The Billionaire’s Dirty Little Secret

MASON FOXX STOOD at the eighty-foot-long champagne bar, carved out of a single piece of mahogany, and nursed a lukewarm glass of 1959 Dom Perignon. He gazed at the guests making pointless small talk and gorging themselves on the free cordon bleu canapés in the cavernous warehouse space below, decked out in fake greenery to launch a male fragrance which smelled like mould, in his humble opinion.

The former power station on the South Bank of the River Thames had been gutted and rehabbed a few years ago, and eventually converted into this stunning entertainment venue.

His lips quirked in wry amusement. Funny to think this ultra-modern, minimalist palace of steel and concrete was within spitting distance of the hole where he’d grown up.

He rubbed his thumb over the scar on his eyebrow—a habitual gesture which reminded him of his childhood, and how hard he’d fought to ensure he never ended up back in that hole again.

His smile became tinged with contempt.

Not one of these pampered narcissists knew what it was like to fight for every single thing you needed to survive. Then again, the hotel empire he had worked his backside off to create came with social commitments like this one, which were nowhere near as much of an adrenaline rush as living by your wits on the mean streets of Bermondsey. Truth was, he’d almost rather be getting a kicking at The Dog and Duck—where fortunes had changed hands faster than the packets of little pills with smiley faces on—than sipping overpriced bubbles, bored out of his skull.

Of course, The Dog and Duck had been bulldozed ten years ago, and Bermondsey was now as gentrified as the rest of Southwark, while the villains he’d been terrified of as a boy were all banged up or dead. But at least those criminals had personality, unlike the array of dull, talentless nepo babies, corporate suits and limelight hoggers who turned up at these events like clockwork.

He placed the fancy flute on the bar. Time to head back to the empty penthouse suite he kept at The Foxx Grand in Belgravia, or his equally soulless loft apartment at Foxx Suites overlooking Tower Bridge, if he was getting sentimental about the bad old days—and the villains who had once made his life a misery.

‘Would you like a fresh glass, sir?’ the eager-to-please young barman asked.

‘No, thanks, mate, I’m driving. And don’t call me sir,’ he replied.

The kid blushed and let out a forced laugh. But then the barman’s eyes widened as he caught sight of something over Mason’s left shoulder.

‘Wow,’ the boy murmured, his expression awestruck. ‘She’s even more stunning in the flesh.’

Mason turned, expecting to be underwhelmed by whoever the kid was staring at.

He’d dated his fair share of stunning women, and in his experience looks were overrated—because they often came with zero personality. But then he spotted her too.

His mind blanked and his heartbeat slowed—then ramped up to about five thousand beats per second. Stunning didn’t even begin to cover it.

In a fragile, floaty sky-blue gown which clung to her subtle curves and sparkled in the million and one fairy lights which lit the warehouse’s exclusive balcony bar, the girl had the sort of regal beauty guys a lot classier than he was would once have written sonnets about.

He wondered if her skin could be as soft and luscious as it appeared.

The urge to plunge his fingers into the blonde curls perched on top of her head in an expertly constructed hairdo kicked him in the gut.

What the hell?

He shoved his fists into his trousers pockets. He might be more than happy to indulge his baser instincts, but even he had never wanted a woman with this much intensity at first sight. He didn’t like it, because it reminded him of the feral kid he’d once been—always on the outside looking in at other people’s perfect lives.

Her gaze coasted towards him, almost as if she could sense him watching her from the other side of the bar. And he got an eyeful of her delicate, perfectly symmetrical features.

Damn.

Her face was as striking as the rest of her. Her bone structure was like a work of art while the smoky gunk around her eyes made them look huge... And strangely guileless.

Which had to be an act. No woman who carried herself with such effortless sensuality would be unaware of the challenge her I’m-too-perfect-to-touch appearance would present to every heterosexual bloke in the place.

Her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips in a nervous gesture which would have been endearing if it weren’t so hot.

It had the desired effect though, directing his voracious gaze to her mouth. Her plump, dewy lips glistened, and looked so kissable his throat became drier than the Gobi Desert.

He swallowed and sucked in a breath, annoyed to realise the rush of blood draining below his belt was making him lightheaded. But despite his disintegrating brain power, or maybe because of it, he could not stop staring.

