Anything but Vanilla(17)

Jet-lagged, tired, as he was, she’d turned him on as if she’d flipped a light switch, but while his body might be urging him to go for it, take what was so clearly on offer, he had a week at most to put this right, catch up with his own paperwork and get back to work. And despite what she clearly thought, he didn’t mix business with pleasure—he would be leaving again in days and he’d given up on one-night stands. Anything more needed constant care and feeding and he didn’t stay in one place long enough to put in the work.

He pushed the thought away and concentrated on the immediate problem. Not difficult. The problem would be not thinking about her...

What on earth someone as grounded as Nick Jefferson was doing letting Sorrel Amery loose on an important product promotion, he could not imagine.

Cucumber ice cream, for heaven’s sake! He shook his head. It had to be the work of some idiot in Jefferson’s marketing department; an idiot with a weakness for chestnut hair, translucent skin and legs up to her armpits. No doubt she’d turned on that straight-to-hell smile and the poor sucker had gone down without a fight. Or maybe she had. She’d gone from nought to fifty in second gear and he’d barely touched her...

The thought shivered through him.

He hated it.

Wanted it.

Wanted her with that hot mouth on him, those long legs wrapped around him...

He dragged his hands over his face, rubbed hard in an effort to stimulate the circulation and tear his thoughts away from the bright chestnut curl he’d tucked behind a very pretty ear decorated with a small cream and gold enamelled ice cream cone. There was no denying that everything about her was positively edible, but he wasn’t having her for dessert.

She could have a week to make her sorbet and sort out some other arrangement to make her ice cream. He would be concentrating on winding up the business.

He didn’t have much time.

Ria’s lows were countered by soaring highs and it wouldn’t be long before she was having second thoughts. In the meantime, he had no choice but to treat Sorrel Amery like the rest of the creditors and dig her out of the hole she’d been dumped in.

A tap on the door reminded him that in her case it would take more than a cheque to make her disappear. As if to rub in the message, she didn’t wait for an invitation. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need Nancy’s phone number.’

‘Help yourself,’ he said, keeping his head down, determined to keep his distance. He picked up an envelope and slit it open, focusing on the job in hand.

‘Have you seen...?’

He pointed the letter opener at the shelf behind the desk.

‘Thanks,’ she said, stretching across the desk.

He hadn’t thought it through.

A whisper of warmth feathered his cheek as the edge of the white coat caught on his chair and then she put her hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she wobbled on those ridiculous heels.

‘Oops...’

‘Can you reach?’

‘I’ve got it. Thanks.’

He waited, holding his breath, willing her to move but, having found what she was looking for, she remained where she was, apparently transfixed by the invoices piling up in front of him.

‘Are those all unpaid bills?’ she asked, horrified.

He removed another final demand from its envelope and placed it on one of three piles. ‘It’s not quite as bad as it looks,’ he said.

‘It isn’t?’

She smelt amazing. Warm skin, clean hair mingled with starched white cotton, vanilla, chocolate... Something else... He struggled against the urge to turn and pull her close, bury his face against the silk and breathe deeper. Effort wasted as she bent over his shoulder to take a closer look at the bills. Sun-warmed strawberries. That was it. Not raspberries, but strawberries. One of those dark red varieties, full of flavour, dripping with juice that would stain her mouth...

‘I’m using a triage system,’ he said, desperate for any distraction from thoughts of hot, juice-stained lips... ‘Those on the left are the original invoices, the ones in the middle are reminders and these...’ he tapped the pile with the letter opener; he needed to do something with his hands ‘...are final demands.’

‘Oh, dear God. Poor Ria.’ The strappy thing she was wearing fell away as she bent to pick up the electricity bill, offering him a glimpse of softly mounded breasts in creamy lace cups. Had she no control over her clothing? Shouldn’t she have buttoned up the white coat?