Page 4 of Hidden Heir With His Housekeeper

‘How do you know my name? Do I know you?’ she asked, then wanted to kick herself.

Why did she sound so pompous and defensive? Of course he knew her—most people did after her break-up with Jack two years ago. Because her former fiancé’s whirlwind marriage to her sister a few months later had been forensically examined by every celebrity gossip column and blog from here to Timbuktu.

His sensual lips twisted into an ironic semblance of a smile.

‘We haven’t been formally introduced,’ he said, although she’d already figured that out, because if she had met him, no way would she have forgotten him. ‘But, according to the barman,’ he added, ‘you’re the Medford Ice Queen.’

She winced. ‘You have no idea how much I hate that name,’ she shot back. Especially as, for once, it couldn’t be further from the truth. She felt as if she were about to spontaneously combust.

He chuckled, a deep rusty sound which reverberated in her torso.

‘Yeah, I’m not surprised,’ he murmured. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

Heat mottled her cheeks. But before she had a chance to respond tothatcomment, he added, ‘Why did you run off like that?’

She frowned, mortified. How did he know their non-encounter in the bar opposite had spooked her? She might be a virgin, but she was usually an expert at faking the aloof sex goddess act... Just ask the celebrity hack who had crowned her the Medford Ice Queen.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ The lie would have been more convincing if she hadn’t shivered involuntarily when she said it, and the industrial-strength blush hadn’t spread up to her hairline.

One scarred eyebrow lifted. ‘Sure you do,’ he said. ‘Did I freak you out?’

‘I... I wasn’t freaked out,’ she scoffed, or tried to, not easy when her heart was now jammed between her thighs and busy doing the rumba.

The sarcastic smile only looked more assured.

She was so totally busted.

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she soldiered on, attempting to climb out of the massive pit of embarrassment she’d dug for herself.

Perhaps shut up now, Bea, you’re protesting way too much.

She pursed her lips.

‘Then let me introduce myself,’ he said smoothly. ‘Mason Foxx.’

Foxx? Where had she heard that name before?

But then it registered. He was the rough diamond hotel magnate who had hit number one on her father’sBillionaires to Pimp Bea Out to Tonightshortlist.

Shock was swiftly followed by another nuclear blush to lay over the first. Unfortunately, discovering his identity didn’t dim the endorphin rush in the least.

She studied the hand he’d offered by way of introduction. His fingers were long and surprisingly elegant, despite the scars on his knuckles. The tattoo of a bird of prey in flight etched across the back was even more intriguing.

She cleared her throat and shook his hand, because it would be rude not to.

‘Bea Medford,’ she mumbled, the feel of his work-roughened palm making yet more intoxicating sensations streak up her arm.

‘Bea, huh? That doesn’t suit you either,’ he said, with way too much familiarity.

But she was already getting the impression Mr Foxx didn’t stand on ceremony much.

‘Well, it’s been a pleasure, Mr Foxx,’ she said, trying for dismissive—but not remotely pulling it off thanks to the streak now sprinting from her arm into her breasts.

She tugged her hand free.

‘Has it really?’ he asked, not buying her I-am-so-not-affected-by-your-nearness act. ‘Because I got the impression you would rather injure yourself than make my acquaintance from the way you sprinted off in those ankle-breakers,’ he said, glancing at her heels.

‘Which begs the question why did you follow me?’ she managed, the streak now heading straight for her panties.

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