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Zara
"No."
"What do you mean, no?" The man sitting next to me in the driver's seat of his car, the man who represents so much of what I hate on every level, glares at me.
"Exactly that." I glance out my window. And why did I agree to him taking me out to dinner? Why didn’t I turn him down? Why did I rise to his challenge when he asked earlier if I was scared? I may find him attractive, but I’ll never find him appealing—not even if he were the last man on this planet. And especially not when he stands for everything I hate.
Hunter Whittington is the very embodiment of entitlement. He comes from old world money and has been groomed to take his place as the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. He belongs to that class of Oxbridge educated, elitist, stuck-up, pain-in-the arse, wankers who thinks it's their right to rule and dominate. A grumphole who’s highly popular with the old-boy’s network, perceived as cunning, ruthless and lethal, while also appearing to not give a damn about anything. Well, except for being very insistent I attend this dinner with him.
"I thought we were agreeing to a truce for this evening?" Mr. Posh-tosh drawls.
I toss my hair over my shoulder. "I agreed to have dinner with you; doesn’t mean I’m going to be all docile and pleasant."
"Pity, because when you smile, you’re actually quite charming."
I scoff, "That the best you can do? Your compliments leave me cold."
"When I compliment you, you’ll know it," he drawls. "That was simply me, stating a fact."
"And this is me, stating that I’m already regretting being here with you."
He flips on the indicator, then turns off the motorway 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 negates the fact that he stands for the kinds of values I’ve always hated. He’s an egotistical wanker who was born into one of the richest families in the country. The kind of family with bloodlines 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 7A Club, 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 filed his candidacy to run for the position of 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 makes 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 not becoming the scandal. I need to always be seen as an impartial party by the media. My ability to manipulate the news 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 will only become the topic of debate. Not to mention, hating someone at 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 like 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 his security detail—that has been following us, comes to a stop. Another pulls ahead and parks in front. 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 doors." I scowl.
"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 the door to the restaurant open 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, and the walls are painted a pale ivory. Both sides of the restaurant 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?"
