Chapter 1

1

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Zara

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" The man sitting next to me in the driver's seat of his car, the man who represents so much of what I hate on every level, glares at me.

"Exactly that." I glance out my window. And why did I agree to him taking me out to dinner? Why didn’t I turn him down? Why did I rise to his challenge when he asked earlier if I was scared? I may find him attractive, but I’ll never find him appealing—not even if he were the last man on this planet. And especially not when he stands for everything I hate.

Hunter Whittington is the very embodiment of entitlement. He comes from old world money and has been groomed to take his place as the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. He belongs to that class of Oxbridge educated, elitist, stuck-up, pain-in-the arse, wankers who thinks it's their right to rule and dominate. A grumphole who’s highly popular with the old-boy’s network, perceived as cunning, ruthless and lethal, while also appearing to not give a damn about anything. Well, except for being very insistent I attend this dinner with him.

"I thought we were agreeing to a truce for this evening?" Mr. Posh-tosh drawls.

I toss my hair over my shoulder. "I agreed to have dinner with you; doesn’t mean I’m going to be all docile and pleasant."

"Pity, because when you smile, you’re actually quite charming."

I scoff, "That the best you can do? Your compliments leave me cold."

"When I compliment you, you’ll know it," he drawls. "That was simply me, stating a fact."

"And this is me, stating that I’m already regretting being here with you."

He flips on the indicator, then turns off the motorway and onto a secondary road. He’s rolled up his shirt sleeves, and the veins pop in his arms. Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention that the arrogant prick has very well-defined forearms with sculpted muscles covered with tanned skin and a peppering of dark hair. My fingers tingle.

How would it be to trail my fingers over them and feel the scrape of those rough strands against my skin? How would it be to have his blunt fingertips trail up my arm, over my shoulder down the curve of my breasts and—why am I thinking along these lines? Sure, Hunter Whittington has the sort of features that wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of GQ, his build resembles that of a Hollywood action hero, and his broad shoulders invite me to snuggle into his chest. He makes my knees go weak, makes my throat dry, makes a pulse flare to life between my thighs… None of which negates the fact that he stands for the kinds of values I’ve always hated. He’s an egotistical wanker who was born into one of the richest families in the country. The kind of family with bloodlines related to royalty. The kind who’d never have to work for a day in his life if he didn’t want to. The kind who had everything handed to him on a silver platter. The kind who is the exact opposite of how I grew up. Plus, I hated him on sight.

The first time I met him was at 7A Club, an outfit run by JJ Kane and Sinclair Sterling, two of the most powerful men in the country, and founders of the club intended to help identify talent and invest in them. They invited me to be a founding member, and I was the only woman at the table. Given the career I’ve chosen, that’s not unusual. What threw me, though, was the visceral reaction I had to this man. How I took an instant dislike to him and he toward me. How we barely managed to be civil to each other in that first meeting. It was only exacerbated when we met at work.

He filed his candidacy to run for the position of Prime Minister, and I’m the fixer. A well-known PR spin-doctor who the country’s tastemakers—from influencers to politicians—come to when they need to salvage their reputations. Which makes things messy, to say the least. Because, no way, can I personally be involved in a scandal.

His ride to Downing Street depends on his track record being free of scandal. And my job depends on my not becoming the scandal. I need to always be seen as an impartial party by the media. My ability to manipulate the news depends on that. Which means, I can’t let my association with him be seen as anything but professional; i.e. I need to be courteous toward him when we meet in person.

If the media gets wind of just how much we hate each other, it will only become the topic of debate. Not to mention, hating someone at a personal level never bodes well. It would only encourage people to see me as someone who can’t be objective when it came to those in the news, and I can’t afford that. I’ve built my career as someone who is never pulled into media clashes, and I need to stay that way. Which means, I need all of my wits about me. Ergo, I need to defuse this…situation between Hunter and me that’s becoming increasingly untenable.

