Jacqueline Baird - Mediterranean Tycoons

Warning bells rang loud and clear in his head, but he ignored them. He needed to delve a little deeper to discover what really made her tick. He had sensed her sadness and disappointment earlier—at her father or men in general he wasn’t sure. She had done her best to ignore him, but then she had examined him with blatant female thoroughness and he knew she liked what she saw.

He was not a fool. He had felt her reaction the moment he had put a finger on her arm in the office, and again when he touched her cheek. She was not immune to him. But was she really looking for a wealthy husband?

Did he care? He had escaped that trap all his life, and he was smart enough to continue to do so. But he enjoyed a challenge, and Sally Paxton was definitely a challenge—one that he was determined to pursue and conquer.

She was an adult woman, not some shy young virgin, and he did not have to deprive his body of the pleasure of hers simply because she was looking for a husband, he concluded—to his own satisfaction.

THE restaurant was one of the best in London, and as they were led to their table by the maître d’ , with Delucca’s hand firmly in the small of her back, Sally began to wonder if she had been as clever as she thought at discouraging him.

Something had gone wrong. His hand was like a brand, burning through the raw silk of her dress, and if his reaction as he had helped her from the limousine was anything to go by she was in deep trouble. He had declared that now they knew where they stood they could get better acquainted over lunch.

He certainly didn’t believe in wasting time, and she certainly did not want to get better acquainted with the man, she thought as her chair was held out for her and she sat down at the table. Briefly she looked around. There were more people leaving than arriving, and she glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist. Not surprising, as it was two in the afternoon.

Suddenly, she was tired. She had been working all week, helping set up the latest exhibition to be staged at the museum. This morning the opening for the press and dignitaries had taken place, and she had attended at the request of her boss to answer any questions about the historical provenance of the exhibits. Usually she went to work in neat skirts and tops, but today she had dressed more smartly for the occasion. For months now she had been researching the history of the different exhibits, some of which had been brought up from the vast storage cellars and never been shown before.

Her boss knew of her mum’s condition and had kindly allowed her to slip away at one o’clock. Almost two years of faithfully visiting her mother every weekend plus holidays, not to mention the constant worry, had taken their toll and she felt completely washed out.

The last thing she needed was to fight off the attentions of a predatory male. What she really needed was her bed…alone…

‘Madam?’

She looked up. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured to the hovering maître d’ , and took the menu.

‘Perhaps you would prefer I order for you?’

There it was, that deep accented voice again, intruding on her thoughts. Reluctantly, Sally glanced across the table at her companion. For a moment their eyes met, and she recognised the challenging gleam in the depths of his before glancing down at the menu in her hand.

He was sitting there, all arrogant, powerful male, and she was about to refuse when she thought, why bother? The quicker he ordered, the quicker they ate, and the quicker she could get away from his disturbing presence. Because, being brutally honest, she recognised he did disturb her, in a way she had never felt before. But then he probably had the same effect on every woman on the planet. He was one hundred percent macho male, and then some…

No wonder he wasn’t into commitment. Why would he settle for one woman when he had the pick of the best, according to the article she had read about him. It had extolled his brilliant business acumen and ended mentioning his preference for model girlfriends.

She certainly wasn’t in his league, and nor did she want to be, she concluded firmly.

‘Fine,’ she said, and handed the menu back to the maître d’ , and let her hand drop on the table, her fingers idly playing with a fork. She wasn’t hungry—what did it matter what the man ordered?

‘They do a very good steak here, and I can recommend the sea bass, but everything they serve is excellent.’

‘The fish will be fine.’

‘Fine,’ Zac drawled with biting sarcasm. She was back to uninterested again. Grim-faced, he relayed the order to the maître d’ , including a bottle of rather good wine. But inside he was seething.

Fine , she agreed when he mentioned the wine, without even looking at him. He had seen her glance at her watch as they arrived. He had never known any woman to be interested in the time when with him. Now she was sitting there, head bent, fiddling with a fork. Nobody ignored him—and certainly not a woman whose father had embezzled money out of a business of his. No matter how beautiful she was.

‘Tell me, Sally, what do you do when you are not pressuring your father to take you to lunch?’ he began silkily. ‘Do you fill your days with shopping and visiting the beautician? Not that you need to…’ He reached across and caught her hand in his, turning it over to examine the smooth palm. ‘Does this soft hand actually do any work, or does Daddy keep you?’

Sally’s head shot up as a tingling sensation snaked through her arm, and swiftly she pulled her hand free. Suddenly, she was intensely aware of Zac Delucca, in more ways than one. She was intelligent enough to know when she had been insulted. How typical of a super-rich tycoon like him to automatically think that simply because she had one Friday afternoon free her father supported her financially. Well, she was damned if she was going enlighten him. Let him keep his sexist attitude—she didn’t care…

‘I do shop—doesn’t everyone?’ she said nonchalantly. It was the truth. ‘And I visit the hairdresser sometimes.’ Again it was the truth. ‘The rest of the time I read a lot.’ Also the truth.

The food and wine arrived, interrupting the exchange, and Sally was grateful. She really wasn’t up to sparring with the man any more. She had a feeling he was far too intelligent to be deceived by anything anyone said for long.

Zac filled her wine glass, although she had refused a drink. He insisted she try it. He offered her a piece of his steak on his fork, and she was so surprised by the intimacy of the gesture she actually took it.

He asked what her favourite film was. She said Casablanca , and he told her she was a hopeless romantic, then added that if he had been in Humphrey Bogart’s position he would have taken the woman and run, which made her smile but somehow did not surprise her…His favourite film was Cape Fear , which she did find odd—until they got around to discussing books.

She told him she liked to read history and biographies, as well as being partial to the occasional murder story. And she discovered he spent most of his time reading financial journals and reports, but he did confess to reading the occasional thriller when he had time. Which figured, given Cape Fear was his first choice of film.

Sally sat back in her chair, replacing her knife and fork on the plate, surprised to note she had emptied her plate without realising. Against all expectations the lunch had been quite pleasant. Zac was a witty conversationalist, and he had made her smile—quite an accomplishment in her present state of mind.

She refused Zac’s suggestion of a dessert and agreed to a coffee. He placed the order with the waiter, and Sally glanced around the restaurant again. The furnishings were elegant, the staff discreet, and it was obviously very expensive. Luckily, she was dressed for the occasion—not that she had expected to be here. The clientele were mostly wealthy, high-powered business people, she surmised. Of the few that were left she recognised a famous female presenter from the television and a well-known comedian.