PLAYING DIRTY WITH THE HOT CEO

chapter 10

“Dig in,” I say, pouring the tea into two cups.

He takes a scone and pulls it apart. “Jam or cream first?”

“Ah, that’s the question.” I tip a little milk into each cup. “In Cornwall they prefer the jam first, and in Devon they put the cream. But apparently Queen Elizabeth used to spread the jam then the cream, so that’s what I’ve always done.”

“Fair enough.” He spoons the jewel-like jam onto each half of the scone, heaps the clotted cream on top, and takes a bite.

“What do you think?” I say, amused at his white mustache.

“Mmph.”

I slide a cup and saucer over to him. “I’m guessing that means you like it?”

He wipes his top lip. “It’s wonderful.”

“Oh, I’m glad.” I help myself to a scone and begin the process of adding the jam and cream. “I ate so many of these when I first came here that I put on five kilos.” I bite into the scone, filling my mouth with fruity, creamy sweetness, then run my tongue across my top lip to remove the cream. His eyes follow it, then meet mine for a moment before he drops his gaze back to his tea.

My pulse picks up a little. I know he’s attracted to me. What a shame he’s not going to stay in England. We could have had a lot of fun.

I have a sip of tea. “So you’re single now?”

“Yeah. Work is intense, and I don’t want the complication of a relationship.”

“Fair enough.” I study him over the rim of my cup. “So Maisey’s not in the picture anymore?”

He lifts his eyebrows.

“I heard she liked to talk at inopportune moments,” I add mischievously.

“Huxley and his big mouth. I told him that in confidence.”

“Oliver can’t keep a secret to save his life, you should know that by now. So she liked to give you her shopping list while you were having s*x?”

He gives a short laugh. “It was rather… distracting. A man needs to be able to concentrate on the job at hand.”

I grin, but I’m unable to stop a shiver running down my back at the thought of Titus and s*x in the same sentence.

He has another bite of his scone and gives me an amused glance with his light-green eyes. “Stop thinking about s*x,” he scolds.

“You started it.”

“You give me goosebumps when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know what I mean. The come-hither look.”

“Jeez, where are you from, 1895?”

His lips curve up, his gaze still on mine. “You know we can’t,” he says softly.

“Yeah, I know I said that. I’m having trouble remembering why.”

“Because you’re Huxley’s little sister.”

“We could just not tell him.”

He laughs and finishes off his scone. “So, about Jason.”

I sigh and put my teacup down with a clatter. “Way to bring the mood down.”

“Sorry, but I’m curious. Where did you meet him?”

“At a teaching convention. He teaches Physical Education at a secondary school in Plymouth.”

“Those who can’t do, teach. And those who can’t teach, teach gym?”

I chuckle. “Who said that?”

“Woody Allen. Seems appropriate.”

“Yeah. He’s a wanker. Jason, I mean, not Woody Allen.”

He laughs. “How long did you go out with him?”

“About a year. The first six months were okay. I mean, he was a bit possessive when we started dating, like, he’d put his arm around me if any other guy came up to talk to me. But I didn’t mind that, I thought it was cute. But it turned unpleasant fast.”

He frowns. “He was jealous?”

“Yeah. I mean, possessiveness can sometimes be attractive or flattering, because it shows a partner wants you. But he was just nasty with it. He hated me going anywhere without him. If I went out with friends, or stayed late at work, I’d get a hundred questions when I got in about who I’d been with. And then he’d…” I trail off.

He studies me, his smile fading. “Did he… hurt you?”

He means did Jason force himself on me. I shake my head, although there were definitely times near the end when there wasn’t much pleasure in it for me, and it’s the main reason I broke up with him.

He must guess I’m lying though, because his eyes flare with anger. “Huxley wanted to form a posse, come over here, and deal with it. I wish I’d let him.”

Until now, I’ve struggled to match this gentle, funny, warm guy with the knowledge that he’s a well-known, incredibly intelligent businessman who owns and runs his own company, but all of a sudden I can imagine him speaking to a roomful of employees, lecturing at a conference, or giving a member of his staff a dressing down.

“Would you ever think about coming back to New Zealand?” he asks, tearing apart his second scone.

Is he suggesting that if I did, he might ask me out? Or is it a genuine question about where I see my future lying?

I look back at my cup and sip my tea. It doesn’t matter what lies behind his question. “Not at the moment,” I reply. “I love my job here, and I’m happy.”

“You don’t miss New Zealand?”

“Not really, because England is so beautiful. Sometimes I miss the weather. We have fewer sunshine hours here in the southwest. It’s often gray and cloudy, but I don’t mind it too much.”

“What about friends and family?”

“I miss Oliver and my sisters. And my mum.”

He takes a bite out of his second scone. “But not your father?”

I pick up some crumbs with a finger. “Has Oliver told you anything about my relationship with Dad?”

