Page 3 of The Billionaire's One-Night Baby

She was months off graduating when Lily had died, and she’d inherited Love & Enchantment. Her two degrees enabled her to run the business without making too many mistakes that might have been hard to come back from, and provided her with a healthy income. Her house was paid for, as was this building.

But she still felt resentful of having her choices ripped away from her.

Get over yourself!

L&E was her link to the one person who had loved her unconditionally, who’d been her port after a lifetime of storms, her true north... Her loyalty to Lily was absolute. In life and death.

Dodi raised a bottle of water to her lips, sipped and eyed the big clock on the far wall. She had a half-hour before her after-hours, top-secret appointment. All her staff, except for her most experienced fitter, had left the premises and she was going to deal with the next bride, and her entourage, all on her own.

Dodi smiled, thinking of the uptick in appointments at L&E since Thadie Le Roux, body-positive influencer, socialite and heiress, had announced on Instagram that she was acquiring both her wedding gowns—one for the church, one for the reception—through Love & Enchantment.

Everyone wanted to follow in Thadie’s footsteps and Dodi didn’t blame them—her best friend was not only beautiful but also funny, down-to-earth and genuinely lovely.

And she was getting married at the end of May, tying herself to a famous and revered rugby-player-turned-sports-commentator. Clyde, having taken his young, inexperienced team to a World Cup Rugby win, was a national treasure and universally adored. Dodi rested her water bottle against her forehead, wishing she could warm to Thadie’s fiancé.

Clyde had never been anything but charming to her, his future wife’s closest friend. He was always thoughtful, considerate, respectful, but something about him bugged her.

Dodi bit her bottom lip and rocked on her heels. Did she automatically distrust every man she met because of her parents’ dysfunctional relationships and because of what Dan had done to her? Was she projecting her fears about relationships and marriage onto Thadie?

She didn’t know. Maybe. Possibly.

Dodi looked through the floor-to-ceiling windows and noticed the tall figure of Jago Le Roux crossing the road, looking ever so fine in his custom-made Italian suit, as well as crisp and cool despite its being a warm summer evening in Johannesburg. She immediately thought of her favourite broody heroes—Heathcliff fromWuthering Heightsand Oliver Mellors, Lady Chatterley’s gamekeeper. Like them, Jago was a corralled tornado of darkness and intensity.

Every time she saw Jago she was immediately whisked back to Lily’s wake, remembering their passion-filled kiss, the strength of his arms as he had held her to his very fit body. For days, and weeks, before and after Lily’s death, she’d felt as though she was encased in a cold, wet bubble, the real world distorted and distant. Jago’s kiss had pierced her balloon of grief and loneliness and for five minutes—ten?—she’d felt alive, feminine, strong. Free of grief.

If Thadie hadn’t interrupted them, God knew how far they would’ve gone. Pretty far, she reluctantly admitted.

God, he was good-looking. Tall, broad, fit, debonair, suave, her best friend’s older brother turned heads, produced swoon-worthy sighs, and caused cars to crash into lamp posts. Dodi desperately wished she was immune to his sex appeal.

But, from the first time she’d seen him, and every time since, tingles raced along her skin, and fireworks exploded deep inside whenever she laid eyes on him. Yeah, she was attracted to Jago Le Roux—any woman with a pulse would be. But, she reminded herself, it was inherited lust, something left over from Neanderthal Dodi, whose survival had rested on mating with the most alpha of alpha men.

It was biology. It didn’t mean anything. One of the lessons she had learned from living with her lust-soaked parents and cheating ex was that desire was ephemeral, as tangible as the early-morning mist hovering at the beginning of a hot summer’s day. It could alleviate boredom, scratch an itch, be entertainment or, like their hot encounter after Lily’s funeral, be a means of distraction and comfort. It didn’t mean anything and never lasted.

Dodi flipped open the lock on her door and pulled it open to allow Jago to step through. She caught the delicious scent of his cologne and noticed his broad hand as he pushed his long fingers into his light brown hair, short at the sides, wavy on top, sun-kissed. The late-afternoon sun turned his three-day stubble to a deep gold.

It was early evening, but the dipping African sun sent bright yellow rays, tinged with pink, through her extensive showroom, dropping a flushed hue onto the bridal gowns hanging off copper pipe railings encircling the room. With its exposed wooden beams and skylights, the room looked huge, with clusters of vintage designer furniture in front of many floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Flowers, roses, sweet-peas and peonies gently scented her luxurious boutique.

Jago, so masculine, should have looked out of place in the faded peaches, creams and pinks of the bridal salon but, annoyingly, didn’t. If anything, the super-feminine room just highlighted his masculinity.

‘Dodi.’

‘Jago.’

Their eyes collided and held, his gaze mesmerising. His eye colour ranged from pewter to steel to iron, occasionally shot with lightning, frequently rumbling with thunder. Hypnotic and spellbinding.

Despite being friends with his sister since they were in their late teens, she’d had little to do with the older of Thadie’s brothers. Micah, his minutes-younger twin, was the more charming of the two. Jago was the string pulled too tight, about to snap. He was aloof, abrupt, introverted and broody, and those silver eyes, the irises surrounded by a black ring, were too scalpel-sharp for comfort.

He made her feel off centre, squidgy, jittery, and his effect on her irritated Dodi. She was almost thirty and should be able to admit that she was sexually attracted to the man and then move the hell on. But no, just looking at him made her feel like she was riding an out-of-control roller coaster.

Sanguine she was not.

‘I’m glad I caught you alone,’ Jago said, his deep baritone sending a shiver up and down her spine. He had the ultimate bedroom voice, rich and dark, like the Belgian chocolate she so adored. Great, now she was thinking about him in a bedroom, about pushing that jacket off his shoulders, pulling his shirt from the band of his trousers, laying her hands on his hot skin.

Argh! Seriously, what is wrong with you, woman?

Dodi folded her arms against her chest, conscious of her messy hair—it always was by the end of the day—and that the minimal make-up she wore had probably disappeared hours ago. She pushed the front door closed, locking it, and turned to walk into her salon, her right ankle slightly twisting and causing her to stumble. Jago reached for her and stopped her from falling flat on her face. Dodi found herself up close and personal with him, and God, he smelled so good. Of rich soap and laundry detergent, of a citrusy cologne and male skin. She wanted to bury her nose in his neck and commit his scent to memory. And Lord, every inch she touched was hard muscle and the hand that held her hip, steadying her, was big and broad and seared her skin.

Dodi looked up, and up, saw that his eyes were on her mouth and sparks skittered up and down her spine. She wondered whether he still tasted as deep and dark as she remembered, his kisses as rich as velvet, as smooth as heavy silk. For a moment, just a couple of seconds, she saw temptation in his eyes, desire deepening the silver to slate-grey, and in a flash his expression turned impassive, his eyes shuttered.

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