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Ruby cursed softly under her breath.
Still, at least she had a name, now. Callum Westmore. It sounded like the name of a twelfth-century Scottish warlord. Which fitted him down to a T. Commanding, completely uncompromising and defiantly masculine—and prepared to swoop down and carry off any female who caught his fancy, whether she wanted him to or not.
The frisson of heat at the fanciful, romantic and utterly un-PC image stunned Ruby for a moment. Callum Westmore was about as far from her ideal date as it was possible to get. She should have found his pushy behaviour exceptionally galling. So why was her heart kicking giddily in her chest at the prospect of seeing him again?
The bright trill of the doorbell made them both jump.
She glanced at her watch. Five-thirty precisely.
‘That’s him,’ she muttered. Trust him to be ridiculously prompt. Which was another good reason to dislike the man. Promptness was a skill she’d never quite managed to master herself—as this afternoon’s fiasco with Gregori Mallini proved—and one she found slightly intimidating in other people.
‘Do you want me to tell him you’re not here?’ Ella whispered, as if their uninvited guest could hear through walls.
Ruby considered the offer. For about a second.
‘No. He’s probably spotted my car.’ And even if he hadn’t, she somehow knew Callum Westmore would see straight through the ruse. Ella, with her open, uncomplicated nature and big doe eyes, couldn’t lie worth a damn—and, anyway, Callum Westmore clearly wasn’t the sort of guy who took no for an answer.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ruby said, marching out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll handle this.’
She threw the words over her shoulder as she strode through the reception area to the front door of the business unit.
Okay, maybe her attraction to him was a little surprising … and ever so slightly disconcerting. But she had no doubt at all that she could handle Callum Westmore just fine.
He might have the name and the dominating masculinity of a twelfth-century Scottish warlord, but she was no simpering little virgin.
The prickle of irritation, though, was twinned with the heightened hum of arousal as she spied Westmore’s tall frame silhouetted against the frosted glass of the door. She took a deep breath and turned the knob, secure in the knowledge that no man got to sweep Ruby Delisantro off her feet …
Not unless she wanted him to.
CHAPTER THREE
‘MR WESTMORE, I presume,’ Ruby remarked to broad shoulders—their width accentuated by the perfectly tailored jacket of a dark blue business suit—and the short-cropped hair on the back of his head.
She swallowed as he turned, and those heavy-lidded emerald-green eyes locked on her face.
Damn.
She should have taken the time to put her shoes back on. Without the benefit of the four-inch heels, she was at eye level with his chest, which, even clad in a white shirt and royal-blue silk tie instead of the bicep-hugging T-shirt of earlier in the day, still looked remarkably impressive. She jerked her eyes back to his face, in time to see a slow, distinctly knowing smile curve his lips.
He slung a hand into the pocket of his suit trousers, disarming dimples appearing in his cheeks—which were now clean-shaven, but no less chiselled.
‘Ms Delisantro, I presume,’ he murmured, the husky tone making her pulse points throb.
Her breath escaped from her lungs in a rush.
Her imagination had not exaggerated his attractiveness, or that industrial-strength sex appeal, one bit. He really was Super-Gorgeous. Even in a suit. Which was saying something. She didn’t usually go for the slick, executive type. She’d dated an accountant once and it had been a total disaster, his fastidious time-keeping and clinical attention to detail driving her batty within a week.
She concentrated on breathing evenly and getting her heart rate back under control. Somehow she doubted Callum West-more was an accountant—or the fastidious type, despite the razor-sharp crease in his trousers. Maybe it was just that force field of raw machismo that radiated off him, but she couldn’t imagine him bothering to crunch numbers.
‘Now the introductions are done,’ she said, trying not to sound too breathless, ‘I’m intrigued to know what you’re doing here.’ She paused to think of an appropriate put-down. ‘And why you saw fit to wheedle personal information out of my business partner.’
‘I don’t wheedle,’ he said as his gaze glided over her figure. ‘Even in extenuating circumstances.’
She resisted the urge to curl her toes, the painstakingly slow and thorough perusal making her feel as if it weren’t just her feet that were naked.
His eyes lifted back to her face, the penetrating green alight with amusement. ‘And I’d say why I’m here is fairly obvious.’
The suggestive comment and the gruff tone, thick with innuendo, made her feel warm all over, but she refused to fall for the ploy. She wasn’t walking into that one. What did he think? That she was an amateur?
