I wince, shying away from those thoughts, because they sure as shit won’t help me here. I quickly tap out a message, spelling it out once more.

  I notice you didn’t deny it. You should know the feeling’s mutual. Jx

  I look up, settling back in my seat, waiting for a response. I’m kidding myself. She won’t reply. And there I’ve learned something about the lovely Miss O’Shea.

  She’s stubborn as fuck.

  I sit bolt upright when the door of her offices open, and lose my fucking breath when she appears. Jesus good fucking Lord. Just look at her. Sheer perfection. Her black trousers skim her dainty ankles, her cream blouse tucked in, showcasing her small waist. I look down at my hands. They’d circle it, easy. Her hair is down. It’s longer than I thought.

  I push my palm into my chest, my heart clattering. Tingles. Everywhere.

  She swings her bag onto her shoulder and walks toward the end of the street, and I’m out of my car before I’ve registered I’ve even moved, my eyes stuck to her back.

  “Your ticket, sir,” the traffic warden says, and I blindly grab it, throwing it on the driver’s seat.

  “Thanks.” I shut the door and follow her. It’s impulsive, my brain working without thinking, my body more than willing to obey my brain. Just try to fucking stop me.

  I jog across the road and round the corner, slowing when I see her up ahead. Her long, dark hair bounces across her back as she walks, the sway of her hips like magnets for my eyes. My big body feels restrained in my suit, in the groin area the most. I see her dip into a bar, and I come to a stop outside, wondering . . . what now?

  I look at my reflection in the window. Straighten my tie. Brush down the lapels of my jacket. Run my hand through my hair. I look good, better than I did on Friday, and she struggled terribly to contain her awe then. So today? She’s doomed.

  I just need to pick up my feet, get my arse inside this bar, and knock her back with my smile. Kill her doubt with a swift reminder of our electric connection.

  Yet ten minutes later, I’m still hovering outside, conflicted. She’ll think I’m a nutcase, if she doesn’t already. But . . . Just a chance encounter, that’s all. I laugh to myself. I’m fucking deluded.

  I push my way in, spotting her immediately at a table with a redhead. My eyes naturally fall to the glass of wine before her. Drinking on the job? I’m not sure how I feel about that. Or her drinking at all, actually. Alcohol makes you vulnerable. An easy target. It has you making stupid choices.

  A waitress approaches and slides two plates on the table, and Ava rises. I dip into a recess, managing to keep her in my sights as she heads for the ladies’. Perfect. Get her on her own. Get close. Give her no option but to deal with the sparks that fly.

  Remind her.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  I turn around and find a frowning waitress hovering behind me. Can she help me? Can anyone help me? I’m stalking a woman, for fuck’s sake. I lock and load my dazzling smile and blast her back ten paces with it. “Just waiting for a friend,” I say smoothly, as she blinks rapidly and backs away, leaving me to continue with my stalking. I should punch my own face in. What the fuck am I even going to say? Oh, fancy seeing you here? What a surprise? She’ll know. Of course she’ll know.

  I look toward the ladies’. She’s been awhile, and I wonder if I’ve missed her coming out. Did she spot me and run for it? I pull my phone out and dial her, just as the door opens and she exits, rootling through her bag. I drop my mobile from my ear, smiling as she walks toward me.

  It's all I can do not to laugh when she pulls her phone out and rolls her eyes at the screen. So cute. “Reject.” She declines my call haughtily, tossing her mobile back into her bag as she marches on. Reject? Ouch. I put myself in the center of the corridor, filling the space, and her head starts to lift. My heart braces for impact.

  And when it happens, my whole world goes up in smoke, and I inhale, feeling like I’ve been taken out by a boulder. My arm is out fast, holding on to her waist, not just to steady her, but to steady myself. I’m dizzy, my head spinning, her scent saturating my senses.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry.” She freezes, her face practically squished into my chest, and I drag in air, fighting for breath. This. This is why I feel like I’m going crazy. This feeling. This madness.

  “Reject?” I whisper, looking down at the back of her head. She looks so right nestled into me. “I’m wounded.” I really fucking am. In agony, in fact. Reject. She can’t. I won’t let her rob me of these new feelings. She’s spiked them, so she can damn well deal with the consequences of them.

