Her Bossy Billionaire (Love in London 1)

He glanced out the window and simultaneously smiled and frowned. The frown claimed dominance after a moment. She was in jeans again—absolutely hotter than he remembered—but she was wheeling a giant suitcase behind her and the pack on her back dragged her down, the straps cutting into her fine-boned shoulders. With her flushed cheeks and strained features, she looked hot and bothered. Ironic given that’s how she made him feel. But had she just lugged all this on the Tube? Irritated, he stepped out and took the suitcase handle from her.

“You should have told me you had all this, I’d have picked you up.” He hauled it inside. No wonder she looked fed up, the bag was heavier than an elephant.

“It wouldn’t fit in your car anyway.” She eased the pack off her back and rolled her shoulders.

“It would fit in my other car.”

“Well, I’ve got it here now,” she clipped, carefully looking around the kitchen and avoiding looking at him.

“You’ll be getting more ingredients soon though, right?”

She nodded.

“Then either have them delivered or I’ll collect them.”

She finally met his eyes—firing him a look that spoke volumes. He met it with an equally unwavering one. He wouldn’t apologize for being sensible. Would it hurt her to accept some very minor assistance?

“Okay.” She tore her gorgeous gaze away and looked around the kitchen again. “Is there no one else here?”

“Who else would be here?”

“The bakery owner? Shouldn’t I meet…” she trailed off.

“No need for that,” he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I own the place.”

“The bakery?”

“The building.”

“You own the whole building?” She looked horrified.

He decided not to tell her he owned the two on either side of this one as well. “Don’t worry, I have a really good maintenance team.”

Her color ripened. “You’re going to be here every night to open up for me?”

“And lock up.”

“Am I not to be trusted with a key?”

“Not at this stage.”

“Even though you’ve done all your snooping and know everything about me?”

“It was a quick Google search,” he answered easily. And he didn’t know nearly enough. And he wanted to see more of her. “You didn’t do one on me?”

“No.” She said it like she’d never think of it.

“Really?”

“Does that bruise your ego?” Her eyes kindled—enhancing that smooth skin and fresh-eyed look—the picture of vitality. Maybe there was something in the muesli after all.

He sensed her holding back a laugh and only just suppressed his own. “I’ll live.”

Her smile burst forth and she unzipped her suitcase. It was immaculately packed—plastic bags neatly arranged like a jig-saw puzzle to maximize use of every inch of space. It took five minutes for her to take out what she needed.

Only then did she glance at him again—her smile dying. “Are you staying?”

“Of course.” He went back to his spot at the bench where he had his tablet and phone out.

“I’m not going to set fire to the place if that’s what you’re worried about.”

That wasn’t why he was staying. “Is that what they implied?”

She nodded.

“It must have been horrible being under suspicion.”

“Not as bad as being there.”

“You were there when the fire started?” Goose bumps rippled over his skin.

“I got out, obviously, but I lost lots of things. And there was a lot of toasted muesli,” she quipped.

“It’s not funny.” No wonder she’d frozen in the face of the burned nuts the other day and flipped about the alarm. “Were you hurt at all?”

“No. But I lost my computer.” She looked rueful. “How to learn the ‘always back your stuff up’ lesson the hard way.”

“You lost important data?”

“Photos.”

“No,” he groaned in sympathy. “Can you get copies?”

“For some. Not all.”

He heard the desolate note—she’d lost precious things, memories? Sorry for bringing it up, he sought a way to lighten it. “Have you got a replacement computer yet?”

“Soon.”

“So that’s why you didn’t Google me,” he joked to bring her smile back.

“Yeah,” she went along with it. “And you weren’t worth breaking the ‘no personal Internet use’ rule at work for. So no cyber stalking for me.” She scrubbed her hands and got out several chopping boards and that stupidly small knife. The dried apricot dicing began.

“Why cut by hand?” He pointed out the industrial food processor.

“It’s better chopped by hand. One too many presses of the pulse button of that machine would make it pulp rather than bite-size pieces.”

“But it takes so much time.”

“I have time.”

Really? When she worked full time and ran her business on the side? “Then how do you fit in time for—” He broke off, temporarily blinded by the dangerous glitter in her eyes.

He got the no kisses rule, but did that mean personal talk was a no-go area too? “Your commitment to the circus,” he finished slyly. “Knife throwing and stuff with strong Serge.”

She almost smiled. “I’ve retired from the circus.”

Had she now? Serge too? He reached forward and snaffled one of the dried apricots. “Why’s that? You get hurt by the knife or the strong guy?”

“Why think I was hurt?” She chopped faster, louder. “Maybe it’s just that I’m too busy.”

“Taking all the time to dice dried apricots by hand? That’s not too busy, that’s extreme avoidance.”

“It’s dedication to making the best product I can.”

It was avoidance. Why did she have knife-edged barriers up when she’d been as into that kiss as he had? The incandescent reaction between them was only going to worsen the more they saw each other. It was stronger already—he couldn’t believe it wasn’t the same for her. And he planned to do something about it. Soon.

He didn’t have time to put into a relationship, it wasn’t fair on a girlfriend. And frankly, he knew loss—intimately—and he didn’t want any more of that. Keeping an eye on Tom and Anne was more than enough for his emotional capacity. But what he hadn’t had—in too long—was a little fun. There hadn’t been time. He’d abandoned his degree and gotten on with work, taking over the family art and antiques store. Then he’d bought his first building and refurbished it, spearheading the revitalization of that block and beginning his commercial property portfolio. He’d worked crazy hours. Through half the night while his siblings slept, rousing Tom to go to training in the early hours before snatching a couple of hours sleep before getting his sister up and on track for school. It wasn’t a time he wanted to revisit. He’d been so tired. But he still worked hard, caught in the habit. The drive to achieve and maintain security for his family still pushed him. So there’d only been one-nighters, the briefest of flings despite his increasing business success and security. Frankly there’d been nothing in recent months.

But now Libby Harris had him thinking about fun. All the time. And he knew she was as affected—the flickering eye contact? The flush in her cheeks? The irrepressible smiles?

“How much can you make in a night?” he asked, trying to distract himself.