Ian

T his bloody woman. Where the hell did she come from?

She looks like she got lost on the way to a photoshoot. Though she's not tall enough to be a runway model, and she's curvier than most fashion houses would go for. But with the sculpted features, shiny brown skin and those lovely eyes, almost feline in their intensity, I thought she had to be some kind of professional pretty person.

Then she opened her mouth and took the piss before I could so much as blink. All with that Little Miss Sunshine attitude that I already know is going to drive me crazy. I can't wait for this to be over.

I open the door to the house and stand aside. "You may as well come in."

She blinks, and I see a vulnerable girl beneath the steel of her gaze. Damn it. She was a fan. I can smell it on her.

Then she fixes her face, smoothing it over so fast I can't tell if I imagined that look or not, and steps forward. She tips her head in acknowledgement, like a princess, before she steps over the threshold of my place. I grab her suitcase and follow.

"Fucking investors," I mutter, scraping a hand over my face. "I'm insulted."

"Again," Miss Cheery Little Skirt pops up, "The Connor Group has its hands in a lot of pies. They understand risk. And you, Mr. Worthington-Jones, are a risk."

For fuck's sake. I already told you — "

"Call you, . Yes, I know." She nods her head. "I did. Just a minute ago. Now I'm calling you Mr. Worthington-Jones. I'm more comfortable with that."

"Fine," I growl. "Follow me. I'll take you to the guest room."

She forgets to hide behind her mask for a moment; she's startled by the snarl in my voice. Fuck. She's stuck here until I can get Daphne to turn around and come back for her. I've got to act semi-human until then.

That outfit isn't helping matters. It should be boring. Just a nondescript gray business suit any corporate drone would wear. But on her, with that figure, it looks dangerous. Sexy. I want to strip it off of her and examine every last one of those curves. My cock twitches at the very thought.

Ah, no, I think. There goes my celibacy streak.

No. No. It's fine. It doesn't have to be like this. I haven't even thought about sex for a long time. And lately I've been too busy trying to find that miserable piece of shit who stole my money and left me with nothing but this fucking winery. I'm not just going to give up my peace of mind for the first pretty face that comes along.

But I can't deny that something about this girl intrigues me. She makes me want to take a chance on some kind of something between us, reason be damned.

Maybe it's the way she's had me on the back foot since we met. Or how she smells like sunshine and flowers. I need to get closer to her and take a deep breath of whatever that scent is. It's going to drive me crazy until I do.

She turns to me, clearly dredging up a well of patience from somewhere deep within herself. Fuck. That's exactly where I'd like to be. Deep within her.

Shit. What the fuck is wrong with me?

While I'm not with anyone at the moment, I'm no trembling virgin. One woman with extremely sexy legs is not enough to distract me from my path. Especially when that woman is here to spy on me and report back to my corporate overlords.

But fuck me running if I'm not already half in love with this one. Or at least, my version of in love. Which, I've been told, is pretty much the opposite of what that word actually means to most people.

She's beautiful. Curvy in exactly the way I like. She's so polished, even her skin glows in the sunlight. Average height, but has legs for days. Long, sturdy legs I can immediately picture wrapped around me as I pound into her hot, wet —

Fuck me. It's gonna be a long few weeks.

I clear my throat aggressively and try to pull my brain out of the fucking gutter. Instead, I turn to the adorable — yes, she actually is adorable — woman and offer her the smile that has gotten me whatever I want, any time and any place I want, since I was in short pants.

"Now then," I say firmly. I take her hand and stare into her eyes. It's been a few years, but I can still muster up a bit of the old Worthington-Jones charm. "Perhaps you were right before. We have gotten off on the wrong foot. I'm aching and perhaps too quick to be grumpy after my workouts."

Her face is impassive. Not even a lick of sympathy? Damn. Maybe the old W-J charm needs a tune up.

"At any rate," I say, smoldering in her direction, "since we're here together, we might as well make the most of this opportunity. Tell me your name again, love?"

Instead of giggling or playing with a lock of her hair, she closes her eyes. Like she's doing her best not to roll them at me. That... that doesn't usually happen. Maybe I need to try a little harder with the smolder.

When she opens her eyes again, the honey colored orbs focus on me with a laserlike intensity. She retrieves her hand from my grasp.

"This is exactly the kind of thing you'll need to work on while I'm here," she says. "We will need to practice recall. I know a few memory exercises you can try to get yourself back in fighting shape."

I stare at the cheeky devil for an entirely different reason. Is she serious? Implying that there's something wrong with my brain?

"After all," she twinkles at me, "we can't have the visitors to your winery feeling unhappy because you can't remember their names."

"There is nothing wrong with my memory!"