But then those big doe eyes widened as her gaze finally connected with his, and she jolted.

What was that about? However goddess-like she appeared, surely she couldn’t read his filthy mind from twenty paces? Before he could decide how to react—still spellbound by her artless beauty—she turned and disappeared.

For several heartbeats he stood like a dummy, staring at the place where she’d been, trying to figure out if she had been real—or a figment of his sex-starved imagination. He hadn’t dated for over a month, after all. Not since Della had started making noises about moving in with him.

‘Wow,’ the barman whispered. ‘Why do they call her the Ice Queen when she’s so hot?’

‘Who is she?’ Mason demanded, wishing for once he took an interest in celebrity gossip.

‘Th... That’s Beatrice Medford,’ the guy stuttered. ‘Lord Henry Medford’s daughter.’

Medford’s daughter? Seriously? He knew Medford, in passing. He’d met the guy a couple of times at the exclusive Mayfair club Mason had joined a few years back, mostly just to piss off the posh nobs who hung out there. The man was a pompous ass who had inherited a fortune and then lost most of it... Because he wouldn’t know a good investment if it sucker-punched him in the gut.

How could a woman that stunning have come from Medford’s inbred gene pool?

‘She’s also Jack Wolfe’s sister-in-law,’ the barman supplied. ‘They were engaged a few years ago, but he ended up marrying her older sister, Katherine, of Cariad Cakes. It was all over the tabloids,’ the barman finished, falling over himself to answer Mason’s question.

Mason stared some more at the empty spot across the bar.

Wolfe. He knew Jack Wolfe a lot better than Medford. They came from similar working class backgrounds. And, like Mason, Wolfe was smart and ambitious and a ruthless businessman. Or at least he had been, until he’d got married and had a kid, and softened right up.

He’d met Wolfe’s wife too. And while the woman had an earthy, voluptuous, force of nature kind of beauty, which had obviously enslaved Wolfe, Mason would not have put Katherine Wolfe in the same gene pool as the goddess he’d just stripped naked with his thoughts either.

‘Is that right?’ he said to the barman, with an insouciance he didn’t feel. Desire was still pumping through him in a way he hadn’t felt in far too long. Maybe right back to when he’d been a teenager and had craved the kind of human contact he’d only ever found in sex.

The thought made him uneasy.

So, the goddess was a daughter of the aristocracy. If she were priceless antique porcelain, that would make him the knock-off kitchenware you could buy in bulk at any South London street market.

It figured. That had to be where the regal grace came from—wealth, privilege and a sense of superiority he had always found a pain in the arse.

Then again, it had been a long time since he’d enjoyed the thrill of the chase and maybe knocking a princess off her pedestal would salvage this evening’s entertainment.

Strolling over to the balcony, he searched the crowd. He spotted her instantly, her blonde hair like a beacon.

The warehouse lights dimmed and a world-famous DJ opened his set from a stage at the far end of the cavernous space.

Mason headed down the winding metal staircase leading to the dancefloor, already full of people moving to the beat. The music pulsed, while multi-coloured lasers slashed through plumes of artificial smoke, ramping up the throb of anticipation in his gut.

Of course, it was doubtful he’d still want Medford’s untouchable daughter after having a conversation with her—given his low tolerance for snooty society princesses—but there was only one way to find out.

He spotted the blonde chignon taking the stairs opposite him. Was she heading for the exit? So soon?

Not so fast, love...

Who was that guy? Looking at me as if he wanted to gobble me up in a few greedy bites...

Beatrice Medford lifted the hem of her designer gown and shot up the stairs towards the first-floor balcony.

She really ought to be outraged. Bar Guy’s gaze had roamed over her body with an insolent entitlement she’d never encountered before. Men usually gazed at her with awe, or adoration. Because all they ever saw was the sheen of class, the shield of respectability, the sexless and untouchable grace which was all part of the façade her father had created.

But she hadn’t been outraged at all—if she were being entirely honest with herself, what she’d actually been was...well, turned on.

Which was seriously weird for two reasons: she didn’t get turned on by male attention. Because she got enough of it to know it had no real connection to who she was inside. And also because she had no desire to even be here, wearing this far too revealing dress and uncomfortable five-inch heels, simply because her father had demanded it of her.

