My Boyfriend and Other Enemies

The Moores hated the Porters; and the Sinclairs, by association. Everyone knew it, apparently. Why should the heir be any different?

It took Tash a moment to realise two things. First, she’d let down her guard and let her eyes linger on him for too long.

Second, his ice-blue gaze was now locked on her, open and speculative.

She gathered up her handcrafted purse, slid some money onto the table and fled on wobbly legs, keeping her phone glued to her ear as though she were still on it even after Nathaniel had returned to the table.

She felt the bite of Aiden Moore’s stare until she stumbled out into the Fremantle sunshine.

TWO

The woman in front of him was barely recognisable from the one he’d seen in the café, but Aiden Moore had learned a long time ago not to judge a book by its cover. She may have looked fragile enough to shatter last time, but watching her wield the lance with the molten ball of glass glowing on its tip, watching the control with which she twisted it and lifted it closer into the burning furnace, and he was suddenly having doubts about the likelihood of her caving to a bit of his trademark ruthlessness. That strong spine flashing in and out of the light coming off the blazing magma ball didn’t look as though it lacked fortitude.

His plan changed on the spot.

This woman wouldn’t respond to one of his calculated corporate stares. She wouldn’t sell out or be chased off. Waiting her out might not work either. The focused way she persuaded the smelted glass into the shape she wanted with turn-after-agonising-turn of the rod spoke of a patience he knew he didn’t have. And a determination he hadn’t expected her to.

She lifted the glowing mass—whatever the hell it was going to be when finished—and balanced the long tool on an old fashioned vice, then reached forward with something resembling tin-snips and started picking away at the edges of the eye-burning mass of barely solid glass.

She was tiny. She’d peeled down her working overalls in the heat and tied the arms around her waist, leaving just a Lara Croft vest top to protect her against anything that might splash or flare up at her from her dangerous craft. Incredibly confident or incredibly stupid. Given how hard she’d worked to catch his father’s attention, he had to assume the former. He’d bet his latest bonus that her eyes would hold an intelligence as keen as the rapidly cooling shards she sliced away from her design—if they weren’t disguised behind industrial-strength welding goggles. In the café, it had been oversized sunglasses. She’d used them well to disguise her surveillance, but he’d finally twigged to how much attention the stranger across the restaurant was paying to his father. And how hard she was working to hide it. The moment she realised her game was up she took off, but not before he got a good look at the line of her face, the shape of her lips, the elfin shag of her short hair. Enough to memorise. Enough to recognise a week later when she turned up in the park across from MooreCo’s headquarters.

And met his father there.

She plunged the entire burning arrangement into a nearby bucket of water and promptly disappeared in a belching surge of steam. It finally dissipated and Aiden realised that her body was still oriented towards her open kiln, but her face had turned to where he stood in the doorway, those infuriating goggles giving her the advantage. Tiny droplets of steam clung to every one of the light hairs on her body, making her look as if she were made from the same stuff she was forging.

But this woman was a mile from fragile glass.

‘Mr Moore. What can I do for you?’

It took him a moment to recover from the brazen way she immediately admitted to knowing who he was. She didn’t even bother faking innocence. More than that, the soft, strained lilt of her voice; nervous but hiding it well. He found it hard not to give her points for both.

How to play this? ‘You can end your affair with my father,’ was hardly going to effect change. Except maybe to set those tanned shoulders back even further.

He cleared his throat. ‘I was hoping to purchase a few pieces for our lobby. Something unique. Something natural. Got anything like that?’

She could hardly say no, he knew; everything she had was like that. He’d taken the trouble to search the web before coming here. Tash Sinclair had quite the reputation in art circles.

She pushed the enormous tinted goggles up into pale, sweat-damp hair. ‘That’s not why you’re here.’

Aiden sucked in a slow, silent breath. The goggles left red pressure marks around the sockets of her eyes but all he could look at were the enormous chocolate-brown gems shining back at him, as glorious as any of her glass pieces. And full of suspicion.