It’s why, when he asked me to dinner so we could try to come to some kind of an understanding, I agreed. It’s not like I had a choice, either. When my instinct was to turn him down, he challenged me by saying, perhaps I was too scared to spend time with him one-on-one, that I might find I actually like him. I knew I was being played, that he was appealing to my competitive spirit. And yet, I couldn’t say no. That’s my weakness. I never can resist a confrontation.

So here I am, in the car that he’s parked in front of a building set back from the road.

Behind us, the security car—with his security detail—that has been following us, comes to a stop. Another pulls ahead and parks in front. I gather my things and reach for the handle on my door, but Hunter has already walked around to hold it open. My stomach folds in on itself. A stutter swirls about my chest. So annoying that he has to shove his good manners in my face.

I slide out, then straighten. "You didn’t have to do that. I can open my own doors." I scowl.

"My mother taught me better."

I sniff, brush past him and head up the path leading to the restaurant without waiting for him. Footsteps follow as his long legs eat up the distance. He walks past me and is holding the door to the restaurant open by the time I reach it. I scowl up at him, then step through the entrance and up the short hallway. I reach the restaurant and pause. The lighting is dim, and the walls are painted a pale ivory. Both sides of the restaurant are glass walls. To my right, past the glass wall, is what seems to be a forest of bamboo trees. And beyond the glass wall on my left is a manmade fountain. The entire effect is soothing, like being in a Zen space. Strangely, all of the tables are empty.

"Where is everyone?"

"Everyone who matters is here." He takes my coat, hands it over to a ma?tre d’ who materializes out of nowhere, then shrugs off his own jacket and gives it to the same man. He guides me to the table in the center of the room—to the only table set with silverware and candles. He holds out my chair and I slide in. There’s a third chair set on one side of the table between us.

"Is there someone else joining us?" I frown.

"That’s for your bag."

Eh? I blink, then lower my eyebrows. "Care to explain?"

"I’m aware of how much you love your accessories, especially your shoes and purses. And I know you’d never place your bag on the floor. And putting it on the table is simply gauche, so—" He raises a shoulder.

"So, you arranged for an extra chair for my Birkin?"

"Was I wrong?"

"You were..." I hesitate. I don’t want to admit he’s right. That he correctly anticipated that I do take great care of my shoes and my handbags. They’re an extension of me. They project who I am to the world. They are more than a brand statement; they are a declaration of how much I value myself. Somehow, I hadn’t expected this…uppity, almost-royalty twat to understand that. But in one fell swoop, he’s done that and more. Probably just a lucky guess. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I place my handbag on the chair and tip up my chin. "Thanks," I murmur.

"You’re welcome." He inclines his head.

I glance about the restaurant again. "So, we’re the only ones here?"

"And the bodyguards."

In my peripheral vision, I spot my security detail positioning themselves at strategic points in corners around the room and standing by the entrance. It’s dim enough that their black suits blend with the shadows. Only, I can’t forget they’re there, of course. It’s a necessary evil I’ve lived with since I took on this position.

"You know I don’t mean them, either."

"There’s also the service staff." He waves a hand in the air, and as if by magic, a waiter materializes next to him with a bottle of champagne.

"Are we celebrating something?" I scowl.

"You agreed to have dinner with me?—"

"I agreed to give you two hours to convince me why I shouldn’t hate the idea of you" —he begins to speak, and I raise a finger— "of which, you now have eighty minutes left."

He curls his lips. "Are you always this…blinkered?"

"Are you always this…carefree?" I snap.

His grin widens. "Appearances can be deceptive."

"You don’t say."

He arches an eyebrow at the waiter who pops the cork on the champagne. The sound ricochets about the space, emphasizing, again, that we are the only ones here.

"You still didn’t tell me where everyone else is," I murmur.

The waiter pours the bubbly into my glass, then Hunter’s. He places the bottle in the ice bucket perched on a stand next to the table that I only now notice. Then he fades away into the darkness.

"Given the potential speculation seeing the two of us together could cause, naturally, I had to find a solution to take you out to dinner in a public space while ensuring we had privacy."