She shouldn’t have let him bully her into ‘being seen’ at tonight’s event. Because she knew exactly what his decision to hire her a stylist and a designer gown at vast expense and demand she come to the Cascade Scent launch was really all about. It was just another of Henry Medford’s increasingly desperate attempts to shore up his flagging finances by hooking his daughter up with the nearest eligible billionaire.

This afternoon, in his study, he’d even given her a shortlist of men he thought it would be suitable for her to ‘engage with’ tonight—his cold, assessing glare raking over her with a chilling mix of calculation and contempt. If that hadn’t been enough of a wake-up call to his demeaning intentions, his preposterous list had included a three times divorced investment banker who was older than he was, and a boutique hotel magnate who’d dragged himself out of a notorious South London council estate and was well known for dating and dumping beautiful women with the same ruthless efficiency he’d acquired his property portfolio,

Gee, thanks, Daddy, why not tell me you’re pimping me out without telling me you’re pimping me out?

She sighed as she reached one of the venue’s many secret bars and gazed at the throng of gyrating bodies blocking her route to the exit.

She should have told her father to take a hike this time. The way her sister Katie had been suggesting she do for years. Instead of allowing herself to be parcelled up like a mannequin in shoes that made her arches ache and a practically transparent dress and deposited at an event where she would rather fade into the high-end furnishings than ‘engage with’ one of the men her father had suggested, who were no doubt just like him.

As if one unconscionable overbearing bastard in her life wasn’t enough!

She’d been terrified of her father once... Back when she was twelve years old and she’d watched him rant and rave and kick her sixteen-year-old sister out of the house. It still disgusted Bea that she had done not one thing to help Katie, because she’d been too busy cowering in a corner with her hands over her ears, pretending to be invisible.

But she’d discovered in the past few years, ever since she’d asked Katie to dump the fiancé her father had lined up for her—because Bea had been completely overwhelmed by Jack Wolfe’s forceful personality—and then watched her brilliant, beautiful and entirely independent sister make a life with Wolfe instead, it was past time she got a life of her own.

Which meant no longer kowtowing to her father’s agenda—or relying on his money.

She wasn’t terrified of him any more—and she had options now. She’d spent the last two years, on the afternoons she was supposed to be at the beauticians or the gym or ‘lunching’ with the ‘friends’ she had never really liked from her finishing school in Lausanne, attending classes which Katie had paid for. She had a natural ability for learning languages, her ear attuned to the nuances of pronunciation, her mind fascinated by the intricacies of grammar and verb constructions. And she hoped one day to make a career out of her skill. Although she hadn’t quite figured out how yet.

Katie, of course, had also offered her a place to stay with her and Jack and their toddler son, Luca, at their home in Mayfair. But there was only so much of Katie’s charity Bea could accept without destroying what was left of her pride.

Unfortunately, knowing she had no intention of attracting the nearest billionaire so he could shore up her father’s ailing finances tonight was a lot easier than saying no to him...

She would find a way out from under her father’s influence eventually, she told herself staunchly. But she had to do it under her own steam. Unfortunately, planning and thinking and then overthinking her options was one of Bea’s super powers. Taking direct action, not so much.

She edged through the bar full of ravers getting into the groove on the throbbing retro disco beat.

Case in point: she’d totally convinced herself, while sitting in her father’s leased car being driven to this event, that she would seduce the first unsuitable guy she met to show her father her love life was not his concern and manipulating it not a sound investment strategy. But as soon as Bar Guy had managed to kick-start a sex drive she didn’t even know she had with one searing I-want-to-see-you-naked look, she’d totally lost her nerve.

Fabulous. So much for Bea the man-killer! More like Bea the virgin prevaricator.

No wonder her father thought her love life was still his to control, when she’d never had a proper boyfriend, except Jack Wolfe—and she hadn’t even had the guts or the inclination to sleep with him before she’d got Katie to ditch him by proxy.

It would actually be mortifying she was still a virgin at twenty-two, still living at home and still relying on her father to support her—because learning five different languages without finding a way to make a living from them didn’t count—if it weren’t so pathetic.

She reached the other side of the bar and entered another long corridor.

Why had Bar Guy’s searingly hot look had her flight instinct kicking in this time?

