JC Harroway - A Week To Be Wild

Perhaps it was the single dimple in his cheek—simultaneously boyish and wicked. Or the incredible expressive eyes the colour of burnt sugar that regularly stared out from the glossy magazine covers he graced. Either way, he was utterly disarming. So much so that her voice completely deserted her—no doubt it was attending the ‘Get Alex Lancaster Naked’ rally being hosted by her libido and sponsored by her erogenous zones.

‘Ms Noble. Great talk.’

His mouth kicked up, unleashing the full force of that dimple. Damn, that smile could melt the underwear clean off her body. And his voice: smoky…rich bourbon in a cut-glass tumbler.

Her sharp, tight-fitting suit—her signature outfit—transformed into a straitjacket. It was the only explanation for the hot flush misting her skin and the prickle of every tiny hair covering her body.

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Lancaster.’

Libby pulled her hand from his. Not that the move offered relief from the inferno engulfing her. He was too close. Too virile. Too everything.

Get a grip, Libby. He’s just another suit.

Right—if by ‘suit’ she meant a walking advertisement for ‘Hot Boardroom Dudes’. Perhaps he could start an internet craze. She’d be the first to sign up.

‘You deserve every scrap of your reputation.’ He rubbed his knuckles over one lightly stubbled cheek, his dark gaze sparkling.

Libby’s missing-in-action tongue returned to her mouth. ‘Well, that’s a rare talent, Mr Lancaster—one that the gossip rags and business pages fail to credit you with.’

Libby wiped her palm along the length of her skirt, her body half turned away from him so he wouldn’t see the gesture that gave away the effect he had on her. The thought of this man’s focus honed on her, even simply her online business profile, shunted heat to the most inconvenient places.

At his small frown, she continued. ‘Perfectly disguising an insult within a compliment.’

She glanced over his shoulder, raising her eyebrows in acknowledgement of someone she recognised as she made to bypass him.

‘Excuse me.’

Arrogant, sexy…

He laughed. A head-thrown-back bellow that forced more gold flecks into the burnt caramel of his irises.

A waiter blocked Libby’s escape route with the delivery of her Pinot Gris, the elegant wine glass glistening with condensation. She bestowed her politest smile on the handsome waiter, still preparing to walk away from the charismatic jerk before her. Even if he was pleasing on the eye and the six-foot-three embodiment of most women’s filthiest fantasises. Fantasies she’d never imagined until she’d slid her eyes over Mr Testosterone there.

‘Forgive me…’ His hand on her arm stilled her. ‘What I should have said is that yours was by far the most entertaining of the lectures given this morning. I’ve heard of your work. I’m a businessman and I keep abreast of international business news.’

His mouth caressed the lip of his own wine glass, and he held her gaze over the rim, a mix of devilment and challenge warring for control in his slightly narrowed, sinfully provocative stare.

His hand, still on her arm, burned a hole through the fine wool of her favourite jacket. Large, tanned, with a sprinkling of dark hair smattering the wrist that poked from the cuff of his expensive linen shirt. Slight calluses marred the perfection of his long, elegant fingers, and she glimpsed clean square nails before he withdrew.

She had the absurd urge to ask him if he had a daily manicure. Was that how pampered British billionaires filled their days? Of course it was dwarfed by other urges that involved those large callused hands and her nipples.

It really had been too long…

Free from his touch, she regained her composure, her intellect wrestling it free from the clutches of her hormone-riddled body.

‘I see. I’m sorry I can’t return the compliment. I missed your talk.’

And she’d never worked for any IT giant. Why would she have crossed his radar?

Still looking at her as if his X-ray vision had burned holes through her clothing down to her lacy underwear, he shrugged one large shoulder.

His charcoal-grey suit encased his frame like a glove. She’d bet her beloved cat, Dumbledore, that it was cashmere—probably bespoke Savile Row. A copper-coloured tie brought out those ridiculous sparks of fire in his eyes and highlighted his decadent, cry-worthy black lashes.

Libby curled her fingers into her palms to stop herself fanning her flushed face.

Back to her escape plan.

As if anticipating her, he stepped sideways, facing her full-on, his broad chest eclipsing her vision. ‘I’m glad I met you today. I’d like your professional advice, actually.’

He took another sip of wine, his bold stare raking her face and dipping to her throat. If he’d gone any lower this conversation would be over, regardless of his pretty face and intriguing request.

‘Perhaps we could sit together…discuss it over lunch?’ Then came the eyebrow lift. Perfectly executed, devastatingly tempting.

Had her body not reacted so overwhelmingly towards him, she might have agreed. The company he’d founded in his late teens, Lancaster IT, had gone global in recent years, with sales of its software to the Asian healthcare market shunting its drool-worthy founder and CEO from wealthy to obscene. Any business association her marketing company might have with the new IT giant making international waves would surely provide her with the kudos she needed to take her own business to the next level.

But she abhorred arrogance. Alex Lancaster was not only renowned for fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants business decisions that left wiser, more experienced competitors shaking in their hand-stitched Oxfords, but his personal life was equally reckless. Just thinking about this daredevil playboy’s antics brought her out in an icy chill.

She demurred—after all, he was incredibly influential. ‘I’m flattered. If you ask your assistant to call mine, I’m sure we can set something up.’

She took an embossed business card from her purse and passed it to him, careful to keep her fingertips away from the thrill of his.

‘Although my personal client workload at present has me a little over-committed.’

What was she saying ? This was a dream scenario for her small but growing business. Was she palming off an account of this magnitude on to one of her juniors? Seriously? All because he was twice as hot in person, made her thighs tremble and soaked her expensive lingerie—her one indulgence.

He flipped the card between his fingers in a continuous hypnotic loop of digital gymnastics. Mesmerising. What else could he do with those talented fingers?

Libby dragged her gaze away. His sexy stare was back. Pinning her heels to the carpet. Normally she tolerated awkward silences, especially in business settings. But he rocked her cool composure.

‘It—It’s all there…on my website.’ Babbling . A successful twenty-eight-year-old businesswoman with a master’s degree in marketing was babbling.

He didn’t once glance at the card, which still tumbled lazily between his long, tanned fingers. ‘I’d really like your personal input. You’ve done wonders for Kids Count.’

Why would her work for a small US charity interest him? Although it had landed her a prestigious industry award.

His lips caressed his wine glass, his eyes watching her over the rim. ‘I’m involved with a charity too.’

He tucked the card into the inside pocket of his jacket, close to his chest.

The gesture, strangely intimate, made heat pool low in her belly. She definitely needed to get laid.

Tonight.