  She pushes herself away quickly and laughs. Yes, I agree. This whole situation is quite funny, Miss O’Shea, and if you knew me at all, you’d laugh even harder.

  “Is something funny?” I ask, wondering why she won’t face me. Look at me!

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” She goes to move past me, and my hand shoots out in panic, grabbing her. What? There she goes again. Running. I’m not prepared to let her walk away without at least looking me in the eye, and when she does, I hope she sees what I need her to see. Want. Desire. Promises. A desperate need to be fixed.

  I shake my head and silently implore her to face me. See me. But my silent prayers aren’t answered. Stubborn. My natural magnetism fails with this woman. I can’t smile at her if she won’t look at me. Can’t admire her if she avoids me. Can’t talk to her if she refuses to listen. Fuck this. I’ve tried to be diplomatic. I’ve tried the softly, softly approach. I’m working my bollocks off here, stepping outside my box, and she’s stonewalling me at every turn. Enough of the games. It’s back to boldness.

  “Just tell me one thing before you leave, Ava,” I say quietly, and her gaze slowly climbs my body until we’re eye to eye. That’s better. Hear this, Miss O’Shea. Let’s see you try to ignore this . . . “How loud do you think you’ll scream when I fuck you?”

  “Excuse me?” Her jaw goes lax, and I smile, reaching forward and applying a little pressure, closing her mouth. It’s doing me no favors hanging open like that. The things I could do . . .

  “I’ll leave that one with you.” I release her, moving back, giving her space. The scowl she chucks me is fierce. It widens my smile. She’s shocked? Good. I’ve felt constantly shocked since she stepped into my office on Friday.

  I observe her as she walks away, far from stable, her hands twitching by her sides like she might reach out and take the wall for support at any moment. It’s the nail in the coffin I didn’t need. And my determination just skyrocketed.

  She sits and virtually dives into her wine, and her friend, the redhead, gets her very own dose of lax-jaw syndrome, her blue eyes taking me in. I can’t hear them from here, but when Ava’s friend points her fork at me and Ava looks away, I can’t stop myself from slipping over to introduce myself. Charm her friend to death, Ward. I need an ally. Someone to convince Ava, along with me, that she needs to give up the ghost and admit she fancies the pants off me.

  I meander over, all casual, fixing my suit as I go. Ava’s friend follows my every step, all the way to their table. But Ava? Her head is down, her fingers playing with her food, her body as stiff as a board.

  “Ladies.” I blast her mate back with my signature smile.

  “Hi.” Her eyes are widening by the second. Bless her. She’s not trying to hide her awe at all. I wish your fucking friend was as receptive.

  Speaking of which . . .

  “Ava?”

  I get nothing but a piece of her lunch waved at me. Good god, she’s a gem. An increasingly infuriating gem. She doesn’t just turn me on, she pushes buttons I never knew I had. She won’t look at me? Fine. I’ll soon fix that.

  I pull the knees of my trousers up and lower beside her, casting my eyes across the table to her friend when she appears to start choking. It’s all I can do not to laugh when I see her grab a napkin and wipe her mouth. I return my attention to Ava. Or her profile. “That’s better.” I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a woman so fucking tenacious in my life. It’s infuriating. I blow out air and offer my hand to her friend. “I’m Jesse Ward, pleased to meet you.”

  “Jesse?” Her friend nearly chokes on her food again, and I cock my head. “Oh! Jesse.”

  Yes, Jesse. I watch, a little confused, as the redhead glares at a still mute Ava, who is now stabbing at her lunch. The penny drops, and I smile like a loon on the inside. She’s mentioned me. She’s talked about me. Well, doesn’t that just inject me with even more fortitude.

  “I’m Kate. Ava mentioned you have a posh hotel.”

  Hotel. Not quite. But I don’t focus on that little issue. “Oh, she mentioned me?” I turn my smile onto Ava. And what did the lovely Miss O’Shea have to say about her meeting with me? I don’t know. But I want to. “I wonder what else she’s mentioned,” I say thoughtfully.

  “Oh, this and that.”

  “This and that,” I mimic quietly.