Because his attention had seemed different from other men she’d dated?

He was very handsome, in a rough, rugged sort of way, his tall, muscular frame perfectly displayed in the expertly tailored designer suit as he dominated the bar. But it was the dark knowledge in his gaze which had disturbed her the most—burning over every inch of exposed skin and making her pulse points pound in unison with her accelerating heartrate.

That hot look had been so exhilarating and its effect on her so surprising—because wow, she actually had a libido. But then his attention had become too exhilarating, and felt like far too...much.

She slowed her pace, still breathless but more than a little annoyed now with her latest display of total capitulation.

Bar Guy hadn’t approached her. He hadn’t really even acknowledged her. All he’d done was look.

So why are you running away from him, exactly?

Was this just another instance of her failure to stand her ground? And engage with life.

She gathered some deep breaths into her burning lungs to calm the sensations pulsing in her abdomen when a figure appeared at the end of the corridor.

Her heartbeat jumped, then shot to warp speed as he walked towards her.

Him.

Had he followed her?

‘Hello there, Beatrice,’ he murmured, the rumble of amusement almost as disturbing as the sensations now throbbing in time with the bass beat from below. ‘What’s the hurry?’

He stopped in front of her, close enough for her to detect the scent of laundry detergent and sandalwood over the aroma of sweat and stale liquor from the bar behind.

How tall was he? Because at five foot eight, she didn’t usually have to look up to guys. But even in her skyscraper heels, he had a good few inches on her.

‘How do you know my name? Do I know you?’ she asked, then wanted to kick herself.

Why did she sound so pompous and defensive? Of course he knew her—most people did after her break-up with Jack two years ago. Because her former fiancé’s whirlwind marriage to her sister a few months later had been forensically examined by every celebrity gossip column and blog from here to Timbuktu.

His sensual lips twisted into an ironic semblance of a smile.

‘We haven’t been formally introduced,’ he said, although she’d already figured that out, because if she had met him, no way would she have forgotten him. ‘But, according to the barman,’ he added, ‘you’re the Medford Ice Queen.’

She winced. ‘You have no idea how much I hate that name,’ she shot back. Especially as, for once, it couldn’t be further from the truth. She felt as if she were about to spontaneously combust.

He chuckled, a deep rusty sound which reverberated in her torso.

‘Yeah, I’m not surprised,’ he murmured. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

Heat mottled her cheeks. But before she had a chance to respond to that comment, he added, ‘Why did you run off like that?’

She frowned, mortified. How did he know their non-encounter in the bar opposite had spooked her? She might be a virgin, but she was usually an expert at faking the aloof sex goddess act... Just ask the celebrity hack who had crowned her the Medford Ice Queen.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ The lie would have been more convincing if she hadn’t shivered involuntarily when she said it, and the industrial-strength blush hadn’t spread up to her hairline.

One scarred eyebrow lifted. ‘Sure you do,’ he said. ‘Did I freak you out?’

‘I... I wasn’t freaked out,’ she scoffed, or tried to, not easy when her heart was now jammed between her thighs and busy doing the rumba.

The sarcastic smile only looked more assured.

She was so totally busted.

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she soldiered on, attempting to climb out of the massive pit of embarrassment she’d dug for herself.

Perhaps shut up now, Bea, you’re protesting way too much.

She pursed her lips.

‘Then let me introduce myself,’ he said smoothly. ‘Mason Foxx.’

Foxx? Where had she heard that name before?

But then it registered. He was the rough diamond hotel magnate who had hit number one on her father’s Billionaires to Pimp Bea Out to Tonight shortlist.

Shock was swiftly followed by another nuclear blush to lay over the first. Unfortunately, discovering his identity didn’t dim the endorphin rush in the least.

She studied the hand he’d offered by way of introduction. His fingers were long and surprisingly elegant, despite the scars on his knuckles. The tattoo of a bird of prey in flight etched across the back was even more intriguing.

She cleared her throat and shook his hand, because it would be rude not to.

‘Bea Medford,’ she mumbled, the feel of his work-roughened palm making yet more intoxicating sensations streak up her arm.

‘Bea, huh? That doesn’t suit you either,’ he said, with way too much familiarity.

But she was already getting the impression Mr Foxx didn’t stand on ceremony much.

