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Brandon Cade was even on record as saying he didn’t want children. So why would she tell him about Ruby?
Thank goodness Cade’s PR team had insisted any discussion of his private life was out of bounds. Of course, Melody had implied a good feature writer ignored those kinds of rules. Well, not Lacey. Not this time.
The musical chime of the receptionist’s smartphone startled her.
‘Yes, I’ll send her up, then.’ The receptionist clicked off her phone. ‘If you’d like to take the lift to the top floor, Mr Cade’s EA will be waiting for you.’
Lacey crossed the lobby with as much purpose in her stride as she could muster to step into the scenic lift. The panoramic view of metal and glass across the water glittered like jewels in the noon sunshine. She pressed the top floor button. The buildings dropped away while the writhing snakes in the pit of her stomach plummeted to her toes.
You have nothing whatsoever to worry about. No way on earth will Brandon Cade remember the likes of you.
CHAPTER TWO
BRANDONCADESTAREDat the muddy brown line of the River Thames eighty-five floors below him. He drew in a tight breath, his nostrils flaring as he counted out on the exhale. He’d taught himself the breathing technique in childhood to stop himself from crying—and eventually from showing any emotion at all—at his first boarding school, age five. The technique had also come in useful to help him control his anxiety on the rare occasions when he’d come face to face with his father. But as he waited for his assistant to usher in the feature writer fromSplendourmagazine it was the first time he’d had to use it in years, to maintain the icy demeanour he was famous for.
He never talked to the damn press—ironic, when one considered Cade Inc owned ten global newspaper titles, a raft of cable and digital broadcasters in the UK and Europe and was currently in negotiations to acquire a media conglomerate in North America. But Cade Inc’s brand was all about hard news. He didn’t own any lifestyle magazines and had no social media interests for the simple reason he despised the kind of powder-puff journalism glossy magazines such asSplendourpeddled to the masses.
And now, thanks to his affair with a woman who had bored him in bed after approximately ten minutes, he found himself in a straitjacket of his own making. The intrusion infuriated him.
He was suing Misty, of course, and given the expertise of his legal team, and the might of the media empire he controlled, he knew her memoir of their not-at-all memorable sexual exploits would never reach the shelves. But enough of it had been leaked online to make his negotiating team concerned about finalising the deal to acquire the very conservative Dixon Media Group in Atlanta. Hence the need for this damage limitation exercise.
Next time, maybe don’t date social media influencers who are as shrewd and ruthless as you are.
‘Mr Cade, Ms Carstairs fromSplendourmagazine is here, shall I show her in?’ Daryl, his executive assistant, announced.
Brandon unclenched his jaw and took another careful breath. ‘Sure.’
He turned from the window, thrusting clenched fists into the pockets of his suit trousers. But as the woman stepped into the office behind his EA, her slim figure accentuated by a demure power suit and her head bent, a bizarre thing happened. A ripple of reaction streaked down his spine, and his senses, which had been jaded ever since a torrid encounter with a very different woman during a company event five years ago roared back to life.
His gaze narrowed on the short cap of wavy curls, the lightning strike of awareness firing through his system as irritating as it was unexpected.
‘Ms Carstairs, Mr Cade,’ Daryl announced, showing Brandon’s unwanted guest into the large airy office. ‘You have exactly twenty minutes before Mr Cade has to depart for Paris, Ms Carstairs,’ he added. ‘Would you like anything to drink?’
‘No, thank you,’ the woman replied, her voice a smoky purr, which tugged at Brandon’s memory and did not help one bit with the inexplicable reaction. The slight tremble in her tone and the way her fingers clutched her bag in a death grip suggested she was nervous.
Good—she ought to be. He didn’t want her here. But then she crossed the room and he caught a lungful of her scent—citrus and spice, and as annoyingly intoxicating as the rest of her.
His jaw tensed as visceral heat pounded into his groin.
Great. Was he actually getting turned on?
As if it wasn’t bad enough he was having to speak to this journalist, he noticed the tempting glimpse of cleavage peeking from the vee of her blue silk blouse, and the toned legs accentuated by her pencil skirt. He shook his head to dispel the vivid image of his tanned hand cupping the pale swell of her breast, the mouth-watering thought of her nipple elongating against his tongue...
‘Take a seat, Ms Carstairs,’ he said sharply as Daryl left the room. ‘What is your first name?’ he asked, surprised to realise he was curious. He wanted to see her face, to gauge her reaction to him—because he felt at a disadvantage, and he didn’t like it.
The brusque enquiry did the trick. At last, her head rose and she looked directly at him. But only for a second. That single glimpse was enough for him to make several important observations, though.
Her eyes were a fathomless chocolate-brown with hints of amber, and had a similarly slanted cat-like shape as those of the girl he remembered. And had tried very hard to forget. He’d never seen the colour of that girl’s eyes. It had been too dark in the club and the empty manager’s office where they’d ended up making love—or rather having raw, frantic, sweaty sex over a desk. But he still remembered the shape of her cheek in the moonlight, the tilt of her eyelashes, and could still hear the sound of her broken sobs as she’d climaxed.
Stop thinking about her, dammit.
He forced his mind away from the unsettling memory. And concentrated on the other thing he’d seen in this woman’s eyes.
Awareness. Wary and guarded, but there none the less. Apparently, she was attracted to him too...but was equally as unhappy about it.
Unusual. When was the last time a woman had desired him and not been eager to follow through on it? Her novel reaction made the need surge.
‘Lacey,’ she said, and he heard the tremble of nerves again. ‘Lacey Carstairs.’
