An Heir for the World's Richest Man

It was what she needed to keep her from falling for temptation again.

So why did it bruise her heart so badly?

* * *

Exiting the penthouse, Saffie wrestled quaking fingers into functionality long enough to summon the lift and stumble into it, before her legs gave way and she sagged against the polished mirror, her breaths coming in frantic little pants.

Dear God...

The way he’d commanded her body. The way she’d thrilled to all of it.

She swallowed, feeling another fierce blush heat up her face as her hand went to her throat, caressing the skin as if it would soothe the rawness that echoed in her head from her loss of control.

She’d fallen into each caress, each kiss, like a sex-starved lover, eagerly welcoming her paramour, offering herself to him on a silver platter.

Her breath shook out.

She had no business experiencing the awe trawling through her. Not when she’d finally understood over the past two days just how much the Archer deal meant to him. Not when she now suspected the reason for the absence of a new lover in his life stemmed from his zeal to win the Archer deal.

So, she could’ve been any of the supermodels or socialites he usually dated, a way to slake his needs without the tedium of wining and dining a new paramour.

Just like that night in Marrakesh, she’d been there, available and willing. Simply a warm body gracing his bed until he worked her out of his system while ensuring she stayed put to play her part in his business deal.

The thought tossed a cold wave at her, restoring a little of her shattered equilibrium.

From the start, Joao had represented a heady but temporary thrill. She just needed to remind herself of that, perhaps a little more forcefully and constantly so this feeling of transcendence, this foolish quaking of her heart would cease.

Despite the admonition, heat rushed to her core in remembrance of how he’d touched her, her belly clenching with cloying hunger.

Desperately suppressing it, she threw herself into the last items on her to-do list.

By the time Joao came downstairs she was at her desk. She sensed him prowling his office, her awareness of him almost superhuman as her frayed senses refused to settle.

‘You didn’t tell me how the session with the stylist went.’

She jumped, unaware he’d been standing in the doorway.

Whisky-dark eyes surveyed her with deceptively lazy focus, the espresso cup held between long, tapered fingers.

The dark trousers and burgundy shirt he wore highlighted his superb musculature. A warm, tight body she’d explored less than an hour ago.

Saffie’s pulse tripped and she scrambled to think straight. Then decided against pointing out that their conversation when she’d returned from her outing had been anything but affable. Or that he’d never shown an interest in her stylist sessions before today. ‘It went fine. No hiccups,’ she said briskly.

His jaw clenched for a taut moment before he nodded. ‘Bom.’

He remained in the doorway. And, unwitting fool that she was, Saffie’s gaze flicked to his. She attempted to read his expression. Felt her stomach drop when she read nothing but neutral, professional interest.

As silently as he’d appeared, Joao retreated.

And then proceeded to make demand after impatient demand, as if determined to recoup every minute of the time they’d spent in that illicit embrace.

For the first time in her life, Saffie found herself clock-watching. And grabbing her bag the moment the clock struck nine.

He had the phone to his ear when she poked her head through the door, although those piercing eyes locked on her and narrowed as she indicated she was leaving. When he made to pause the conversation, Saffie waved him away.

And fled.

On a wild whim, she instructed the personal driver Joao had hired for her to take her home to Chiswick.