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Which was annoying. Mindless, meaningless sex had lost its appeal a long time ago—and he didn’t seduce women he’d only just met any more.
Only problem was, right now, he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.
Cassie stood by the wall of panelled glass, spellbound as she gazed out over the wraparound roof terrace and the dark expanse of Hyde Park below, the fairground lights of the Winter Wonderland shimmering playfully in the distance. She sipped from the glass of Merlot she’d poured herself to ease her dry throat, then placed it on a smooth walnut coffee table. She must be careful not to drink it all. Not only was it still barely six o’clock, but she’d forgotten to ask her host how long her clothes would take—so she didn’t know how long she would be required to keep her wits about her. She’d always been a very cheap drunk. And on the evidence of her recent knicker meltdown, dulling her wits with alcohol could well lead to more candy man fantasies. Which was the last thing she needed if she didn’t want to make this more awkward than it already was. Better to stay sober and sensible.
Swivelling round, she took in the full grandeur of Jace Ryan’s hotel suite. Then released a staggered breath. This was the penthouse suite—the lofty view of Hyde Park nothing short of spectacular. The lounge area alone was considerably larger than her entire flat. She set aside her apprehension about spending time in his company as curiosity about him burned. How had the angry youth from a ‘bad home’ who’d been summarily expelled from their bogstandard comprehensive fourteen short years ago ended up affording the best suite in one of London’s best hotels? Had he robbed a bank or something?
‘Right, we’re all set.’ The man in question strolled into the room and dumped his key card on the coffee table next to her glass of wine. Even in the tailored trousers and linen shirt, he could easily be a bank robber, Cassie thought. He certainly had that confident, dangerous edge that made him seem capable of anything.
He delved into the bar and came up with a bottle of imported Italian beer. ‘Do you need a top-up?’ he asked, nodding towards her glass as he twisted off the bottle cap.
He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing forearms roped with muscle as he took a long slug of the beer.
‘No, thanks,’ she said. A couple of sips would definitely have to be her limit. ‘Do you know how long the dry-cleaning will take?’
He shrugged. ‘About forty minutes,’ he said, sinking into one of the leather sofas. ‘Take a seat.’ He signalled the cushions next to him with his bottle, then kicked off his loafers and propped his stockinged feet on the table. ‘You might as well get comfortable.’
Not likely, given that the sight of him lounging on his sofa was making her pulse pound like a timpani drum. He looked like a male supermodel, for goodness’ sake, with those long, leanly muscled legs displayed in perfectly creased trousers, the rugged shadow of stubble on his chin, and his dark hair sexily mussed.
Forget candy man … Jace Ryan was an entire sweetshop.
She sat gingerly on the sofa opposite him, not about to risk getting too close to all that industrial-strength testosterone. Swooning would not be good.
Her tunic rose up her thighs and she hastily shifted onto her bottom, tucking her legs up under her to hide any hint of plain white cotton from view. If he looked like a supermodel, she looked like a banner ad for dull and boring.
She tore her eyes away from the intensity of his gaze, which seemed to have zeroed in on her face.
‘How did you do it?’ she asked, struggling to think of a safe topic for small talk.
‘Do what?’
The puzzled reply had her realising the gaucheness of the question. ‘I just wondered how you …’ She trailed off,
wishing she’d never asked. Was he embarrassed by his past? She doubted it. Sitting in the midst of the luxury he’d earned, he looked perfectly at home. Even so, she didn’t want to pry.
‘How did I manage to afford all this?’ he prompted.
She debated trying to pretend she’d been asking something else, but had to give up on the idea. She couldn’t think of an alternative interpretation. And even if she could, the steady, knowing look in his eyes suggested he already knew exactly what she’d been referring to.
She nodded, and took one more sip of wine, strictly for Dutch courage purposes.
He tilted his head to one side, as if considering his answer. ‘I discovered I had a talent for design.’ He paused for less than a heartbeat, but she heard the hesitation. ‘Or rather my parole officer discovered I had a talent for design.’
‘Your parole officer?’ she asked, startled. He had robbed a bank.
‘Relax.’ He grinned, the light in his eyes twinkling again. ‘It’s all right. I’m not an ex-con.’
‘I didn’t think you were,’ she lied.
‘He was a young-offenders liaison officer. The school pressed charges. After they expelled me.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. The drawings were hilarious.’ She could still remember the reason he’d been expelled. And the pinpoint accuracy of the staff caricatures he’d graffiti’d all over the back wall of the new gym in DayGlo spray paint.
‘Gates never did have a sense of humour.’ Jace shrugged. ‘And it worked out fine for me.’ Again she heard the slight hesitation. ‘I got to move into a bedsit and onto an art foundation course—thanks to the officer assigned to my case, who actually believed I could be rehabilitated.’
‘But you didn’t need rehabilitating. You just needed someone to believe in you.’
His lips quirked in an indulgent smile. ‘You really are Pollyanna, aren’t you?’
