruffle both dogs’ ears, then fixed the Akubra hat on his head while she sauntered over, eyeing his khaki outfit. ‘My, my, you’re taking this seriously.’
‘And while I like the frock,’ he said, ‘you don’t look dressed for a day at work.’
Not a flinch. Only a measured reply. ‘I thought we could go over the books. I can change into a suit if you prefer.’
Picturing her draped over a desk in a vest and tie and nothing else, he cleared his throat.
Focus, Scottie.
‘I thought we should start by tackling the more practical side of things.’ Eager to begin, he rubbed his hands together. ‘Where’s a mower?’
She smiled, a cheeky tilt of perfect plump lips. They’d tasted like cherries last night. The juiciest, ripest cherries he’d ever known.
‘Are you going to give me a quiz?’ she asked. ‘You want me to name the parts?’
He copied her grin. ‘Not quite. You said you could rescue this business. That you could prove you knew it all backwards. Why don’t we start with something basic, like lopping an inch off this lawn?’ He surveyed the grounds, patted his chest and inhaled. ‘I can smell the petrol fumes and hot motor oil now.’
A dog came to sit either side of her as she stooped to slip an espadrille on each foot. ‘If you’re trying to deter me, save your breath. I was brought up on the aroma of fertiliser and grip of secateurs.’
He shrugged. ‘Then you’ll be able to show me a thing or two.’
‘I didn’t want to say it, but that’s kind of my point.’
She strolled away, her derrière swaying a little too freely to be entirely unconscious. Ice, be damned. If her head was saying to concentrate on business, her body hadn’t got the message yet.
She cast a look over one delicate shoulder. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? You could always tell my father you needed more time to decide. I’ll work around him and the situation, and when you check back in two months—’
‘Six weeks.’
‘Six weeks,’ she conceded as he caught up, ‘you’ll see everything is going forward nicely and you can, in all good conscience, step away from the buy.’
‘You mean do the honourable thing.’
She flashed him a toothpaste-ad smile. ‘Precisely.’
He had his own ideas on how to approach Rodney with the subject of this ‘trial’. But Celeste was right about one thing: she didn’t give in easily. Pity for her, but he didn’t give in at all. He wouldn’t be fobbed off.
‘Having me right alongside you was part of the deal, remember? Of course, if you’d like me to remind you again…’
Knowing full well what he alluded to—the kiss—she looked away, dropped her chin and quickened her pace.
He slipped his hands in his pockets. Interesting response. Was Celeste Prince a pussycat masquerading in vixen’s clothing? Although that would make her easier to handle, he almost preferred it the other way. She’d been dead on when she’d said he liked a challenge—particularly one who kissed like she did.
She stopped before a large metal shed, then, putting her weight behind its sliding door, pushed until a row of lawnmowers was revealed. She waved a theatrical hand. ‘Choose your poison.’
He let out a whistle. ‘That’s quite a selection.’
‘Before my father started the franchise, he fixed mowers for a living. Now he collects them.’
‘Like stamps, only bigger.’
She laughed. ‘Something like that.’
Sauntering into the enclosure, which smelled of rags and dry lawn clippings, he fought the urge to kick a few tyres. ‘This one should do the trick.’