Tycoon's Terms of Engagement. Natalie Anderson
voice interrupted just behind her.
Stephanie’s heart sank. But her already tense muscles braced even more. She’d known it—the accent had warned her. She just hadn’t wanted to be right.
She smiled her thanks to the receptionist, but the woman wasn’t paying her any attention—she was too busy making eyes at the man who’d spoken.
Yeah, he was like that—vacuuming up the sexual attention of every woman in the vicinity.
Quelling the nerves churning her stomach, Stephanie turned to face him.
The Wolfe Guides were geared towards the independent traveller. Those infinitely cool types who managed to travel around fifteen countries for nine months with only a small backpack on their backs and yet looked hip and stylish every step of the way. But Jack Wolfe wasn’t in a quick-dry shirt. He wore a made-to-measure, made-to-perfection suit. And he definitely had to have chosen the shirt to complement his eyes and make their blue even more blindingly brilliant.
‘You look exactly as you do in your blog profile, Ms Leigh.’ He didn’t make it sound as if it was a good thing.
So he’d recognised her and had still looked at her with such cold dismissal? Nice.
‘Please call me Steffi,’ she invited with crisp politeness, extending her hand. She’d start over. Pretend that intense moment had never happened. Ignore his rudeness.
‘Not Steffi Leigh?’ He took her hand in a firm grip.
‘Just Steffi is fine.’
A pulse of energy shot into her fingers and up her arm, making her glad of the gloves. Because even through the cotton she could feel the warmth and strength of him and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his. It had been too long since she’d looked such a handsome man in the eye. Okay, she’d never actually seen such a handsome man in real life before.
She’d never actually gone weak at the knees before either.
It was nerves, right? Or some Neanderthal woman instinct—to be drawn to the most powerful male in the room… She could use her brain better than this.
Tara had been wrong. This man was dangerous.
‘Is Steffi short for Stephanie?’ he asked.
She nodded, withdrawing her hand as quickly as she could. No one called her Stephanie now, aside from her brother. And only then when he was mad with her. Which was, unfortunately, quite often.
‘Stephanie is a lovely name,’ he said. But the chill in his voice undermined any chance his comment had of being a compliment.
And what, exactly, was he implying about her pseudonym, then? Stephanie ground her teeth even as she maintained her smile and channelled her alter ego.
Steffi Leigh always acted as if anyone could be wrapped around her little finger. Just because this guy looked as if he was made from titanium, it didn’t mean she couldn’t pretend.
‘Shall we snap a selfie to record the moment?’ She forced a laugh. In terms of coming up with content, getting pictures for her social media accounts nearly killed her—this would be a good one.
‘No.’
Flat. Uncompromising. Unimpressed.
Way to start, Steffi. She nibbled the inside of her cheek, momentarily set back. But the ‘Steffi Leigh’ scene was what he wanted, right? This was the deal—the personality and pop culture vibe was what he wanted to buy.
‘No? I’ll go solo, then.’ She wasn’t going to let him crush her. She held out her phone and quickly took a shot. She’d never use it, but he didn’t need to know that.
‘You do that often?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘I do whatever it takes.’ She smiled at him, refusing to hear the sarcastic, slightly improper thread to his question. ‘My followers enjoy my pictures.’
Most of her pictures didn’t actually feature her—usually she put together some quirky set piece with a new product, or made a meme to amuse.
‘Are you going to spend the next two hours tweaking the image with filters and Photoshop?’ he asked.
‘I don’t do that either. Most of my photos are unfiltered.’
He looked at her—another slow appraisal, up and down. ‘Yes. That I can believe. You obviously took the two hours to apply filters in real life.’
Actually, that wasn’t far from the truth. Her perfectly blended layers of concealer, foundation, blusher, powder and eyeshadow had taken Tara almost two hours, and Stephanie was sure it was melting off already.
What was this guy’s beef? Why be so pointed when he was the one who’d requested this meeting? But she was the one who needed it. So she had to play nice.
‘You got me.’ Determinedly she kept smiling up at him from between thickly mascaraed lashes.
‘What do you look like without it?’
‘Even more amazing,’ she flipped back at him, unable to stop her irritation sparking.
‘I’d like to see that.’
Never going to happen.
She glared at him, her eyes locking with his. And, even though she hadn’t voiced it, she was certain he knew exactly what she was thinking. He thought she was some painted-up doll and an airhead to boot.
Patronising jerk.
But suddenly, finally, the man smiled.
Stephanie almost gasped in shock as another bolt of electricity kicked through her. If she’d thought him attractive in a ruthless kind of way before, now he was just meltingly gorgeous. He looked younger, more fun, more mischievous. Yeah. Total personality transplant.
It might have been better if he’d stayed icy and unimpressed.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve been abrupt,’ he said. And he was still totally abrupt, but with that winning smile it didn’t seem so rude. ‘I was distracted when you first arrived.’
Yeah, and she needed distraction now.
Think, brain. Think.
Then she remembered she’d made a plan. She’d known there was no way she was going to manage sitting across a table from him for three hours. Steffi Leigh only did twenty-second intros, then used what was around her—products, lists, the totally random—to fill in the time. So she was going to take Jack Wolfe on tour.
‘No problem—no one’s perfect,’ she said smoothly, still inwardly stunned by his apology. ‘Look, here comes Tara.’ She gestured towards the slim woman walking towards them, mentally muttering thanks to the heavens. ‘She’s my assistant.’
But Jack didn’t look at Tara. He kept his too blue eyes on her.
‘We’re kidnapping you,’ Stephanie added brightly.
‘You’re kidnapping me.’ He glanced down at her dress again. Then looked at himself. Raised one eyebrow. ‘You have chloroform with you?’
So there was a size difference. A huge one. But her being small didn’t mean she didn’t have strength. Or cunning.
‘Charm is more effective.’ She smiled.
‘Charm, you say?’ A gleam lit in his eye. ‘I’m not sure I’d call what you have charm.’
Stephanie’s blood heated, but she refused to rise to the bait and ask what it was he did think she had. Not going to do it. And she was not going to respond to his low, alarmingly sexy chuckle either.
‘Tara’s our chauffeur for the afternoon,’ she told him. Chauffeur, make-up diva, sidekick. Saviour.
‘Sorry