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He flips on the indicator, then turns off the highway and onto a secondary road. He’s rolled up his shirt sleeves and the veins pop in his arms. Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention that the arrogant prick has very well-defined forearms with sculpted muscles covered with tanned skin and a peppering of dark hair. My fingers tingle.
How would it be to trail my fingers over them and feel the scrape of those rough strands against my skin. How would it be to have his blunt fingertips trail up my arm, over my shoulder down the curve of my breasts and—why am I thinking along these lines?Sure, Hunter Whittington has the sort of features that wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of GQ, his build resembles that of a Hollywood action hero, and his broad shoulders invite me to snuggle into his chest. He makes my knees go weak, makes my throat dry, makes a pulse flare to life between my thighs… None of which negate the fact that he stands for the kinds of values I’ve always hated. He’s an, egoistical, wanker who was born into one of the richest families in the country. The kind of family related to royalty. The kind who’d never have to work for a day in his life if he didn’t want to. The kind who had everything handed to him on a silver platter. The kind who is the exact opposite of how I grew up. Plus, I hated him on sight.
The first time I met him was at Club 7A, an outfit run by JJ Kane and Sinclair Sterling, two of the most powerful men in the country and founders of the club intended to help identify talent and invest in them. They invited me to be a founding member, and I was the only woman at the table. Given the career I’ve chosen, that’s not unusual. What threw me, though, was the visceral reaction I had to this man. How I took an instant dislike to him and he toward me. How we barely managed to be civil to each other in that first meeting. It was only exacerbated when we met at work.
He’d filed his candidacy to run for the position of the Prime Minister, and I’m the fixer. A well-known PR spin-doctor who the country’s tastemakers—from influencers to politicians—come to when they need to salvage their reputations. Which made things messy, to say the least. Because no way, can I personally be involved in a scandal.
His ride to Downing Street depends on his track record being free of scandal. And my job depends on my notbecomingthe scandal. I need to always be seen as an impartial party by the media. My ability to manipulate the news people depends on that. Which means, I can’t let my association with him be seen as anything but professional; i.e. I need to be courteous toward him when we meet in person.
If the media gets wind of just how much we hate each other, it would only become the topic of debate. Not to mention, hating someone on a personal level never bodes well. It would only encourage people to see me as someone who can’t be objective when it came to those in the news, and I can’t afford that. I’ve built my career as someone who is never pulled into media clashes, and I need to stay that way. Which means, I need all of my wits about me. Ergo, I need to defuse this…situation between Hunter and me that’s becoming increasingly untenable.
It’s why, when he asked me to dinner so we could try to come to some kind of an understanding, I agreed. It’s not like I had a choice, either. When my instinct was to turn him down, he challenged me by saying, perhaps, I was too scared to spend time with him one-on-one, that I might find I actually liked him. I knew I was being played, that he was appealing to my competitive spirit. And yet, I couldn’t say no. That’s my weakness. I never can resist a confrontation.
So here I am, in the car that he’s parked in front of a building set back from the road.
Behind us, the security car—with my security detail— that has been following us comes to a stop. Another pulls ahead and parks in front. One of the men—his security detail, who have been coordinating with mine on this short journey—gets out of the car. He scans the area, speaks into the hidden mic on his watch the way security people seem to often do, then walks over to open the door on Hunter’s side. I gather my things and reach for the handle on my door, but Hunter has already walked around to hold it open. My stomach folds in on itself. A stutter swirls about my chest. So annoying that he has to shove his good manners in my face.
I slide out, then straighten. "You didn’t have to do that. I can open my own door," I snap.
"My mother taught me better."
I sniff, brush past him and head up the path leading to the restaurant without waiting for him. Footsteps follow as his long legs eat up the distance. He walks past me and is holding open the door to the restaurant by the time I reach it. I scowl up at him, then step through the entrance and up the short hallway. I reach the restaurant and pause. The lighting is dim, the walls are painted a pale ivory. Both sides of the restaurants are glass walls. To my right, past the glass wall, is what seems to be a forest of bamboo trees. And beyond the glass wall on my left is a manmade fountain. The entire effect is soothing, like being in a Zen space. Strangely, all of the tables are empty.
"Where is everyone?"
"Everyone who matters is here." He takes my coat, hands it over to a maître d’ who materializes out of nowhere, then shrugs off his own jacket and gives it to the same man. He guides me to the table in the center of the room—to the only table set with silverware and candles. He holds out my chair and I slide in. There’s a third chair set on one side of the table between us.
"Is there someone else joining us?" I frown.
"That’s for your bag."
Eh? I blink, then lower my eyebrows. "Care to explain?"
"I’m aware of how much you love your accessories, especially your shoes and purses. And I know you’d never place one the floor. And putting it on the table is simply gauche, so—" He raises a shoulder.
"So, you arranged for an extra chair for my Balenciaga?"
"Was I wrong?"
"You were..." I hesitate. I don’t want to admit he’s right. That he correctly anticipated me that I do take great care of my shoes and my handbags. They’re an extension of me. They project who I am to the world. They are more than a brand statement; they are a declaration of how much I value myself. Somehow, I hadn’t expected this…uppity, almost-royalty twat to understand that. But in one fell swoop, he’s done that and more. Probably just a lucky guess. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I place my handbag on the chair and tip up my chin. "Thanks," I murmur.
"You’re welcome." He inclines his head.
I glance about the restaurant again. "So, we’re the only ones here?"
"And my bodyguards."
In my peripheral vision, I spot his security detail positioning themselves at strategic points around the room and by the entrance. It’s dim enough that their black suits blend with the shadows, but of course I know they’re there.
"You know I don’t mean them, either."
"There’s also the service staff." He waves a hand in the air, and as if by magic, a waiter materializes next to him with a bottle of champagne.
"Are we celebrating something?" I scowl.
"You agreed to have dinner with me—"
"I agreed to give you two hours to convince me why I shouldn’t hate the idea of you." He begins to speak and I raise a finger, "—of which, you now have eighty minutes left."
