Dating the Rebel Tycoon

He held a hand towards the shimmer of a trillion glass panels covering the irregular array of buildings. ‘Only the most stunning view in existence.’

She stared at it a few moments longer as she nonchalantly tapped her spoon against her mouth. ‘I see little boxes inside big boxes. No air. No light. No charm.’

Cameron shifted on his spot on the toadstool. ‘I am in the business of building the big boxes. Skyscrapers are my game.’

She turned to look at him, resting her chin on her shoulder, a lock of her long, wavy hair swinging gently down her cheek. ‘Sorry.’

‘Apology accepted.’

‘Though…’

‘Yes?’

‘A city is a finite thing. Some day, in the not too distant future, someone like you will come along and tear down your building to make a bigger one. Doesn’t that feel like wasted effort?’

He laughed, right from his gut and out into the soft, dark silence. ‘You sure don’t pull your punches, do you?’

Her cheek lifted into a smile—a smile that made him want to reach out and entwine his fingers in her kinky tresses.

Before he had the chance, she shook her hair back and looked out at the city. ‘Growing up, my only chance at being heard was by having something remarkable to say.’

‘I hear that. Big family?’

‘Like yours, you mean? Ah, no. My mother and I did not ski together, or turn on the City Hall Christmas-tree lights together. My mum cleaned houses and waited tables and took in ironing, and I can’t remember five times we ate dinner together. Much of the time she had other things on her mind.’

She glanced back at him, the reflection of the river creating silver waves in her eyes. And she smiled. No self-pity; no asking for compassion. Only Rosalind Harper just as she was, wide open.

While he sat there, the most mistrustful man on the planet. The secrets he’d kept had led him to play his cards close to his chest his whole life. Hell, he had three accountants so that no one man knew where he kept all his money.

She hid nothing. Not her thoughts, her past, her flaws, her quirks. He wondered what it might feel like to be that transparent. To leave it up to others to take you or leave you.

Oh, he wanted to take her. Badly. But though a level of shared confidence came with them having gone to the same school, and though he was attracted to her to the point of distraction, and though she made him laugh more than any woman he’d ever met, there was nothing he wanted bad enough to make him quit his discretion.

He tightened all the bits of himself that seemed to loosen around her, as he gave as little and as much as he could. ‘Is this where you expect me to try to convince you how difficult my childhood was?’

‘Cameron,’ she said, white puffs of air shooting from her now down-turned lips. ‘I have no expectations of you whatsoever.’

And, just like that, tension pulled tight between them. It was so sudden, so strong, he felt a physical need to lean away, but the invisible thread that had bound them together from the beginning refused to break.

He finally figured out what that thread was.

He’d convinced himself he’d been merrily indulging in an attraction to a pretty girl with a smart mouth. He should have known that wouldn’t be enough to tempt him. He was a serious man, and, beneath the loose Botticelli hair, the uncensored wry wit and carefree, sultry clothes, Rosalind Harper’s serious streak ran as deep as a river.

It would no doubt make for further unpleasant clashes; it would mean continuously avoiding the trap of deep discussions.

Unless he walked away now.

His shoes pressed into the ground, and his body clenched in preparation for pushing away. Then his eyes found hers. Shards of unclouded moonlight sliced through the round silver irises. She had never looked away, never backed down. Who was this woman?

The wind gentled, softened, and took with it a measure of the tension. It tickled at his hair, sending hers flickering across her face. Before he found a reason not to, he reached out and swept it back behind her ear. Her hair was as soft as he’d imagined, kinky and thick and silken.

Her chest rose, her lips parted, her eyes burned. Seconds ago he was ready to walk away. Now he wanted to kiss her so badly he was sure he could already taste her on his tongue. He let his hand drop away.

Rosalind turned back to face the river. She scooped gelato onto her spoon and shoved it into her mouth, as though cooling her own tongue. Then from the corner of her mouth she said, ‘Am I alone in thinking that got a little heated for a bit?’

‘That it did,’ he drawled.

She nodded and let the spoon rattle about in her mouth. ‘That wasn’t me trying to be particularly remarkable.’