‘Well, it’s been a pleasure, Mr Foxx,’ she said, trying for dismissive—but not remotely pulling it off thanks to the streak now sprinting from her arm into her breasts.

She tugged her hand free.

‘Has it really?’ he asked, not buying her I-am-so-not-affected-by-your-nearness act. ‘Because I got the impression you would rather injure yourself than make my acquaintance from the way you sprinted off in those ankle-breakers,’ he said, glancing at her heels.

‘Which begs the question why did you follow me?’ she managed, the streak now heading straight for her panties.

‘You admit it then,’ he said. ’I did spook you in the bar.’

‘I’m so not answering that question on the grounds it will totally incriminate me.’

He laughed, the twinkle in his dark eyes full of genuine amusement for the first time. It had a weird effect on the rumba in her panties, which rose to wrap around her ribs. Why did she get the impression he didn’t laugh often, and very rarely without that sarcastic edge?

He dropped his head to one side, his all-seeing gaze searing her cheeks, but this time it didn’t disturb her, it only excited her. Which disturbed her even more.

‘Why did I freak you out?’ he asked again, the tone of his voice managing to be both coaxing and curious.

She shrugged and looked at her heels, trying to buy some time.

How on earth did she answer that? When she didn’t know the answer herself.

She flexed her toes, aware of the pain in her feet.

On impulse, she eased her sore feet out of the shoes. Relief came first, followed by the sudden sense of freedom—and a single moment of devastating clarity.

She didn’t have to be the Medford Ice Queen, or her father’s puppet—any more than she had to wear the painful heels his stylist had chosen to ‘engage’ the interest of this man.

‘That’s better,’ she sighed. ‘High heels are the work of the Devil.’

The heady pulse in her abdomen accelerated when she looked up to discover she’d just increased his height advantage by another five inches.

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he said. ‘I hardly ever wear them.’

She laughed, because the comment was so incongruous. From the little she knew about Mason Foxx, the last thing she would have expected him to be was remotely charming or self-deprecating.

But then he skimmed a knuckle under her chin to tip her face up.

A sizzle of awareness shot through her as his eyes narrowed.

‘Why won’t you answer my question?’ he said, the mocking light dying—as if her answer mattered but he wasn’t expecting to like it. ‘Why did you run away from me?’

She stepped back, and he let his hand drop. But something about the tiny glimpse of vulnerability had her blurting out the truth. ‘Because when you looked at me, I really liked it.’

Fire flashed in his eyes, then echoed in her sex. Alarmingly. Strictly speaking, his identity should have been a massive turn-off. But, judging from the streak now doing the macarena in her panties, that wasn’t happening.

‘And that’s a problem, why, exactly?’ he asked with the directness of a man who knew what he wanted and had no qualms about going after it.

His arrogance was intoxicating, though, because it spoke of a confidence she had always lacked. And suddenly she didn’t want to be that gutless princess any more, who wore uncomfortable shoes because her father demanded it.

Or the Medford Ice Queen, scared of her own desires.

Or the woman who would rather second-guess herself a thousand times than step outside her comfort zone.

Or the girl who had been so averse to any form of confrontation for so long she’d ended up at this event, primed to attract this man for her father’s benefit instead of her own.

Her father wasn’t here.

He never had to know she’d met Foxx and had found him... Extremely hot. So why on earth did it matter whether Foxx was at the top of his hit-list?

Mason Foxx was the first man to ever make her feel this fizzy, sparky, delicious awareness. How could she ever make a life for herself, take command of her future, if she didn’t even have the courage to own her own libido?

The way he clearly did.

‘I guess it’s not a problem,’ she found herself saying. ‘Per se.’

‘Per se?’ he said, that mocking eyebrow shooting back up his forehead. But the devilishly naughty light dancing in his dark eyes only tempted her more, to do something so daring, so shocking, so wicked, it might finally dynamite her out of her comfort zone for good—and turn her into a woman as bold and brave and cool as Katie.

Go for it, Bea. After all, where has staying within your comfort zone ever got you but doing your father’s dirty work in really uncomfortable shoes?

’What does the per se mean?’ he teased.

‘It means it’s not a problem if you like me too,’ she managed.

