Naughty Nights in the Millionaire's Mansion. Robyn Grady

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      But as he strode towards the living room, a tantalising image swam up to taunt him…those heavenly hips, that amazing T-shirt, her hypnotic voice and come-hither smile.

      Damp broke out on his hairline and he wheeled back around. Grabbing the card, he looked at it hard and tore it clean down the middle.

      Beautiful sirens. Sailors sinking with their ships. The only rocks he wanted to see were the ones clinking in his pre-dinner Scotch while he pored over those figures for tomorrow’s late meeting.

      He settled down to that drink and his work, with the new tank and its occupant on a side table nearby. He was trying to banish Vanessa Craig and her lips to the furthermost corners of his mind when the doorbell rang.

      He slammed down his glass. What now?

      A moment later he swung open the door and his heart hit his throat.

      ‘Me again.’ An apologetic but upbeat Vanessa Craig curled some hair behind her ear. ‘I got down the street before realising I forgot to collect the smaller tank. I bet you don’t want it clogging up your gorgeous home—’

      Her words ran dry at the same time her face fell. Her gaze had drifted behind him, to the hallstand at his back.

      To the torn business card.

      As his insides wrenched into a guilty knot, she blinked several times, then her mouth quivered with a lame smile—a vain attempt to cover her hurt. ‘Gee, I didn’t realise I’d made such a sterling impression.’

      He ran a hand through his hair. Hell.

      ‘It’s not how it looks.’

      Her laugh was short. ‘It looks like you can’t bear to see my name.’

      He groaned. She had it completely wrong, but he couldn’t tell her that. He couldn’t begin to explain.

      Her chin angled up. ‘Whatever your opinion of my service today, you’re one hundred per cent entitled to it. The customer’s always right. Always.’ She forced a brave smile, then turned on her heel.

      ‘Even when the customer screws up,’ he said, ‘because he’s attracted to the lady in charge?’

      She turned back, her jaw hanging. ‘What did you say?’

      He gripped both sides of the door jamb and admitted what must be obvious. ‘I’m attracted to you.’

      She shook her head, puzzled. ‘So you don’t want to contact me again?’

      She was right. His reasoning was flawed, particularly now she was back, with her lips so near and his elevated testosterone levels demanding to know what the hell he was waiting for.

      He held his breath.

      What was he waiting for?

      His hands left the jamb and found her upper arms. Drawing her close—with that maddening logo pressed against his chest—he dropped his mouth over hers.

      Her body stiffened and her fists came up, two small rocks pushing against his collarbone. But he didn’t release her…truth tell, he couldn’t. The heat combusting between their bodies had fused them together; she was glued to him as much as he was to her.

      As his mouth opened, her lips parted and the kiss evolved and deepened, growing beyond spur-of-the-moment into something-special. His hold on her arms eased; as if a crutch were removed, she leant against his length. Taking the cue, his tongue performed a lazy sweep against hers, and again. Her relaxed fists began kneading his shirt.

      When a compliant mew vibrated in her throat, he imagined slipping that T-shirt over her head and running his hands over the sweetest heaven on earth. His blood felt on fire. Every red-hot ion ready to ignite. God help him, he didn’t want to stop.

      The kiss broke gradually, reluctantly, the caress growing strong again before, hot lava flowing through his veins, he finally eased off.

      Her eyes were closed, her breathing ragged. Out of breath himself, he murmured against her warm soft lips, ‘Now do you see?’

      Her eyelids flickered and her focus sharpened. ‘You wanted to kiss me?’

      ‘Very much.’

      ‘And you thought I wouldn’t want you to?’

      Wincing, he pulled slightly back. ‘That’s not quite it.’

      Her shoulders sank. ‘Is it another woman?’

      He groaned to himself. ‘Not just one.’

      When she unravelled herself from what remained of his grasp, he rubbed his brow. How could he explain that he didn’t need any more ties?

      ‘What I mean is, sexual attraction is one thing, but compatibility should be built on—’ He stopped, then started again. ‘When two people get together, they should be on the same page as far as—’ No, that wasn’t right. He took a breath. ‘Well, the thing is—’

      ‘That water should meet its own level?’ She darted a wounded glance towards his spacious living room and, beyond that, the priceless view. ‘Is that what you’re trying to say?’

      He exhaled. ‘I’m saying we don’t know each other very well.’

      ‘But you know enough.’

      ‘Vanessa—’

      As he stepped forward, she stepped back and held up a hand. ‘Please don’t be embarrassed. I’m a pragmatist, Mr Stuart. I know the way the world works.’ She reached around and took her torn card from the hallstand. ‘In case you’re tempted.’

      With infuriating good grace, she shut the door behind her. It took all his willpower not to call out and drag her back against him where she seemed to belong. He had wanted to kiss her, hold her… Damn it, in that moment of insanity, he’d wanted to peel the clothes from her body and make love to her, thoroughly and all night long.

      But, as he’d said, he barely knew this woman and his rescuing-damsels-in-distress plate was full. He shouldn’t get involved. In fact, he should thank his lucky stars it was over before it had begun.

      He strode to the wet bar and poured himself a fresh Scotch. He swallowed a gulp, swallowed another. Frustration winning out, he smashed the glass down on the counter.

      Like it or not, he was already involved. He wanted to see Vanessa Craig again. He wanted to listen to her stories. Taste her sweet lips. Damn it, he wanted to help.

      The six million dollar question was…

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