Valentine's Day. Nicola Marsh

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      ‘Half the women on my staff are right into those social cooking classes. Wine, conversation, cooking techniques from the experts. The sessions must have something going for them.’

      Her lips tightened. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to go where your staff—’

      ‘God, no.’ He pushed his chair back and stood. ‘That’s the last thing I want, too.’

      ‘You?’

      ‘I’ll be coming along. Or have you changed your mind?’

      Her delicate brows folded closer together. ‘It’s not me doing it for me if I’m doing it with you. The dynamic would be all wrong.’

      Dynamic. That sounded almost credible. What was she really worried about?

      ‘I need to be there to record your progress, but...you have a point. We’ll do it together, but separate. Like we don’t know each other. I’ll just shadow you. Watch.’

      A streak of colour ran up her jaw. ‘Won’t that be weird?’

      He pushed his glass away and leaned in closer. ‘Georgia, I’m going to have a solution for any hurdle you put up. You’ve signed the contract. How about working with me on this instead of against?’

      She sighed. Stared at him with those unreadable eyes. ‘OK. Sorry.’ She took a sip of white wine. ‘What did you have in mind?’

      * * *

      ‘That’s a long list.’ Georgia stretched and read the upside-down sheet in front of Zander.

      ‘A year is a long time. But we don’t have to go with all of these. Plus things might come up along the way so we need to leave room for those. If you had to shortlist, which ones would you enjoy the most?’

      He spun the paper around to her and passed her his fancy pen. She asterisked Wimbledon, cooking classes—which she agreed to because he’d indicated his listeners would love it, not because she actually wanted to know the difference between flambé and sauté—cocktail-making class, truffle-making, and a makeover. That last one because she got the sense he really thought it was important. She tugged her sensible shirt down further over her sensible trousers.

      ‘I really want to do this one.’ She circled one down near the bottom, taking a risk. It wasn’t what he’d be expecting at all. And unlike some of the others this one actually did interest and intrigue her.

      ‘Ice carving?’

      ‘How amazing would that be? Ooh, and this one...’ Another asterisk.

      ‘Spy school?’

      She lifted excited eyes. ‘Can you imagine?’

      He shook his head. ‘I don’t need to imagine. I’m going to find out.’

      She sipped her wine.

      ‘What about travel?’ he asked.

      ‘What about it?’

      ‘Not interested in the thought of a holiday?’

      Flying to a whole other country seemed a lot to ask. Besides, she didn’t have a passport. Just the idea of applying for one got her blood thrumming.

      ‘Where could I go?’ she breathed.

      His smile was almost indulgent. If it weren’t also so confused. Had he never met anyone whose gratification went so far beyond delayed it was non-existent?

      ‘Anywhere you want,’ he said.

      As she holidayed in her apartment as a rule, anything further afield than Brighton just didn’t occur to her. ‘Where would be good for your listeners?’

      Zander shrugged. ‘New York? Ibiza?’

      Her breath caught... Ankara? She’d wanted to go to Turkey since seeing a documentary on its ancient history.

      But no, that seemed too much. Fanciful. She wrote down Ibiza on the bottom of the list. That seemed like the kind of place EROS listeners would like to hear about. The party capital of Europe. Fast-pour bars and twenty-four-hour clubs and duelling dance arenas and swollen feet and ringing ears.

      Oh, yay.

      ‘I might add some things, as we go along. Things that occur to me.’ Things she’d like to do but didn’t want Zander knowing about. Though of course they wouldn’t stay secret for long.

      ‘That’s fine. Just hook them up with Casey. I’ll just go where she sends me.’

      ‘That’s very accommodating of you. Compliance won’t do much for your reputation as a fearsome boss,’ she said.

      One eye twitched. ‘I’m not fearsome; I just want them to think that I am.’

      ‘Why?’ That was no way to enjoy your work.

      ‘Because it gets things done. I’m not there to be their friend.’

      She thought of her own boss. A whacky, brilliant man whom she absolutely adored. ‘You don’t think people would work just as hard with respect and admiration as their motivation?’

      He lifted his gaze. ‘I’d like to think they respect me. I just don’t need them to like me.’

      Or want them to? Something in his demeanour whispered that. But there wasn’t much else she could say about that without offending him. Besides, last time she checked he was the most successful person she knew. And she didn’t know him at all.

      Silence fell. ‘What do you do on your weekends?’ she finally asked.

      ‘What?’

      ‘You said you had things to do on your weekend. What kinds of things?’

      He regarded her steadily. ‘Weekend stuff.’

      She lifted both her eyebrows.

      ‘I train.’ He frowned.

      Lord. Blood from a stone! ‘For...?’

      ‘For events.’

      She took a stab. ‘Showjumping? Clay shooting? Oh!’ She drained the last of her wine. ‘Ice dancing.’

      A reluctant smile crept onto his face. ‘Endurance running. I compete in marathons.’

      ‘Truly?’

      He chuckled. ‘Yes.’

      ‘What sort of distances?’

      ‘Forty or fifty kilometres. It depends.’

      ‘A weekend?’ Her half-shriek drew glances from around the noisy bar.

      His lips twisted. ‘A day.’

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