Immediately, a ridiculous thought slipped into his mind. That they had each other’s eyes. He had his mother’s dark, European colouring and her blue, blue eyes. Whereas Tash Sinclair was practically Nordic but with brown eyes that belonged in his face. The combination was captivating.

‘It may not be why I came, specifically, but I do mean it. Your work is amazing.’ He wandered permission-less into her studio and examined the pieces lining the shelves. An array of tall, intricate vases; turtles and manatees and leafy sea-dragons, extraordinary jellyfish detailed in fine glass. This wasn’t where she displayed her works but it was where they were born. The genesis of her expensive pieces.

Only her eyes followed as he moved around her space. In his periphery, he saw her lift trembling fingers to her messy hair, then curl them quickly and shove them out of sight behind her back. His eyes narrowed. Despite working on his father, she could still find time to be concerned about whether she looked okay for him.

Charming.

But it gave him an idea. If Little Miss Artisan here was hell-bent on hooking up with his father, perhaps the most effective weapon in his arsenal wasn’t from his corporate collection of steely glares. Or his chequebook. Perhaps it was something more personal.

Him.

If she was after the Moore name or Moore money, he had both. Maybe she’d allow herself to be diverted from his father—his married-thirty-years father—in favour of the younger, single model. Long enough for him to do some good.

If she cared what he thought when he looked at her, then he had something to work with.

Mind you, if she knew what he really thought when he looked at her she’d probably run a mile. She might work with fire every day but she didn’t look as if she regularly played with it. Not the way he had. He liked it rough and he liked it short and blazing with volatile, brilliant, ambitious women. About as far from a tiny, tomboyish artsy type with big, make-up-less eyes as you could possibly get.

Which would make it all the easier to remember not to blur the lines. He was the toreador and she was the bull. His goal was to keep her eyes on him long enough that she’d forget her obsession with his father. To keep dancing around her in big flamboyant circles drawing her farther and farther from the family he was so desperately trying to protect.

His mother had sacrificed her life raising him. The least he could do was repay the favour and help keep her husband faithful.

If it wasn’t too late.

‘Make yourself at home,’ she mocked, one eyebrow raised, stripping off protective wrist covers and tossing them on her workbench.

He swallowed a smile and glanced at the still-steaming bucket. ‘What are you working on?’

‘It was a practice piece for an ornamental vase. I wasn’t happy with it.’ She pulled the rod and the inadequate creation on the end out of the nearly evaporated water. The glass had completely shattered. She nodded to a series of coloured glass sticks laid side by side on the workbench. ‘Those will be lorikeets mounted around its mouth.’

‘I’ll take it.’

‘It’s not for sale until I’m happy with it.’ She laughed as she tossed the waste glass into a recycling bin off to one side. The two sounds melded perfectly. ‘Besides, you don’t strike me as someone who would appreciate a pink lorikeet vase.’

‘I appreciate quality. In all its forms.’ He lifted his eyes intentionally and locked onto hers. Classic Moore move.

Doubt-lines appeared between her brows, drawing them down into a fine V. But where he’d expected a blush, she only looked irritated. ‘If you still like it when it’s done, I’ll make you a pair for your reception desk. At a price.’

‘I’m not expecting mates’ rates.’

‘That’s good, because we’re not mates. I don’t even know you.’ Her dark eyes shone. ‘But you know me, it seems. What really brought you here?’

Aiden used silence to best advantage in boardrooms. The speed with which an opponent rushed in to fill a thick silence said a lot about them. But the one he unleashed now ticked on for tens of seconds and the diminutive woman before him simply blinked slowly and waited him out, serenity a shimmering halo around her.

Well, damn...

He broke his own rule. ‘You were watching us at the café.’

Those eyes widened just a hint. She took a careful breath, shrugged. ‘Two good-looking men...I’m sure I wasn’t the only one looking.’

The blank way she said it made it feel like the opposite of a compliment. ‘You met my father last week.’

She took a careful breath. ‘Across the street from your offices. Hardly clandestine. Does your father know he’s being monitored?’

‘I was passing by.’ Liar!

‘Does he know I’m being monitored, then?’