  “Yes, this and that.”

  I nearly fall to my arse when Ava suddenly decides to give me her eyes, even if she looks slightly pissed off.

  I inhale.

  “It was nice to see you. Goodbye.” Her gaze falls to my lips. Her façade is laughable, and in an effort to prove it to everyone at the table, I lick my lips slowly, watching intently as her stare follows the trail of my tongue. She’s imagining what I could do with this tongue, and I am desperate to demonstrate. I nearly drop to my arse again when she reciprocates. Whether it’s intentional or not doesn’t matter. It was natural.

  “Nice?” I lift a little and lean in, getting as close as I can, my eyes closing. “I could think of lots of words, Ava.” Pure bliss. Total gratification. Earth-shifting. Universe shaking. “Nice isn’t one of them.” Her cheek is millimeters from my mouth. Her leg inches from my hand. It’s an opportunity I’m not prepared to pass up. “I’ll leave you to consider my question.”

  I press my lips to her cheek and inhale the goodness, my hand falling onto her thigh. “Soon,” I murmur, certain of that. She’s exhausted. Exhausted from maintaining this pointless, annoying resistance. Good. So next time I call her, she’ll answer. “It was nice to meet you, Kate.” I surrender my touch and rise.

  “Hmm, you too.”

  I smile at Ava’s friend’s pensiveness and stride away, heading for the men’s room at the back. I need to splash my face with cold water. I’m hot.

  And hopeful.

  By the time I’ve gathered myself and once again recalled every look, every word every touch from another encounter with Ava O’Shea, I’ve lost half an hour. I blow out my cheeks, blink my dry eyes, straighten my suit, and head back to my car, so fucking curious about what was said after I left. I ignore a call from Sarah and dial Ava. I want her back at The Manor.

  I don’t know whether to be surprised or irritated when she doesn’t pick up. After what just happened, she’s not seriously still playing this game? Not after licking her lips and clenching her thighs. I try again. And again. And again.

  And again, and again, and again.

  Nothing.

  I growl under my breath as I reach my car, slipping behind the wheel, but not starting the engine. I’m not averse to going into her office and giving her a recap of our lunchtime meeting. The way she looked at me. Her body was screaming so loudly, begging me. It was impossible to ignore. Or not so impossible for her, it seems. I growl again as I hammer out a text, my frustrated fingers working fast, but I force myself to be reasonable.

  . . . ish.

  Being rejected isn’t very nice. Why won’t you answer my calls? Jx

  I give her thirty seconds to reply. Of course, she doesn’t. “Damn fucking woman,” I mutter as my phone dings. Ah!

  If you need to discuss your requirements, you should be calling Patrick, not me.

  I scoff, my thumbs a blur as they hammer their way across the screen. “If I want to discuss my requirements?” I mutter. “Don’t try and turn on your professional switch now, Miss O’Shea.”

  My requirement is to make you scream. I don’t think Patrick can help me there. I’m gagging just thinking about it. That’s a thought . . .

  Will I need to gag you? Jx

  I smile as I click send. Cheeky, Ward. Very cheeky. But the alternative was swearing my motherfucking head off and demanding she stop it. Just stop it. She’s sending me crazy. One should question what the fuck I’m doing. I could go back to The Manor, snap my fingers, and have a dozen women fall at my feet. But all that will achieve is numbness. I might feel like I’m going crazy right now, but at least I’m feeling something.

  I quickly pull up my emails and send one to Patrick Peterson, insisting on having Ava working my project. And working something else, hopefully. I’m covering all my bases. Then I read my message to her again, biding my time, waiting for a reply. I bet she’s laughing. Is she laughing? Or is she horrified? My face bunches. I hope not. A few suggestive, cheeky texts are nothing in the grand scheme of things.

  After ten minutes of waiting and trying her mobile again, I resign myself to the fact that I’ve blown it. Again. Fucked it up. “Bollocks,” I breathe, pulling up Google and finding the landline for the company.

  “Good afternoon, Rococo Union.”

