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The bartender puts the Scotch down in front of me and I nod in thanks, lifting my phone to indicate I’ll tap it as payment. He hands over the machine and without looking at the price I press my phone to the device. Several email notifications are sitting on my screen. I’ll check those in a minute. Once I’ve calmed down and got some fresh air.
Well, as fresh as it can be in a bar. For the first time since walking in, I let my eyes drift around this place. It’s long been a favourite of mine and as such is haunted with memories—good and bad. I’ve had a lot of important conversations here. Not to mention that time with sleaze ball Simon, aka my brother-in-law, when he calmly suggested we might like to have sex, you know, no big deal. And of course he did it in a way that almost sounded like a joke, because that’s a skill serial philanderers have; but I knew he wasn’t joking. Bastard. I grip my Scotch as though it’s a lifeline, lifting it to my lips.
The familiar pungency warms me immediately.
Heaven.
Relief.
I’m going to be okay. This is only two weeks.
Two weeks! Why did I come so early? Why didn’t I just wait until December twenty-third?
Because of Dad’s birthday—in a couple of days. It’s a milestone—though he’ll never admit that to anyone outside the family. I think my dad harbours some kind of fantasy that, despite having been at the helm of several blue-chip multinational corporations for the past four decades, and having a daughter who’s thirty-two—Jemima—and me, twenty-eight, people might still believe he’s only fifty.
‘You’re about to strangle that bloody glass, you know.’ A deep, husky Australian accent has almost the same effect on my body as the Scotch. Warm and soothing, it reaches inside me, spreading warmth and pleasure like smoke.
I tilt my head slowly. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see. This is a pretty prestigious institution so not exactly a beach bum, but the only Australian men I’ve ever known all boasted a certain air of salty, sandy dishevelment—just the way I like it. This man is not that.
In fact, this man is...
My eyes widen as realisation dawns.
‘Zach Papandreo?’
His laugh is just as husky and sensual as his opening line would have suggested. His grin sends shards of awareness through me.
‘Have we met?’
‘No. Let’s just say your reputation precedes you.’
‘That doesn’t seem
fair.’
‘You think there’s something wrong with your reputation?’
His grin widens and he stands up so I get to appreciate the full six and a bit feet of him, his lean yet muscular frame in a dark grey suit with a blue and white striped shirt. No tie—the top two buttons are undone, revealing his neck and a hint of coarse chest hair. My stomach flips.
‘Depends.’ He lifts his shoulders as he moves to the stool opposite me, pointing at my drink then holding up a finger to indicate he’d like one of what I’m having. A quick glance shows me the bartender has seen and is already complying.
‘So?’
I’m a sucker for male fragrance. I don’t mean a department-store overly manufactured smell. I don’t like men who are too fussy and vain. I like men who put a dab of something on in the morning, something masculine and woody, and then don’t think of it again, so it mingles with their own hormones, and Zach Papandreo has got some kind of magical smell. I try not to breathe him in but there’s some serious testosterone at play here. And is it any wonder?
Apart from being one half of a global media-mogul team—he and his twin brother own everything from television stations to radio networks to newspapers, magazines, websites, blogs and news apps all over the world—he is an undeniable playboy. Playboy? What am I, my mother? Try man whore. I don’t mean that with even a hint of disapproval. He’s renowned for his business nous and an aggressive investment strategy but, more than that, this half of the Papandreo brothers is renowned for the speed with which he goes through beautiful, glamorous lovers.
I’m not sure if he reads gossip blogs—I don’t—but the app and online community I founded a few years back—She-Shakes—seems to get a lot of Zach Papandreo memes posted in there—shirtless ones get the most clicks. And I can see why.
Va-va-voom.
The bartender delivers Zach’s drink; I lift mine towards it. ‘Jessica Johnson.’
He grins again, clinking our glasses together. ‘I feel like I’d remember meeting you, but your name’s familiar.’
My smile briefly falters. ‘You’re probably thinking of my father—Clive Johnson?’
‘Him I’ve heard of. I’ve met him a few times actually.’
