Page 27 of How To Tempt The Off-Limits Billionaire

She didn’t believe me, said I looked very familiar—!!!—and kept pushing. So I told them we’re having a red-hot affair.

CHAPTER SIX

We’re having a red-hot affair.

HEWISHED.

On seeing the message on his phone from Ro, Muzi cut short his twelve-mile trail run and headed down the mountain, skipping over a tree root in the middle of the narrow path. Annoyance skittered up and down his sweaty spine. God, Susan had a tungsten set of balls. How dare she stroll into his house and ambush Ro?

Muzi used the back of his forearm to wipe perspiration out of his eyes and, despite knowing it was dangerous to go too fast on the rock-and-root-filled path—if he fell, he could tumble down a steep hill and, possibly, into the ravine below—pushed himself to speed up.

Bloody Susan.

Most people would think that him accompanying Ro to St. Urban was a perfectly reasonable thing to do, and it was, but Susan always suspected everyone of having ulterior motives. Pity that, in this case, she was right. He expected her to do a little digging into who Ro was, that was just the nature of the beast, but he never, ever expected her to rock up at his home demanding answers.

What raised her suspicions? She knew about him leasing St. Urban’s land but Ro’s wasn’t the first land he’d leased, nor would it be the last. It was the fact that they didn’tneedmore land and grapes right now that had obviously raised her suspicions.

He’d made a mistake of avoiding her lately and he cursed himself. If Susan heard he was on the trail of a new cultivar, she’d do whatever she could to derail his efforts. Hurting and hobbling him was more important than Clos du Cadieux.

Muzi, his lungs straining and his muscles screaming, bolted down the path. If the cultivar wasn’t growing at St. Urban, or if the vines produced terrible grapes and dismal wine, his reputation would take a hell of a hit, exactly what Susan wanted.

There was no way he’d allow that to happen, he hadn’t endured so much to let her win. Muzi, his legs burning and his arms pumping, ducked under a low hanging branch and cursed when a broken stick slashed the skin above his eyebrow.

He swore again, this time in Xhosa, touched the wound and felt blood trickling over his fingertips. Bloody Susan, this was her fault. He took his eyes off the path, looked down at the bright red blood on his fingers, not noticing the tree root beneath his trainer. His foot hooked it and he found himself flying. He went down hard, his shoulder connecting with a rock, sending waves of searing pain up and down his arm. Sprawled on the path, his face in the dirt, he took stock. Shoulder dislocated but no arms or legs broken. A cut on his forehead, scrapes to his face and he’d lacerated his shin.

He’d live. But, damn, he hurt.

Using his good arm, Muzi pushed himself up to a seated position and grimaced at the blood pouring down his leg. He looked around and realized that he was only a few miles from his house. He would call Ro and she could meet him at the bottom of the hill. She could drive him into town and his favorite doc could reset his shoulder.

First item on the agenda, calling Ro. Except that his phone was strapped to his good arm and he couldn’t use his useless arm to pull it from its pouch. It took him a few minutes to remember that he could use voice activation...

“Siri, call Ro.”

He watched but it didn’t light up and he looked at the phone again, cursing when he saw the massive crack across the screen. His phone, thanks to the impact with the rock, was dead.

Muzi cursed yet again, long, low and slow this time. When he was done, he pushed himself to his feet and fought a wave of dizziness. He breathed deeply and, when his light-headedness receded, he started to walk home, dripping blood and swearing up a storm, trying to convince himself that, because he routinely completed ultratriathlons, four or so miles was a piece of cake.

With a dislocated shoulder, four miles on an uneven trail turned out to be the seventeenth level of hell.

It took Muzi much longer than he thought, mostly because he was a little light-headed—he must’ve hit his head harder than he thought—and he was tired, dirty and goddamn hurting when he walked up the steps leading to his outside entertainment area. Each step sent pain ricocheting through his shoulder, but a flash of bright pink momentarily distracted him.

He stopped, one foot on the step above, and his pain receded at the sight of Ro lying in the sun. Her long body was turning pink and a wide-brimmed straw hat covered her face. Judging by the way her chest and fabulous breasts rose and fell—covered in only two brief triangles—she was soundly asleep.

He could spend hours, days watching her sleep, fascinated by her long, slim legs, her flat stomach, the delicate curve of her hips. But, because he felt like someone was ripping off his arm, he could only give her another twenty seconds before calling her name.

He called once, twice, and when she didn’t wake, bellowed her name. Ro shot up, her hat went flying and her head whipped around frantically, trying to find the source of the noise. She didn’t think to look behind her and Muzi called her name again.

Ro turned her torso, placed her hand to her face to keep the sun out of her eyes and sent him a smile. “Hi, you’re back. Did you get my message... Holy hell, what happened to you?”

Exhausted, Muzi slowly lowered himself to sit on the top step. He watched Ro run across the lawn and, a few seconds later, she stood in front of him, her mouth agape.

His eyes were in line with her belly button and she had a tiny ring in it, classy and stupendously sexy. He allowed his eyes to skim over her brief bikini bottoms, down her long legs and noticed that she wore a silver toe ring and had a small rosebud tattooed on the inside of her ankle. How had he missed that?

“Do you have any other tattoos?” he asked, before lifting his hand. “No, don’t tell me, I want to discover them myself.”

“You’re hurt! Oh, my God, you’rebleeding!”

Yeah, he knew that. Muzi squinted up at her. “So, we’re having a red-hot affair? Cool.”

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