Joss Wood - More than a Fling?

‘They’re from the new line—the one we want you to endorse. It’s not boring or snooty!’ Ally shouted at his back.

Ross had to smile.

He liked women who could think on their feet. And women with dimples.

* * *

Sitting at the long dark bar in the hotel that evening, Ally felt out of her depth—and she knew that it was all Ross Bennett’s fault.

She crossed one leg over the other and stared at her glass of icy white wine. She’d completely cocked up their first meeting and that never happened to her... She was always professional, calm and collected. She just hadn’t expected the CEO of RBM to be playing basketball at noon and looking so...

Incredible? Amazing? So super-freaking-perfect that her heart had tripped over itself and bounced off the inside of her ribcage? Ally bit the inside of her lip. Within ten seconds of seeing him she’d known that Ross Bennett had the elusive X-factor she needed for the face of the new line. In fact he had it in spades—along with the sexy-factor and the hot-factor and any other damn factor she needed. That meant that Luc and Patric—the know-it-alls—had, essentially, done her job for her.

Ross would be abso-freaking-lutely perfect as the new face of Bellechier. If she, social hermit that she was, was conjuring up fantasies of ripping his clothes off with her teeth and getting him naked and on top of her as soon as humanly possible, then normal women—and not a few men—would do the same when they saw the commercials. At the very least it would make them buy Bellechier...

Lots and lots of Bellechier products. Holy smoke. The couple of random pictures she’d found on the net had not done justice to the sheer presence of the guy. He practically radiated charisma and testosterone and heat and sexiness, and that meant...dammit...that meant Luc and Patric were right.

Blergh.

Ally glanced at her watch, realised that she still had a while to wait for Ross and returned to the primary source of her aggravation—specifically her brothers. Ally wrinkled her nose, as always uncomfortable with the word. She wasn’t technically their sister—because the Bellechier-Smith family had never formally adopted her—but she had been part of their family since she was fifteen years old so what else could she call them? Anyway, they were the reason she was in Cape Town, and she was not amused because she now had to eat her words.

She hated it when that happened.

She adored Luc and Patric, and she knew that they were fond of her, but they weren’t close. When she’d arrived at Bellechier Estate as their foster sister they’d both been at university and living their own lives. To their credit, they had initially tried to connect with her but she’d been distant and wary and had resisted their easily offered comfort and compassion.

Because pushing people away and stuffing her emotions down rather than expressing them was what she had been taught to do. Her father’s motto had always been: Buck up, don’t cry, deal with it. That was just what he’d done when her mother had dumped on him the six-month-old daughter he’d never known about, and she supposed that was the way he’d dealt with life. How well he had taught her to do the same.

After losing her dad at fifteen, it had been easier, and far less scary, to withdraw into the bubble of self-sufficiency and emotional independence she’d created while living with her introverted, just-deal-with-it father. Thirteen years later and that bubble now had the thickness of a Sherman tank.

She’d had some therapy, and had attended sessions long enough to learn that she was ‘emotionally unavailable’—that her father’s insistence that emotions were wrong had, in the therapist’s words, ‘mucked her up’ for life. He had tolerated her only if she was reasonable and unemotional and, despite her foster parents’ encouragement to express and display her emotions, she’d never quite got the hang of it.

Emotions were messy and ugly. Indulging in them, allowing them to be a factor in her life, was like climbing into a small car the size of a sardine can and playing chicken with a F-17 fighter jet. Something was going to crash and burn and it wouldn’t be the fighter jet. No, it was far better to be sensible and safe.

Why was she even thinking about her past? Ally wondered, switching her thoughts back to the task on hand. She was good at that, she thought with a twist to her lips. She could always focus on work...it was the best way to distract herself from the memories and to keep her from thinking how empty her life was. Work was where she found silent companionship, where she felt safe, needed and valued. It was a harmless place to invest time and emotions.

So, Ross Bennett... He wasn’t a celebrity, an actor, a musician or a sportsperson. He was—she glanced at the folder on the seat next to her—an entrepreneur and the creator of a computer game. A computer game that was selling squijillions, apparently.

Ally recalled the conversation at a family dinner a couple of nights ago that had led to her leaving Geneva and heading south.

‘Run it by me again, Luc.’

Luc had tapped the stem of his glass with his finger. ‘Today’s heroes are not always sportsmen or actors or models. There are others who are doing amazing things...explorers, eco-warriors, conservationists.’

‘Titans, pioneers, visionaries...’ Patric added, leaning forward and placing his arms on the table. ‘Social media has changed the way we live our lives.’

‘Computers, gaming, technology.’ Luc snapped his fingers. ‘Entertainment, but not films or music.’ Luc’s face broke out into a smile as he snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it... That’s who I want.’

Oh, good grief, Ally thought, this is going to come out from left of field—far, far left. ‘Who?’

‘Ross Bennett.’ Patric leaned back in his chair and Luc raised his hand to high-five his brother. ‘Well, him and his game.’

‘Win!?’ Patric asked.

‘Win!’ Luc confirmed.

Patric whistled. ‘That’s pure genius.’

Win what? Ally wondered, seeing Luc’s satisfied smile. She exchanged a confused look with Gina, Patric’s wife. ‘Who?’

‘Ross Bennett,’ Luc said, as if she hadn’t heard the first time. ‘Win!’

‘Win what?’ Ally demanded, frustrated. ‘Stop talking in code!’

‘Ross is an ex-London-based entrepreneur who relocated to Cape Town. He is responsible for bringing some of the brightest computer geeks in the world together to create the best-selling computer game...ever. It’s a sports and leisure game called Win! He’s recently been named one of the most influential people in the world under thirty-five. He is also the founder of... Jeez, I can’t remember its name. but it’s some kind of technology think-tank that takes the brightest of the bunch—inventors, visionaries—and lets them work on developing new tech and systems to benefit developing countries.’

Blah, blah, Ally thought, scrabbling in her bag for her smartphone. ‘Yeah, but is he hot?’ She caught the dual rolling of eyes and prayed for patience. ‘He’s selling one of the most iconic brands in the world, hot is the minimum I require!’

‘He’s tall.’ Luc offered.

God save her from cretins, Ally thought, pulling up her search engine and typing his name in. Twenty seconds later her small screen was filled with a masculine, angular face dominated by a long nose and a rather gorgeous pair of hazel eyes. The goatee would have to go, and the highlights in his brown hair would need to be redone or taken out altogether. He wasn’t, looks-wise, in the league of their other ambassadors—although she was, admittedly, making that call on the basis of a couple of grainy photos on a very small screen.

But still...on a scale of one to ten he clocked in at seven, eight... She needed at the very least a twelve.