It just hadn’t been me.
* * *
‘Easy, liten syster,’ Daniel said into his mobile as he pressed the button for the lift to her floor. ‘I’m here now.’
‘Less of the little,’ she snapped, her irritation making her London accent revert to her Swedish lilt and making him grin. ‘Or I’ll start calling you Danny.’
He gave a mock shudder. ‘Quit the strop, then.’
Someone swept up behind him, a scent wrapping around him, vanilla twisted up in something so enticing he was damned if he could place it, and his eyes swerved of their own accord.
‘Strop! You were supposed to be here half an...’
His sister’s voice trailed away into the distance, his sight landing on the woman whose interesting scent had nothing on the visual. He felt his mouth quirk, his interest instant. She was beautiful, in an unusual, edgy kind of way. So not his type, a definite ‘no’ on paper, but when presented with the physical, she was all kinds of yes...
She faced the lift, waiting just as he was, one purple stiletto tapping impatiently, her body encased in a fitted black trouser suit, a leather-clad portfolio hooked under one arm, all quite usual but—
‘Are you listening to me, Dann-eee?’
‘Sure, I’ll be right up,’ he said distractedly, cutting the call and pocketing the device.
It was her hair that fascinated him: cropped to her ears, the reddish-brown mass was parted high to one side, windswept almost. And then there was her make-up, neutral save for the liner around her eyes and the bold lip colour—was that purple?
His gaze narrowed over it and she must have sensed his attention, her eyes flickering in his direction. ‘You know, it’s rude to stare.’
Her voice was husky, a crisp edge that rasped along his spine and sealed her appeal. He was hooked.
Her eyes were back on the doors, her lack of interest obvious. He should’ve taken it as a sign, but since when had he backed off from anything he fancied? In truth, her lack of interest only added to the appeal.
‘Rude?’ he said, raising his brow. ‘I’ve been called many things before—arrogant, reckless, even an arsehole—but rude, not had that one yet.’
Her mouth twitched but she didn’t turn to look at him, the ping of the lift arriving serving as a temporary interruption.
The doors opened and he gestured for her to precede him. ‘See, I’m not entirely rude.’
She looked to him then, her silver-grey eyes sparkling and those bold-coloured lips lifting into a smile that momentarily gutted him. Jesus, she was hot. The bow-like shape stretching and still the lower lip was full—swollen, even—almost as though it had just been thoroughly devoured.
Maybe she’d had to reapply that colour after it had been rubbed clean away. Oh, to be the cause of that little misdemeanour.
‘Thank you.’
It took a second to realise she had spoken, to realise he was staring all over again, and then sanity returned. ‘You’re welcome—which floor?’
He pressed the number for his sister and her thick black lashes lowered to trace his move. ‘The same.’
He nodded and came to stand beside her. The lift closed and together they stood, the silence heavy and loaded—at least to him.
Did she know who he was? Anyone with one eye on the media knew who he was: the sexy, Swedish billionaire who stuck one finger up to his celebrity roots and made it in the real world—the business world—the playboy who liked his women plentiful and hot, and always without strings.
That was pretty much how the article had summed him up that morning before really crucifying him.
Hell, maybe she knew exactly who he was and what he was like, hence her lack of interest.
If that was the case, she definitely wasn’t his type.
Not at all.
Liar...