Page 17 of Worth the Risk

CHAPTER THREE

Gideon

AFTERTWOLONG weeks of self-enforced celibacy—maddening, unrealistic and utterly fucked-up celibacy I’d imposed on myself because I’d never been a half-measures kind of guy—the delicious challenge of Leonora Branson was like a shot of morphine in my bloodstream.

Hell, she’d nearly made me blow my load with that ‘say please’ shit.

I’d never begged for anything in my life.

She’d made me want to beg. For the damned towel and a whole lot more besides. It was that combination of sexy stubbornness and pure defiance that did it. Not to mention that unfettered boldness.

But if I was honest, she’d floored me back at the airport by being the polar opposite of what I’d expected. Her stiff intransigence over the phone had reminded me of a schoolmistress, and instead she’d turned out to be a nineteen fifties pin-up bombshell.

Simply put, Leonora Branson—even her name was cruelly deceptive—was too bloody gorgeous for her own good. Coupled with the intelligence that shone from her eyes and her impressive achievements with such a new business success, it was enough to throw me seriously off guard.

It was almost amusing that she was doing her damnedest to wrestle all that brain power and fist-biting perfection into a military-like Armani suit. Leonora would command attention adorned in a sack and still have sex-starved fuckers like me at her mercy.

Or seconds away from stroking their cocks in the shower in full view of her.

Bloody hell.

I sucked in a shaky breath, knew that if I didn’t shut off the image of those wide, delicious ocean-blue eyes, I’d come all over the bathroom tiles.

Her expression was cool and collected when I stepped into the living room five minutes later, save for the telltale pulse beat at her throat. I barely managed to resist the urge to test her resolve.

To test mine.

Maybe Aunt Flo was right and I’d developed a self-destructive streak somewhere along the jagged path to oblivion these past three years. It was that niggling suspicion that had made me go the whole hog and throw in full celibacy on the thirty-day no-scandal stipulation. I could only stay on the edge for so long before something gave.

Regardless of whatever state I was in, I couldn’t very well blame Leonora for asking the one question that triggered all sorts of shit for me, particularly since for most people the subject of children was a run-of-the-mill question, usually with an easy enough answer.

Not for me.

Not since Damian and Penny betrayed me and I was denied a chance at fatherhood I hadn’t even known I wanted until it was snatched from me.

I clenched my teeth and smashed away the memory. But like always, it lingered, acid hot, burning its corrosive poison bone deep. I breathed through it, centring on the more immediate, less volatile picture.

I needed my focus fixed firmly in the present to finalise this deal with Vadim Ilyev, not in the past, where betrayal and back-stabbers lurked.

Since the word had spread that I’d agreed to sign the blasted agreement, a few more brazen family members were openly sharpening their tools in anticipation of my failure.

The Russian deal couldn’t fail.

I crossed the living room to where a carafe of coffee sat on a silver tray. Leonora stood next to the sofa, her leather folder braced before her like a Viking shield.

‘Coffee?’

‘No, thank you.’

I poured a cup, letting the addictive scent of roasted beans suffuse my senses.

She cleared her throat. ‘Before we go any further, I think we need to clear up a few things.’

Cup in hand, I strolled over to her. ‘You think?’

Her chin lifted in a way that made me want to kiss the hell out of her. Then beg her for more. Shit, there was that begging thing again. Curious thing, that.

‘I don’t usually conduct business meetings like that,’ she said.

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