Millionaire Dad's SOS. Элли Блейк

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ I be right in thinking you’re not a big runner?’ he finally said.

      After Meg’s laughter died down she waved her hands in the direction of her well-tended curves. ‘Do I look like a runner?’

      Given the invitation to do so, the man’s eyes travelled down one side of her body—over her borrowed hot-pink short shorts and black T-shirt with sparkly designer name splashed across her chest—and up the other. Given the chance, she looked into his distracted eyes.

      Deep, dark, soulful brown they were, with the kinds of creases at the edge that she just knew would make a girl’s heart melt at ten paces when he smiled. If he smiled, which she realised he still was yet to do. In fact, he carried with him the distinct impression of a frown.

      Finally, and none too soon, Meg managed to duck out of the heady cloud of attraction to hear cymbals crashing inside her head. They warned of impending doom.

      There was no doubt he was intentionally at her side. He’d had to have waved the wellness facilitator on to get her alone. But it was becoming increasingly clear he wasn’t exactly over the moon to be there. On both counts she was clueless as to why.

      She worried the tiny chip in her front right tooth with her tongue, an old habit that re-emerged only when she felt as if things were slipping out of her exacting control. An old habit she worked hard at keeping at bay.

      She curled her tongue back where it belonged and answered her question herself. ‘Between us, running’s not my forte. I’m more of a yoga girl.’

      Sometimes. Every now and then. Okay, so she’d taken a couple of lessons with Rylie once.

      ‘Yoga,’ he repeated, his eyes finally, thankfully, leaving the contours of her body and returning to hers.

      She shouldn’t have been so thankful so soon. For in those dark, deep, delicious brown eyes she saw that he had seen the equivocation in hers.

      She dropped her gaze to the fraying collar of his T-shirt lest he see the surprise in her eyes as well. She’d had a lifetime in which to perfect the art of being Meg Kelly, public figure. Her front had been demonstrably shatter-proof. Two minutes after meeting her, Zach Jones had seen right through it.

       Who was this guy and what did he want with her?

      ‘Downward dog? Upward…tree?’ she shot back, arms swinging in what she knew was a terrible impression of something she’d seen on TV once. ‘Okay, so I’m not a yoga fanatic or a runner. I’m more an eat-chocolate-for-breakfast dance-it-off-in-your-living-room kind of girl. Either way there is no way on God’s green earth I’ll be catching up to the others any time soon. So please go ahead. Jog. Be free.’

      ‘Between us,’ he said, leaning in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone that sent her blood pressure soaring, ‘I’ve already run five K today.’

      ‘Oh.’ Oh, indeed. ‘So what brings you out here again?’

      All she got for her blunt question was an out-held hand. ‘I’m Zach Jones.’

      Meg twisted her body to slide her smaller hand into his. Even the coolest of customers usually gave themselves away when shaking her hand. A nervous vibration here, a sweaty palm there. She was extremely adept at ignoring their nerves.

      With Zach Jones they never eventuated. His grip was warm, dry, strong, masculine and wholly unmoved.

      Remarkable, she thought. More than remarkable. The man was perspiration-inducing, utterly gorgeous and wholly unsmiling even though he had the kind of warm, open, likable face purpose built for the function.

      And don’t forget, she reminded herself, beneath the casual curls, the sexily shabby clothes, and the body of an Olympic god, Zach Jones is an alpha in beta camouflage. So not worth worrying about.

      So why was she still holding his hand?

       Because it really is so very warm, dry and blissfully enveloping, that’s why.

      ‘I’m Meg,’ she said, pumping once more, then letting go.

      At the last second she held back her surname. As if there was a slim chance she’d been reading too much into every cheek flicker, or lack thereof, from the very beginning. Maybe he was just some cute guy too shy to chat her up even though he had a thing for girls with impossibly curly hair and a glaringly obvious lack of sporting prowess.

      ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Meg,’ he said, his mouth quirking at her omission.

      Argh! What was she thinking? He knew. Of course he knew. She’d have to go further than the Gold Coast to find a man who didn’t know who she was. A man whose mind wasn’t already made up about her before they even met.

      She squeezed her eyes shut a moment. Using a technique they’d encouraged in internal reflection class the day before, she searched for her centre. Patience thin, she failed miserably. Instead she went with what worked in the real world: she summoned her inner Kelly and looked the guy dead in the eye.

      ‘So, Zach Jones, from what I hear around the traps you own this joint.’

      The full-frontal approach brought out a combative glint in his darker than dark eyes. If possible it only made the guy more tempting. Warmth curled through her empty stomach.

      But rather than doing the polite thing and answering her charge, he ignored it and asked, ‘How long are you planning on staying?’

      Frustration began to war convincingly well with attraction. In response, her practised smile only grew wider.

      ‘A survey?’ she said, lobbing it right back in his corner. ‘Aren’t you the hands-on boss?’

      The most sensuous mouth she’d ever laid eyes on kicked into a sexy almost-smile, creating an arc in his cheek that hinted at so much more, but still it never quite reached his eyes. He didn’t believe her devil-may-care performance for a second.

      ‘How long?’ he repeated.

      ‘We’re here the week.’

      His eyes skimmed the empty path ahead. ‘We being?’

      Something in his tone gave her the sense the impending doom wouldn’t be impending that much longer.

      She casually lifted a foot and stretched her…whatever the muscle that ran down the front of your thigh was called. ‘Two of my closest mates gave me this holiday as a present. Rylie Madigan and Tabitha Cooper.’

      At the last second she threw out their full names on a gamble, for Tabitha, with her ex-Prime Minister dad, and Rylie, with her job on TV, were almost as recognisable as she was.

      Her fishing paid off. He breathed deep, his fists bunched at his sides, and the sexy hollows in his cheeks grew their own hollows.

      ‘So you go home…?’ he said.

      ‘In a few days.’

      He nodded, breathed out deeply, apparently most satisfied that she’d be out of his sight as soon as that.

      Whoa. That was harsh.

СКАЧАТЬ