  “Don’t hang up,” I blurt, every inch of me tense, waiting for the line to go dead. It doesn’t. She doesn’t hang up. I exhale, reaching for my forehead and giving it a soothing rub. I’ve never had a headache without the assistance of alcohol before. It’s something else new, yet this I don’t like. Because there appears to be only one fucking cure, and she’s refusing to share the antidote. “Ava, I’m really very sorry.”

  “You are?” The surprise in her tone is warranted.

  “Yes, really, I am.” A little. More for me than you, though, lady. “I’ve made you feel uncomfortable.” And worked my nuts off for nothing, it seems. “I’ve overstepped the mark by a long shot.” Like, miles. “I’ve distressed you.” And myself, because damn if your resistance doesn’t only make me want you more. Make me wonder more. Make me ache more. “Please accept my apology.” Please, please, please. I reluctantly admit it’s time to wipe the slate clean. Start again. Go back to Plan A. Woo her. Is there an online course for that kind of shit?

  “Okay,” she eventually murmurs. “So you don’t want to make me scream or gag me?”

  My eyebrows jump up. More than anything I’ve wanted in a long fucking time. “Ava, you sound disappointed.”

  “Not at all.”

  I smile. She’s a terrible liar. “Can we start again? I’ll keep it professional, of course.”

  “Mr. Ward, I’m really not the right person for this job. Can I transfer you to Patrick?”

  For the love of God. Where does she find her control because I need some? Part of me admires her. She wants something desperately, I just know it, yet, rightly, she’s denying it because she knows it’s bad for her. She’s fighting her want. I should take a leaf out of her book. I have the same toxic relationship with vodka. “It’s Jesse,” I mutter. “You make me feel old when you call me Mr. Ward.” How old does she think I am? I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but at this moment in time, I’m a desperate man. I need to get her in the same room as me. Where she can’t escape. Where she’s forced to face this madness and fucking well deal with it. “Ava, if it makes you feel better, you can deal with John.” I should have perhaps run that past the big man first. “What would be the next stage?”

  “I would need to measure the rooms and draw up some schemes.”

  I’m surprised how quickly she answers, but I certainly won’t question it. “Perfect. I can get John to take you around the rooms. He can hold your tape measure.” Because we both know if I show you around, it won’t be your tape measure I’ll want to hold. “Tomorrow?”

  There’s a slight pause. I don’t like it. “I can’t do tomorrow or Wednesday. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh.” Fuck me, Thursday feels like years away. “Do you do evenings?”

  “I can do tomorrow evening,” she says quickly. That was another rather hasty reply. Has she adopted the same approach as me? Go on instinct? I smile. “Seven-ish?” she asks.

  “Perfect.” It’s not perfect, The Manor will be busy, but if that’s all she’s giving me, then I’ll have to work with it. “I would say that I’ll look forward to it, but I can’t look forward to it because I won’t be seeing you.” I start my car and pull out of the parking space, returning to The Manor a happy man. A very happy man. She backed down. I’m making progress. If she truly weren’t interested, she would not be entertaining this. “I’ll let John know to expect you at seven.”

  “Ish,” she adds.

  “Ish,” I murmur. “Thank you, Ava.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Ward. Goodbye.”

  I roll my eyes at her continued efforts to keep it business. We’re way past that now, and deep down, she knows it.

  I think.

  I fucking hope.

  5

  On Tuesday morning before I head to The Manor, I make an impromptu stop off at Harrods to visit Zoe. She’s delighted to see me, as always. “Have you been on holiday?” she asks as we walk through to the men’s department.

  “I was skiing a few weeks ago,” I answer, browsing the rows of suits.

  “I can tell. You look refreshed.”

  I turn a smile onto her and, of course, she swoons. I can’t tell her my freshness has nothing to do with my holiday. “Ask me why I’m here, Zoe.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I need a new suit.”

  “Just a suit?”

  I laugh as I wander to a display, eyeing the mannequin. “Yes, just a suit.”

  “And the occasion?” she asks, joining me.

  “The reclamation of Jesse Ward,” I murmur quietly, thoughtfully, looking across at her. She looks confused. I smile. “Something navy, I think.”

  “I have just the thing. This way.” She’s off and I follow, taking my phone out of my jeans pocket as I go. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, and Zoe turns. I wave her off and answer. “Coral.”