Page 18 of Enemies with Benefits

When the hell was I going to learn my lesson? Bitterness rose up to fuse with my annoyance. I tamped down both emotions. I wasn’t dealing with my father’s scathing remarks, disparaging me about wanting peace when we Mortimers were a proudly bloodthirsty lot.

I was dealing with an intelligent, if extremely stubborn, woman. I needed another way to deal with her.

Immediately my mind flew back to the maze, as it had been doing increasingly over the past week or so, but especially since Friday night. It’d taken every ounce of willpower not to kiss her in my office. But I’d needed to prove to her that I wasn’t driven by my desire.

Succumbing to the urge to keep touching her, to kiss those luscious lips, would only convince her I was driven by base instincts. Yet I couldn’t deny that she only needed to flash those green eyes to trigger a fever in my blood.

I laughed under my breath. I’d had my share of women, some more beautiful than Wren. This rare phenomenon where she was concerned was inexplicable. Why the hell did she trigger this strong reaction in me?

I shook my head, growing more annoyed when I clocked that I’d wasted almost an hour waiting for her. About to open one of the many files that needed my attention, I paused when my intercom buzzed.

‘Yes?’ I responded, a little too eagerly.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Mortimer, I couldn’t reach her. Her secretary says she’s in a meeting.’

‘I know. She’ssupposedto be in a meeting, here, with me.’ Aware that I was snapping at my PA, I throttled down my emotions. Christ, she drove me crazy. ‘Thanks, Trish.’ I collapsed in my seat, forcing calm into my bones.

I’d always been a strategist. A planner. Favouring dialogue over conflict. But I was a Mortimer, as my father had taken delight in reminding me every time I’d displayed what he’d termed myweakness. Did Wren really want war with a Mortimer?

Especially when Bingham’s, according to trusted sources, was one ill-judged deal away from complete collapse? She couldn’t afford to take me on in a corporate battlefield. So why the hell was she trying? Perry had been equally hard-headed but evidently his intransigence had been mostly fuelled by alcohol. Wren was simply stubborn.

And loyal. Perhaps blindly so, but loyal.

It was a stark reminder that my family was acutely different. Mortimers—my father especially—didn’t do blind loyalty and, as he’d proven with his callous desertion, wouldn’t fight to the death for anyone else but himself.

But wasn’t that what had made us who we were today? Successful. Feared. A global powerhouse with immeasurable clout. Sure, we wouldn’t win any Family of the Year prizes but there was a lot to be proud of. I wasn’t going to let a woman with brains, beauty and fireworks in her green eyes convince me otherwise—

As if I’d conjured her up by my imagination, my door opened and there she stood.

My annoyance didn’t recede as I stared at her, but several new sensations crowded in. First, the jolt of electricity just the sight of her rammed through my body. I attempted to control it by taking another deep breath. And failed.

The second was utter shock as I took in the state of her.

She looked as if she’d stumbled in from a night of hard partying. And even harder fucking. Her hair was dishevelled as if some lucky bastard had won the privilege of running his fingers repeatedly through it. Her lips were faintly bruised and smeared as if someone had eaten off her lipstick. Then came her smudged make-up. Dark jealousy spiralled through me as my gaze dropped lower and my gut tightened against the inevitable hard-on heading my way as I took in the rest of her.

Holy hell, she was wearing a trench coat. Not necessarily a fashionfaux pasconsidering the time of year, but it was tightly belted at the waist in that highly suggestivesexualway that screamed she was wearing very little or nothing at all underneath. Fire lit through my groin as she took a step towards me and justified my suspicions by flashing a bare leg.

Jesus, she wouldn’t. Would she?

‘Good morning, Jasper.’ Whether that husky greeting was deliberately exaggerated or the result of long hours of screaming in ecstasy wasn’t something I particularly wanted to dwell on. Either way, it threw another gallon of flammable fuel on my libido. I clenched my gut as I grew even harder.

‘You’re late,’ I bit out, watching her strut across my office in sky-high heels.

With each step, I caught a glimpse of her leg, and nothing else. My nape heated and I desperately scrounged around for every scrap of willpower not to drag my fingers over my jaw and stop myself from salivating like a pathetic dog. I tried to remain pissed off, but my mind fixated on one thing.

Was Wren Bingham totally naked under that coat?

She reached my desk, laid her hands flat on it, and leaned towards me. I kept my eyes on hers, determined not to be drawn into whatever game she was playing.

‘Am I? You said the meeting was at ten. It’s now...’ she paused, glanced around the office before reaching into her pocket for her phone ‘...nine fifty-nine. Oh, look, I’m a whole minute early.’ She waved her phone at me and I caught a glimpse of her home screen.

It featured a picture of her, head thrown back, laughing into the camera. The image only showed her from bare shoulders up but it was again suggestive that she was naked. Arousal attacked my body, leaving me with a serious urge to fidget. I steepled my fingers on my belly, thankful my suit jacket and desk hid my compromised state from her.

‘I told you the meeting was at nine o’clock. I’ve had to put off the Moroccan team twice already.’

‘Heavens! In that case I can only apologise. There must have been some sort of mix-up.’ She slipped the phone back into her pocket, the movements exaggerated enough to make her coat gape wide. I saw the curve of her breast and swallowed hard.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I bit out.

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