Clare Connelly: The Debt / Cross My Hart

Correction. Dad wouldn’t hate the thought, because, even if he’d still been alive, he wouldn’t have thought of me at all. Not thinking of me was all he’d done from the moment I was born, the product of an illicit affair with one of his maids.

Still, I wasn’t going to let happy memories of my prick of a father ruin my evening, not tonight. I’d worked too long and too hard to get to this point and I had other, bigger fish to fry.

Fish like my half-brother and chief competitor, Sebastian Dumont. He was one of the reasons I’d decided that my first appearance at the club would be at their burlesque event in Paris. I knew he’d be attending and I wanted to shove my membership in his rich and privileged face. He wouldn’t be expecting it and seeing me, his undeserving, lower-class half-brother, showing up where he didn’t belong, would piss him off in the extreme.

Petty? Yes. Satisfying? Completely.

But that wasn’t the only reason. I was also hoping to sabotage his latest business deal, too, just for the hell of it.

John Delaney, a property investor who was looking to sell a couple of islands in the Caribbean that he owned, was also going to be attending the event tonight, and my plan was to corner him and make him an offer for those islands.

I had a luxury hotel business that I’d just got off the ground and the islands Delaney was selling were perfect sites for it.

They were also the same islands that Dumont just happened to be after for his luxury hotel business.

Oh, Dumont had tried to keep his intentions under wraps, but I had my ways of finding out things. And now my entire plan was to buy those islands out from under him.

Yes, we had a rivalry. And to say it was mild was like saying England and Germany were slightly at odds during World War II.

It had been going on for years and I had no plans to build bridges any time soon. Not after what he’d done to me.

I flicked a glance in the rear-view mirror of the limo and found my chauffeur for the evening, the sexy little Australian, staring back at me.

And for a second, all thoughts of my hated half-brother vanished.

When she’d come to the door of my hotel, I’d been expecting Bill, white-haired and grizzled and pushing sixty-five. Instead, what I’d got was brunette and fresh-faced, and pushing twenty-five, if that.

Not to mention small and curvy, with a pretty, freshly scrubbed face, glossy brown hair in a no-nonsense ponytail, the usual chauffeur uniform of black trousers, white shirt and a black tie doing its best to hide the fact that she was unequivocally female.

Oh, yes, and she had a sunny attitude to match.

She hadn’t appeared to notice my scars or to be in the least bit intimidated by my manner, and she had looked me in the eye, which most people never did.

Then there had been that smile. That pretty smile like a bright burst of sunshine. As if she’d never heard of my reputation and had no idea what a bastard I was.

Those things shouldn’t have made her so immediately fascinating to me, because she was nothing like my normal type. I preferred them beautiful and expensive-looking, all the better to soil with my rough, dirty hands, not with a dusting of freckles, dressed in a chauffeur’s outfit, and telling me with a cheerful smile how my assistant not briefing me on her arrival wasn’t her problem.

Not many of my employees would have dared say that to my face.

Correction, none of my employees would have dared say it.

What made her think she could?

She stared at me in the mirror, hints of gold and emerald glinting from beneath long, silky dark lashes, and there was no deference in her gaze. It was full of curiosity and a certain boldness that I found…exciting.

Been a long time since you had a worthy opponent.

Yes, it was true. A very long time. Not that I was into physical fights these days, at least not outside the gym and never with a woman. But it had been a while since I’d met anyone who could hold their own against me. And every fighter needed a challenge to improve their game.

If you didn’t get better you didn’t win, and if you didn’t win, all you got was your teeth kicked in.

I’d never been a fan of getting my teeth kicked in.

She grinned at me. ‘Are you ready to go, Mr Evans?’ Her tone was ridiculously chirpy, yet her voice had a soft, smoky edge that somehow made it sexy at the same time.

She could be your challenge.

Nice idea, but no.

I’d felt the chemistry between us the moment she’d taken my hand back in the hotel room, and when she’d jerked away, her skin pink, I knew she’d felt it too.

Normally that would be something I’d explore, since I never denied myself something when I wanted it, but fresh-faced, tomboyish little Australians who should know better than to smile at men like me were not worth the trouble of tangling with.

And besides, I had a golden rule: never screw the staff.

She might only be a substitute for Bill for a couple of nights, but she was still a staff member. Which made her out of bounds.

‘I’ll go when I’m good and ready, Miss Little,’ I growled, irritated for no good reason.

‘Of course,’ she replied with the same chirpiness, apparently impervious to my annoyance. ‘You can sit here as long as you like. I only asked so I could be ready to open your door for you.’

My irritation increased. She looked so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and eager to please.

You could think of a few ways she could please you.

Yes, but again, not happening.

I stared hard at her, trying to put a dent in her insufferable cheerfulness, but she kept staring boldly back, apparently impervious to my game. And also, apparently, unaware of the blatant challenge she presented by doing so.

A certain tension began to gather in the car, one she also seemed blithely unaware of. At least until I noticed a hint of red glowing in her freshly scrubbed cheeks.

So. Maybe she wasn’t as unaware as she seemed. Not that I was going to be doing anything about it.

‘Then what are you waiting for?’ I said, unaccountably irritated with the direction of my thoughts. ‘I’m ready now.’

Once again, she didn’t bat an eye at my tone, immediately getting out of the car, coming around to my door, and pulling it open for me with a little flourish.

Normally I didn’t bother with that kind of theatre, but tonight I was making an exception.

I glowered as I got out, unfolding myself to my full height, looming over her like the hulking, scarred beast that I was.

She was very small, her head tilting back as she gave me a searching look. Her forehead creased, her smile turning sympathetic. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Evans. You’ll have a great night, I’m sure of it.’

The comment was so unexpected that for a second I had no idea what she was talking about.

‘Do I look fucking worried?’ I said.

Either she didn’t hear my sarcasm or ignored it, because she gave me another thorough scan, her expression becoming serious. ‘Actually, on second thought, you don’t. You just look really grumpy.’

No one made casual observations about me quite like that. Certainly no one said them out loud. To my face.

I opened my mouth to give her another lesson in driver etiquette, but she charged on, giving me another sunny smile before reaching out to pat my arm. ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down, eh?’

People didn’t touch me, not these days. In fact, the only people who did were the women I took to bed.

No one ever patted me sympathetically on the arm.

No one would dare.

To make matters worse, the brief touch sent a ghost of the same electricity I’d felt back in the hotel sparking through the leather of my jacket and straight into me.