His Ultimate Demand

‘I only want you to hear me out. You said we’d talk this morning.’

He got up from the bed in a sleek, graceful move that brought to mind a jungle creature.

The unmistakable evidence of his arousal when he faced her made her swallow. He showed no embarrassment in his blatant display of manhood. Even in thwarted desire, Narciso Valentino wore his male confidence with envy-inducing ease. Whereas she remained cowering beneath the sheets, afraid of the sensual waves threatening to drown her.

‘And so we will. Come through to the kitchen. Caffeine is a poor substitute for sex but it’ll have to do.’ With that pithy pronouncement, he walked out of the bedroom.

She lay there, floundering in a sea of panic and confusion. If anyone had told her she’d be in Narciso Valentino’s bed mere hours after meeting him, she’d have laughed herself hoarse. Particularly since she’d vowed never to mix business with pleasure after what had happened with Simon.

But what Narciso had roused in her just now had frightened and excited her. Kissing him had been holding a live, dangerous firework in the palm of her hand. She hadn’t been sure whether she would experience the most spectacular show of lights or blow herself to smithereens with it.

And yet she’d been almost desolate when the kiss ended. Which showed how badly things could get out of hand.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she counted to ten. The earlier she finished her business with Narciso and got on the plane back to New York, the better.

Throwing off the sheet, she glanced at the velvet rope around her ankle. Twisting her body into the appropriate position, she tugged on the double knot, surprised when it came loose easily.

Again, the realisation that she could’ve freed herself at any time made her view of him alter a little. Her fingers lingered on the rope warmed from her body.

Bondage sex. Until now, the scenario had never even crossed her mind. But suddenly, the thought of being tied down while Narciso laid her inhibitions to waste took up centre stage in her mind.

Heat flaming her whole body, she jumped from the bed. Upright, his T-shirt reached well past her knees, and covered her arms to her elbows.

She glanced at her gown, laid carefully over the arm of the chaise longue, and made up her mind. She would dress after they’d had their talk. She couldn’t bear being restrained in the too-tight dress just yet. Ditto for her heels.

Stilettos and a T-shirt in the presence of a dangerously sexual man like Narciso Valentino evoked an image she didn’t want to tempt into life now, or ever.

For some reason, her body turned him on. She wasn’t stupid enough to bait the lion more than he was already baited.

Barefoot, she left the bedroom and went in search of the kitchen.

He stood at a centre island in a kitchen that made the chef in her want to weep with envy. State-of-the-art equipment lined the surfaces and walls and through a short alcove a floor-to-ceiling wine rack displayed exquisite vintages.

‘You get all this for a two-day stay?’

He jerked at her question. Before he could cover his emotions, Ruby glimpsed a painfully bleak look in his eyes.

A second later, the look was gone as he shrugged. ‘It suits my needs.’

‘Your needs... I’d kill for a kitchen like this in my restaurant.’

‘You own a restaurant?’ he asked.

She concluded her survey of the appliances and faced him. ‘Not yet. I would’ve been on my way to opening Dolce Italia by now if NMC had honoured its commitments.’

‘Ah, the sins of imaginary corporate sharks.’

The coffee machine finished going through its wake-up motions. He pressed a button and the beans started to churn.

‘Not imaginary.’ Ruby stepped forward when she realised what he was doing. ‘Wait, you’re doing it wrong. We’re in a warm climate. The coffee beans expand in warm weather so you need to grind them looser to extract the maximum taste. Here let me do it.’ Even though stepping closer would bring her dangerously close to his sleek frame, she seized the opportunity to make herself useful and not just stare at his broad, naked back. A back she could suddenly picture herself clawing in the heat of desire.

Just as she tried not to stare when he leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms over his bare chest.

‘How are you at multitasking?’ he asked.

‘It’s essential in my line of business.’ Content with the setting, she pressed the button to resume the grinding and went to the fridge. She grabbed the creamer, and forced herself not to gape at the mouth-watering ingredients in there.

‘Good, then you can talk while you prepare the coffee. Tell me everything I need to know.’ His brisk tone was all business.

Quickly, she summarised the events of the past two months.

‘So you entered this competition as a chef?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I have a degree in hospitality management and a diploma in gourmet cuisine and I’m an approved board-certified mixologist.’

He grinned. ‘You have to go to college to mix drinks?’

‘You have to go to school to wash dishes right these days or someone will sue your ass.’ She started to grin, then stopped herself. ‘I mean...if you don’t want to be sued for accidentally poisoning someone. Besides, I plan to make my cocktail bar accessible to allergy-sufferers, too, so I need to know what I’m doing.’

‘Which of your drinks is your favourite?’ he fired back.

The question threw her for a second. Then she shrugged. ‘They’re all my favourite.’

‘Describe the taste of your signature drink,’ he pressed.

She went in search of coffee cups, opening several cabinets before she located them. She had to reach up to grab them and the cool air that passed over the backs of her legs reminded her how exposed she was.

‘Umm, I don’t actually like cocktails that much,’ she blurted to distract herself from her state of undress.

‘You’re a mixologist who doesn’t like her own creations? How do you know you’re not poisoning the general population?’

‘Because nobody’s died yet sampling my drinks. And as to how I know my drinks rock? I try them out on my roommate.’

‘You want me to invest...how much does my company owe you?’

‘Two hundred thousand dollars to help towards construction and advertising costs for Dolce Italia.’

‘Right, two hundred thousand dollars, based on your roommate’s assessment of your talent?’

She poured and passed him a cup, forcing herself not to react to the spark of electricity when their fingers brushed. ‘You threw away thirty million last night without blinking but you’re grilling me over two hundred thousand?’

He stiffened. ‘That was different.’ His voice held icy warning.

She heeded it. ‘Anyway,’ she hurried on, ‘thousands of people voted for me to win your show based on three of my best dishes and cocktails.’

His gaze drifted over her, lingered at her breasts then down her legs before he came back to her face. ‘Are you sure that’s the only reason they voted?’

The sudden tremble in her fingers made her set the cup down. ‘You’re an ass for making that inference.’ Again, much too close to home. Too many times her mother had been ridiculed for using her sexuality to boost ratings, a fact Ruby had burned with humiliation for every single time.