"Ergo, you used your money and influence to buy out the place?"

"I simply asked the owner, who happens to be a friend, if he could accommodate us. And he did."

"Is it always this easy for you? To wave your hand and have all of your needs met? To incline your head and have minions jump to do your bidding? To ask and always receive?"

"Except with you."

He narrows his blue-green gaze on me from across the expanse of the table. The candlelight highlights the golden-brown specks in the depths of his eyes and haloes his dark hair, turning it almost blue. The hollows under his cheekbones seem more pronounced, the dip in his chin seems more delicious.

I try to tear my gaze from his, but it’s as if he holds me in a tractor beam. Awareness tugs on and stretches the air between us. My heart begins to race. This is ridiculous. So, he’s good-looking. I knew that already. What I hadn’t realized is that hidden behind that polished mask he presents to the world is an untamed animal. A beast lying in wait to unleash that darkness inside of him. An edginess, a sharp wickedness that I never would’ve guessed he’d be capable of, but which I sense now lapping at the restraints that he’s placed on himself.

I curl my fingers around the stem of my champagne glass. "I didn’t say I wanted champagne."

"You love champagne. It’s your drink of choice," he declares.

My eyebrows shoot up. "And you guessed this, how?"

"Nothing a little bit of research didn’t reveal."

I stiffen. "You had me investigated?"

"Something you already knew about." He continues, "As you did me."

I blink, then surprise myself when laughter tumbles out from between my lips. "Touché." I raise my glass.

He seems taken aback, himself. Then his lips curve up in a smile that’s so open, so real that something flutters deep inside. It’s probably ripples of hunger, that’s all. I had very little for lunch and no breakfast. That’s the reason my stomach seems to be bottoming out.

"Also, your acting skills need leveling up."

"Excuse me?"

"You knew you were being followed, considering you gave my investigator the slip a few times."

I raise a shoulder. "So, get a better investigator."

This time it’s he who barks out a laugh. "Keep up this banter, and I’ll begin to think it’s our brand of foreplay."

"You wish," I scoff.

His grin widens. "Of course, the fact that you evaded the detective I had on you makes me wonder what you have to hide."

The blood drains from my features, then I tip up my chin. "Maybe I have a lover."

"No, you don’t."

I pull back my shoulders. "You seem awfully confident about that, Minister."

He stares at me. “Why is that so sexy coming from you?”

Heat flushes my skin, and my mouth dries. Why is it so hot to hear him say that particular four-letter word? Why is the thought of this man talking filthy to me such a turn on? I toss my hair over my shoulder, then tip up my chin. “Hold your horses. I only called you, Minister, not Prime Minister , which you’re not?—”

“—yet,” he adds smoothly, then narrows his gaze. "You can’t belong to anyone else."

"Oh?"

He nods. "You’re mine, Zara, and I’ll do everything in my power to make you accept that."

My belly quivers. My pussy clenches. I feel the tickling sensation between my legs that tells me I’m getting turned on, and I squeeze my thighs together in an attempt to soothe away the itch between them. Why is his declaration of intent so erotic? Why is the focus in his eyes as he fixes his gaze on me, and only me, make me feel like I won the lottery by becoming the cynosure of his attention?

I square my shoulders and grip the stem of my flute glass tighter. "And if you can’t?" I tip up my chin. "

"I’ve never lost... And I don’t intend to start now." He touches his glass to mine. "To us."

"There is no us," I scoff.

"Not yet."

"Excuse me?" I widen my gaze. "I’m not sure I heard you correctly."

"Oh, you did. You just don’t want to admit it."

He brings the flute to his lips and takes a sip of his champagne. The tendons of his throat move as he swallows. My pulse rate speeds up.

