One Night Only / No Strings. JC Harroway
him alone. Find someone else to rectify her technology issues.
Her footfalls scuffed the gravel of the path.
There was an embarrassed tinkle of laughter.
Right in front of him now.
Close enough for her scent to tickle his nose—light, floral and mixed with the unmistakable smell of sunscreen.
His libido roared anew. Man, would he love to see those curves and that milky skin clad in a bikini and sprawled on a lounger at his holiday place in the Hamptons.
The sexy intruder delicately cleared her throat.
The sweet sound rolled over his out-of-sync senses. Physically, she embodied the epitome of his type. Under other circumstances, he’d turn on the charm, get to know her enough to assess if her persuasion for no-strings sex aligned with his, and pass a satisfactory afternoon between her thighs.
But the last thing he needed right now was an encounter with a woman that beautiful, especially one who awoke his interest to the degree currently rendering him momentarily trapped on the park bench by his tight jeans.
He’d been played in the past—the old, female-inflicted wound recently reopened in the most humiliating and public way being the main reason for his rather hasty departure from New York.
For now, women were categorically off the agenda.
And really, who talked to complete strangers in a city centre park? His appearance today could only be described as dressed down compared to his usual attire of bespoke tailored suits. He’d wanted an escape from the cloying, air-conditioned hotel he’d booked for his first couple of nights in London until the Jacob Holdings apartment had been spring-cleaned. Some fresh air. Green spaces. Anything that helped to reprogram his brain from its current gut-churning cycle of guilt and bile-inducing self-loathing.
So he’d thrown on a T-shirt and his comfortable jeans, both the worse for wear having spent forty-eight hours in a suitcase, forgone shaving off the three days’ worth of scruff and headed outdoors. The casual look was a visual cue that his move to London represented a major change from the norm; a shift from everything he’d lived, breathed and strived for these past ten years: his role in the family business, which was fraught with dysfunctional politics in the hands of his ruthless, manipulative and, as he’d bitterly discovered in the most degrading way, cheating father.
‘Excuse me, are you...okay?’
Ash surrendered to the soothing voice with a sigh that dragged his mind back from the edge of a dark abyss. She wasn’t going to give up. Perhaps she was lost. He didn’t know London that well, but he’d spent enough time here over the years to have a vague sense of direction. Better to hear what she wanted and send her gorgeous ass on its way.
He opened his eyes, forcing his face to exhibit a tight, inquisitive smile instead of the frustration that put his teeth on edge at having the embodiment of feminine temptation literally thrown into his path.
‘Of course. Just enjoying the sun.’
Her answering beam had two opposing effects on his overwrought body: the fullness of her pouty lips direct-messaged his groin with a slug of not wholly unwelcome blood-pounding heat, and her open, friendly stare twitched his shoulders up several notches until his muscles cramped. Were all English women this naive? This trusting? For a man who trusted no one, she was a complete mystery.
‘Oh, good. I don’t suppose I could ask for a favour...?’ She waggled her dead phone in front of his face. ‘My phone just died.’
‘Okay... Are you lost?’
Give her some damn directions and watch her groan-worthy legs walk away.
But then his view would be far less appealing.
Another megawatt smile warmed his insides and made him think of childhood trips to Coney Island.
‘No. I wondered if you could take a picture for me.’ She pointed at the view of the London Eye in the distance. ‘On your phone...and perhaps...send it to me?’ Her voice wavered and she curled some escaped strands of hair at her nape around her index finger.
His expression must have been comical. Had he woken up in some parallel universe or was her friendliness some sort of ancient British ritual? Did he care if it meant a few more seconds surreptitiously eyeing her glorious body and fantasising about her naked under him?
Ash shifted, discreetly readjusting himself in his pants as he allowed his gaze to properly take in every inch of porcelain beauty. Up close, she was stunning. Flawless creamy skin, enormous sky-blue eyes and a charming dusting of copper freckles across her slightly upturned nose. And on first impressions—the embodiment of a sunny disposition.
And if she wanted a photo, she was clearly a tourist. Perhaps this was her last day in London?
Another point to his libido.
As if matching his interest, she flicked her stare over him from head to toe, skimming over his creased tee and well-worn jeans and flooding his body with heat to rival the summer sun. Was she flirting?
‘Sure,’ he said.
Why not? He could surely oblige her with a photo and perhaps anything else she might want. He lifted one eyebrow as her eyes returned to his face. Bright spots of red appeared on her high cheekbones as she straightened the charming little head tilt she’d employed while checking him out. Yes, perhaps she was exactly what he needed... A little help with his current hard-on predicament. She seemed to share his physical interest. Perhaps that would cure his mind-numbing restlessness and get his usual focus back on track.
The tension snapped with her tinkling laughter. Ash grinned back. At least she owned her flagrant sexual curiosity in him—how refreshing. He reassessed her age—perhaps she wasn’t as sweet as she looked. She flicked her ponytail, sunny smile back in place.
He shifted on the bench, fishing his phone from his back pocket. The angle of the sun meant her dress was practically see-through from his position. Should he tell her? Or just enjoy her shapely silhouette? Imagine those long legs wrapped around his waist...
No.
His mind zapped to ancient history come back to haunt him. His recent discovery of the lengths his ex had gone to in order to deceive him, and the depth of that lie, only confirmed his stand on the opposite sex. He was done with women, unless they, like him, wanted one thing only and understood the rules.
The weathered wooden rungs of the bench creaked as she sat next to him. ‘You’re American, aren’t you?’
He nodded and then looked away from her open, earnest face. At least this woman couldn’t be interested in the prestige and power of his family name or his considerable personal fortune, dressed the way he was. She couldn’t know his family owned half of Manhattan and a sizeable chunk of London. She couldn’t guess he’d come to London to distance himself from his ‘real estate tycoon’ reputation—as well as from the ruthless deception by one family member in particular. Not unless she read the society pages of the New York Times.
He tasted bile. How could his father do that to him? To his own son? Making a mockery of the years of professional loyalty Ash had given the family business? Fuck—did he have ‘trusting schmuck’ stamped across his forehead?
The sexy stranger didn’t seem aware of his inner turmoil. She turned her body to face him so her bare knees bumped his denim-clad thigh, eyes alight. ‘London is an amazing city, isn’t it? Have you seen Buckingham Palace? It’s just over there.’ She pointed over her shoulder, warming to her change of subject and speaking with dizzying speed in her excitement about the tourist attractions the city had to offer.
‘And do you know about the Seven Noses of Soho? I’m scouting them out today. Fun fact...’ She pointed towards the small lake in the park. ‘Did you know the pelicans were a gift from a Russian ambassador to King Charles the second in 1664?’
She talked so quickly, her charming accent distorting