"It's either that or you don't care, right? And I'm sure you don't want to be the kind of business owner who doesn't care about folks paying their hard earned money to see your property and drink your wine."

I sputter uselessly in her direction as she looks calmly back. Although she's not entirely unaffected; her mouth twists in an effort to hold back a smile. Absurdly, I want to see that smile. Even if it's at my expense. I bet it's a thing of beauty.

"It's not that I don't care, Miss ... Miss..." Fuck. What did she say? Some kind of color? Brown? White?

"You've always had someone to remember pesky things like people's name for you, haven't you?"

"That's unfair, love."

She blinks at my use of that word. Like she wants to tell me off for saying it, but she's not sure if she should. The woman acts as if I'm no better than a cranky toddler and she's decided to pick her battles rather than challenge me for calling her a pet name.

I frown at the thought. It's not as if I'm a child. I'm a justifiably pissed off adult. This is all the fault of that scheming piece of shite. If he hadn't run off with all my worldly goods, I wouldn't be in this position. But he's gone, and until the police find him — and my money — I've got to make the most of the only asset I have left.

"Green!" I almost shout as her earlier words come back to me. "Your name's Green."

A sly smile crosses her lips. "First or last?"

"What? What the hell kind of idiot parents would name their child Green?"

"This is Portland, Mr. Worthington-Jones."

I shrug. The lady has a point.

"Surname," I guess. She smiles and offers me a polite little clap. I bow dramatically, like it's the last night at Glastonbury and I've just finished my encore.

"Well done, you." Her voice is genuinely warm. Like she's really pleased that I put forth the tiniest bit of effort. I don't love that. I'm not such an arsehole that she's got to reward me every time I manage to do the right thing.

"That feels extraordinarily patronizing," I tell her, deliberately using the snobby accent I've copied from my dad, "but I'm going to accept it nonetheless."

Ms. Green laughs, and that warm sound oozes into my veins, turning to honey in my ears. I am helpless beneath its onslaught.

How is it that I want her so much, in the space of ten minutes?

It's been so long since I thought about being with someone. I resigned myself to that part of my life being over. But now I'm standing in front of my guest room door, with a sweet little minx laughing at me, and damn me to hell if I'm not ready to play the clown, just to keep that glorious sound coming my way. The soft smile on her face and the sparkle in her eye have got me. I'm a mess, all foolish and aroused, like a teenaged boy.

"It's nice to see you being, well, nice." She smiles, full on, showing all of her teeth like she means it. The pleasure on her face makes her look younger. I can see that girl who used to sit in her bedroom, listening to Courage play her favorite song over and over. I wonder which was her favorite. Broken Roses, probably. She seems like a power ballad kind of girl.

"I can be nice," I scoff, as if I'm offended. "If I'm so inclined."

"I'm sure you can."

"It's simply that I find being naughty is so much more fun."

Ms. Green is giving me a look somewhere between exasperation and amusement. That innocent, open look she had a moment ago is long gone. Absurdly, I miss it.

"You flirt as easily as you breathe, don't you?"

I don't bother to answer. I simply open the door, inviting her in. She tips her head, giving me the barest nod before she goes inside. Did I think she was a princess before? Her gesture is pure queenliness.

"There's a guitar under the bed, if you're so inclined," I say. "The bath is the second door over there, and should have everything you need. Let the housekeeper know if something's missing. I'm gonna go write some music."

"Thank you." Her voice is tentative. Like she's not sure how long my good mood will last."

"Ms. Green —"

"Dez."

"For the record, Dez," I roll her name around in my mouth, tasting the single syllable like it's one of my wines, "I do understand why you're here."

It's true. Despite what I said to her outside, I know the Connor Group is taking a chance on me. I need them to help me get back in the game. If that means accepting the leash they want to put on me — and the trainer they've sent to tame me — then call me Lassie.

"Thank you. I hope we can make some good progress together."

"Looking forward to it." I hold up a finger. "I do have one stipulation, however."

"Which is?"

"I'm going to need you not to fall in love with me. I'd like to keep things strictly professional between us."

The range of emotion that crosses her face is a thing of beauty. Outrage, annoyance, amusement, and a host of other things flash by in milliseconds without so much as a word coming from her lips.

"I'm certain that won't be a problem."

"Are you?"

She stalks toward me, slowly, with intent. Before I know it, she's got me backed up against a wall and is much, much too close to me for anything professional to happen. I find myself swallowing hard and staring down into the depths of her dark eyes.

"Let me be clear, Mr. Worthington-Jones," she whispers in the vicinity of my ear. My cock leaps to attention at the brush of her words against my ear.

"Negging doesn't work on me. I've played this game before, and I have never, ever lost. Now let's get to work."