In Bed with the Boss's Daughter

“And why would I do that?”

He shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe running away has become a habit with you.”

His mocking tone needled, but she didn’t allow herself to respond. Instead she ran through her mother’s checklist. Posture straight. Head up. Smile in place. Cool retort. Except she couldn’t think of a cool retort. Her brain felt as foggy as a London morning.

“Nothing to say, princess? Don’t you want to talk about running away?”

“I thought we’d established I was resting my feet.”

“I didn’t mean tonight.”

Paris wished he would lean back in his chair. From this close she could feel his irritation whipping across the table and snapping at the edges of her composure. Stay cool, she intoned silently. Then, as if his meaning had only just gelled, she allowed her eyes to widen. “Surely you don’t mean I ran away to London. I’d been thinking of going for ages.”

“K.G. never mentioned it.”

“I hadn’t told him.”

“No?” He drew the word out so long she had time to spell skeptical.

“I hadn’t seen my mother for years. I decided to spend some time with her, to get to know her again.”

“It took six years to get to know Lady Pamela?” he asked derisively.

No. It took six years to learn the benefits of hiding my emotions and looking out for my pride. She fixed Jack with a frosty look. “Actually, it took six years to take your advice and grow up.”

“This is the grown-up Paris Grantham?” One corner of his mouth lifted in an almost sneer as his gaze slid down her body. It was obvious he didn’t care for what he saw.

“Isn’t this what you had in mind?” she asked with a defensive lift of her chin.

“No.”

His bald answer shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. Dashed expectations smarted at the back of her throat and eyes. Jet lag makes one tired and emotional, she justified as she bent to retrieve her shoes. He moved more quickly. Her shoes already dangled from his left hand.

“D’you really want to put these back on?”

Paris swallowed to ease the constriction in her throat. She seriously considered making a lunge for the shoes, but the thought of missing and landing headfirst in his lap stopped her. She took a deep breath and glared across at him. “What do you want, Jack? Why did you follow me in here?”

“To talk, princess.”

“About ancient history?”

“One night of it.”

“We can talk if you like, but my memory’s not so good.”

No way would she ever admit how much she remembered, how clearly she remembered everything about that night. His closemouthed fury when he dragged her from the table. Her feeling of smug jubilation as she snuggled in close in the back of the taxi he hired to take her home. Her heartfelt request, his horrified rejection, her humiliation. Six years and she still remembered every feeling, every word, as keenly as if it had happened yesterday.

“You remembered the bit about growing up,” he said evenly. “I imagine you haven’t forgotten what came before.”

“I gather I made some sort of proposition, although I’d drunk too much champagne to recall what,” she countered with a dismissive shrug.

“You invited me into your bed, and it was no mindless drunken proposition.”

Paris’s heart jolted. She hadn’t expected him to pursue this, to take issue with her. As though it mattered to him.

“You said you wanted me as your first lover,” he continued, his intonation slow and deliberate.

“Like you said, I needed to grow up. Don’t read too much into it.” While her pounding heart rushed the heat of remembered humiliation into her face, Paris gathered her pride, pushed to her feet and reached for the shoes, but he swung them out of her reach and slowly rose to face her.

“You said you loved me.”

“I was young and foolish.” She stepped around the table and lunged for the shoes, but he must have moved sideways, too, because they ended up toe-to-toe.

“And what are you now, princess? Old and smart?”

“What I am is grown-up and over it!”

“Are you?” When he reached out and cupped her face in one hand, she was too surprised to react. “Is this your idea of grown-up? Wearing your hair this way?” His fingers threaded into her hair and slid slowly back toward her crown. Paris gritted her teeth to stop any sound—like a groan of pleasure—escaping her mouth. Some pins gave, and a thick swathe of hair fell free, blocking half her vision.

Now she could see only half his square whisker-darkened jaw, half the nose he’d broken in a site accident and hadn’t bothered having straightened, half the mouth that was too full-lipped and sensual for the blunt strength of the rest of his face.

But his beautiful mouth wasn’t smiling. It was set in a grim line, and his deep-set eyes weren’t the warm, molten chocolate she remembered. The laughter lines still sprayed from the corners, but he didn’t look like a man who did much laughing these days. He looked like a man who worked more on the worry lines between his brows.

Paris did not want to smooth those lines away.

“Do you mind?” She wrenched free of his tormenting touch and glared at him through narrowed eyes. “Is there anything else you’d like to wreck, apart from my hairdo? My dress, maybe? It’s part of the new grown-up me!”

Big mistake, Paris thought, the moment his eyes dropped to the dress.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured gruffly. “This dress is extremely you.”

His knuckles brushed across her neckline, and Paris felt the slight resistance as some rough skin caught in the georgette. He stroked a fingertip over the pulled thread, and Paris swallowed. He’d barely touched her, yet her breasts were tight and tingly, needy.

Needy?

What she needed was her head examined for responding to such a cynical touch. She drew herself up to her full height. “What’s with you, Jack? I don’t understand your attitude and, quite frankly, I’m sick of this…this…” Paris searched around but couldn’t find any suitable description. “I’ve just flown halfway around the world, I’ve spent all day auditioning another bloody stepmother contender, and now—” she took a deep breath, because the last one had run out “—and now I have to put up with you glowering at me and pawing me and ruining my hair… What are you—don’t you da—”

His mouth descended to hers, swallowing the rest of the word and the rest of her complaints. Not that Paris remembered what they were. They fled her brain the instant his lips closed over hers. Some dim recess registered the soft thump of her shoes hitting the carpeted floor, the rough strength of his hands on her shoulders, the brush of his unbuttoned jacket against her body, the accelerated thud of her heartbeat.

For a time she managed to concentrate on the taste of frustrated anger—and then she needed to breathe. With her nose hard up against his cheek, she inhaled the scent of his skin, discovered it hadn’t changed. No fancy cologne to match the fancy suit, no conservative aftershave to match the barbershop cut, just strong elemental outdoors male. She uncurled her fingers from the tight fists crushed between their bodies and gripped his jacket, anchoring herself against a sudden weakness in her knees.