“He’s mentioned that he was controlling.”

I blow out a long breath. “Yeah. Very. I came here to get away from him.” The words burst out of me, still with a touch of venom I can’t eradicate. “I think maybe it was because I was his youngest daughter. I know he meant well. He wanted to protect me. But I found it stifling. When I was at university, he’d come down to visit, and he’d talk to all my friends, and quiz them about how I was doing, who I was seeing… It was awful. He’d give me lectures about boys, and say things he’d never say to my sisters. Even when I left university, he tried to talk me into getting a job in Auckland so he could ‘keep an eye on me.’” I put air quotes around the words. “I had to get away.”

“Is that why you cut your hair?” he asks.

I tuck a strand behind my ear. “Yes. He loved it. It was a symbol, I guess, of my childhood. The day I landed here, I took a pair of scissors to it and lopped it all off.”

His eyebrows rise. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. It looked awful, and I went to the hairdressers the next day. But that night, I lay in my hotel room feeling like a new person. It was the best thing I ever did.”

“Maybe if you’d cut it in New Zealand, it would have been a signal to him,” he says.

I hesitate. “I just couldn’t. His displeasure would have been overwhelming. I’m not that strong. I’m not rebellious, and I don’t like confrontation.”

“It sounded as if you did just fine with Jason the other night.”

“Maybe, but that came at the end of three months of harassment and frustration. Straw that broke the camel’s… you know. And I’d just spoken to you. It gave me courage.”

He smiles at that.

I break open my second scone and put half of it on his plate. “Finish that off for me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m quite full, and I can see you have a healthy appetite.” I wink at him before piling on the jam.

He chuckles and reaches for the spoon, knocks it off the dish, and spills jam onto the tablecloth. “s**t,” he says. “Sorry.”

I chuckle and scoop it up. “Don’t worry, I’m getting used to it.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry you’ve had a difficult time with men.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had a difficult time with women. I think we’re both a little ashamed of our sexes.”

“Yeah. I don’t understand men who want to control women. They should be protected, not dominated.”

Protected is an odd word to use. “You think of us as the fairer s*x?”

He thinks about that, licking his fingers free of jam. “Most of the women I know are strong and formidable. I don’t know anyone who’d dare to call Elizabeth weak and feeble.”

“Ha, no!” I give him a curious look. “What’s your mum like? I’ve never met her.”

“Fearless,” he says. “She’s always called herself a shield maiden, like Lagertha.”

“Side question, but was Lagertha a real character, or is she just from the Vikings show?”

“A twelfth-century chronicler called Saxo wrote about her, but experts think she probably wasn’t real, and that her tale was inspired by the Norse deity Thorgard.”

“Mm. Interesting. Anyway, so you don’t see women as weak and feeble?”

“Not at all.”

“But you were ready to fly over here with Huxley to protect me?” I tease.

He finishes off his scone, wipes his mouth with a serviette, and picks up his teacup as he leans back. “Honest opinion?”

“Always.”

“Today we’re told that women can do anything. Mentally, I believe that to be true. Physically? I’ve yet to meet a woman who can beat me in an arm-wrestling match.”

“Do you arm wrestle many women?”

He grins. “You want to try me?”

I try not to look at his bulging biceps. “No… but I get your point.”

“It seems a shame to pretend we’re exactly the same. You know what s****l dimorphism is?”

“The male is larger than the female?”

“Kind of. It’s the difference in appearance between males and females of the same species. Size is one such difference. In spiders, the female is larger than the male. In humans, it’s the other way around. It’s a biological fact. Guys are—on the whole—bigger and stronger than girls. Today’s society insists we’re all the same, but I think that as long as men don’t use it as a way to subvert women, our differences should be celebrated. It’s a fine line, though, and I think men cross it without realizing how it’s making women feel. Like your dad. Maybe I’m wrong, but I doubt he understood how he made you feel when he tried to control you. I’m sure he just wanted to look after you and protect you, but he didn’t get how you might have felt dominated.”

“Interesting choice of word. Are you into S&M?”

He blinks. “Jesus. How did you get that from what I said?”

“I extrapolated. Are you?”

“No, not at all. I mean, a silk scarf or two can be fun, but…” He trails off and shifts in his chair. “We really have to stop talking about sex.”

“Sorry.”

“You have a one-track mind.”

“I can’t help it. Your biceps make me all dizzy.”

He laughs at that, and I grin, glad he’s not offended. He’s right, though. I shouldn’t keep talking about s*x. It’s not fair on either of us, when we live on opposite sides of the world and neither of us wants to move.

It’s fun though, and I can see from the gleam in his eyes that he’s secretly enjoying it. I haven’t enjoyed myself like this for a long time. So providing we both know the rules—no removal of clothing—surely it doesn’t matter if we indulge in a bit of teasing?