Stupid. This is stupid—really stupid. I underestimated him. I thought I hated him. Oh, subconsciously, I’d noticed how my body reacted to his nearness, but I’d simply set that to one side. I’m not the kind who will allow my desires to lead me. Not after I’ve worked so hard my entire life to get to where I am. To break stereotypes. To make a difference to my community and to my country. This is what I’ve always wanted. This is why I studied so hard, why I got a scholarship to study law, then started my own PR firm. Why I’ve been so focused on my goals, to the exclusion of everything else. Why I accepted his challenge to spend time with him. I was confident I’d come out on top of our encounter. But now, I’m not so sure. And one thing I’m not is stupid. I know when to stage a strategic retreat. "Excuse me, but I have to leave."

I place my glass of champagne on the table and begin to rise to my feet, but he swoops out his hand and grabs my hand. Electricity shoots out from the point of contact. My breath catches in my chest. I look at where his fingers are wrapped about my wrist, then glance up to find his gaze locked on my face. Some of the color seems to have drained from his features. He releases me, and I sit back down. We stare at each other. The silence stretches.

Then the waiter wheels in a cart of food. What the—? He ordered ahead and decided to order for me, as well? Overbearing wanker. The waiter places a dish in front of me, then another in front of Hunter before, once more, retreating. All this time, we haven’t taken our gazes off of each other. My throat closes. My pulse thuds at my temples. Moisture pools between my legs, and I clench my pussy and wriggle around in my seat.

"That..." He inclines his head and smirks. "That is what I’m talking about."

"What?" I laugh, or at least try to, but all that emerges is a thready sound.

"You sensed it, same as I did. This chemistry that sizzles between us."

"We’ve only met a few times in person."

"And yet, every time I enter a room with you in it, my gaze instantly finds you."

Heat flushes my cheeks, but I manage to school my features into an expression of nonchalance. "Not my fault." I raise a shoulder.

"Don’t shrug it off. If we don’t address this" —he points to the space between us— "it’s only going to build and become so monumental, it’ll hurt something or someone. Possibly, both of us."

I pretend to yawn; except when I pat my mouth, my fingers are shaking. "I have no idea what you mean."

His eyebrows draw down, and for a second, he looks disappointed. "Funny, I had you pegged as the kind of woman who wouldn’t hesitate to speak the truth, no matter how difficult."

"I’m also someone who knows when I’m better off ignoring the obvious."

"So, you’d rather lie to yourself than face the fact that the chemistry between us is explosive?"

"You said it; not me." I bite the inside of my cheek.

"I have a better idea. A way in which we can both be truthful to ourselves and walk away from this with our careers intact."

"Oh, so you do understand how dangerous it is for the two of us to even be seen together, let alone having dinner?"

"Which is why I’ve ensured privacy." He waves his hand at our surroundings. "And I have absolute trust in the restaurant staff, as well as my security detail. Additionally, I had my security detail ensure you weren’t followed here by anyone else.”

I stare at him. "I’m not sure if I should be impressed by your thoroughness or creeped out by how rigorous you’ve been in thinking through the possibilities."

"One thing you should realize about me... I’m always one step ahead of the obvious," he murmurs.

"One thing you should realize..." I lean forward in my seat. "I’m always thinking ten steps ahead of my rival."

This time, he’s the one who laughs. "Am I your rival?"

"Aren’t you?"

"When it comes to our jobs, yes, we don’t see eye to eye. But I do believe we can use this intense hostility we feel toward each other to our advantage, when it comes to our personal lives."

I tip up my chin. "My personal life is my own business."

"Not anymore. Not since you caught my eye. Not since you can’t stop tracking me with your gaze when we’re in the same space and stalking me online when we’re not."

"I don’t stalk you—" I firm my lips.

He smirks. "That’s what I thought. You’re as obsessed with me as I am with you."

I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up his finger. "Don’t even try to deny it. You and I both know, the fact that we never seem to get along when we meet is more than because we belong to opposing sides. It’s because we are both aware of the other to an extent which is unhealthy."

"I am not going to dignify that statement with a response."

"All you need to do is accept my offer."

"Which is?"

"Let’s fuck it out."