Then cringed. Did that sound too forward? Too desperate? Too needy? Perhaps she should have taken lessons in flirting as well as languages, because she clearly had no clue how to throw herself at a guy with any degree of finesse.

But then the mocking light in his eyes died, to be replaced by something a great deal more volatile... And even more compelling.

Had she shocked this unshockable man? And why did that feel so powerful?

He placed his hand on the wall above her head, trapping her in the space. His gaze roamed over her, and she had the vague thought she had unleashed a force she had no idea how to handle.

But rather than scaring her, his thorough perusal felt exhilarating. Especially when she spotted the edge of another tattoo against the open collar of his shirt—and saw his pulse throbbing heavily in his neck. He was exhilarated too.

She gulped down the ball of heat forming in her throat as he leant closer and whispered against her earlobe.

’FYI, I want to kiss you senseless right now, Beatrice. And there’s no per se about it.’

She choked out a raw laugh, the confidence she’d struggled to locate for so long firing through her system like a drug. She lifted her arms and clasped his broad shoulders. Then ran her fingernails across his nape, thrilled by his shudder of response.

‘FYI,’ she whispered back as she pulled his head down to hers. ‘Why don’t you, then?’

He chuckled. And she felt like a superhero, before his mouth found hers...

His tongue slid across her lips, caressing, insistent. She opened for him instinctively, her heart punching her ribs in sharp staccato beats as his tongue thrust deep, exploring, exploiting, devastating...

The adrenaline kick throbbed between her thighs and her breasts swelled. She arched her back, desperate to alleviate the vicious ache in her nipples.

His fingers thrust into her hair, to hold her steady for the delicious torment. She’d never been kissed before with such hunger, such purpose, such determination and demand. And it was staggering and scary and mind-blowing all at once. But as her tongue tangled with his and she kissed him back with equal fervour, the passion locked inside her for so long burst free. And every thought bar one went up in smoke.

The Medford Ice Queen is toast at last.

Mason dragged his mouth from Beatrice Medford’s lips, his pulse pounding ten to the dozen and the desire flowing through his system threatening to affect his ability to walk.

He searched the woman’s stunning face in the shadows, saw the dazed expression in the pale blue of her irises as her eyes opened. Triumph and adrenaline hurtled through his body.

She had been as blown away by that kiss as he had.

There was nothing he enjoyed more than the unexpected. And Beatrice Medford, the Ice Queen with the artless smile and the hottest lip action this side of the universe, was the unexpected on steroids.

He cradled her cheek, ran his thumb over her translucent skin.

Yup, as soft and luscious at it looks.

She jolted, her skin blazing, and he grinned.

Wow, she was so responsive it was actually kind of ridiculous—and strangely endearing. Even though those wide innocent eyes had to be an act—because no one was this transparent, especially not a society princess who kissed with so much passion.

‘How about a drink?’ he murmured, framing her face in his palms, unable to stop touching her skin, the texture so fine, so delicate. He gathered a ragged breath and captured a delicious vanilla scent which was sweet and sultry and addictive all at once. ‘At the bar opposite,’ he added.

The last thing he wanted was to take her where people could see them, but the pressing need to cool down before he exploded was at the forefront of his mind—and stripping her naked in a nightclub corridor was probably out.

But if she didn’t stop staring at him with the sheen of passion dilating her pupils to black, he was not going to be able to walk very far.

She licked her lips, making the pain pulse in his groin.

‘Could we...? Could we go somewhere private?’ she said.

His mind blanked for a second. And the pain surged.

It was the last thing he’d expected her to say. But then she’d been much more forthright than he’d anticipated already.

‘How about my place?’ he said, before he could second-guess himself.

She had to know going somewhere private was going to create temptations they would have a hard time resisting. But even he didn’t usually move this fast. That said, it had been a long time since he’d been blown away by a simple kiss.

‘FYI, though, that could be dangerous,’ he added, to make it absolutely clear where this was headed if they ended up anywhere alone.

She blinked, her eyes still dazed with passion and something that looked weirdly like determination.

‘Dangerous is what I want,’ she said, the husky whisper promising so much heaven, he was sure he’d go straight to hell if he didn’t take her up on it.

‘Understood,’ he said, and scooped her into his arms.

She yelped. ‘Mr Foxx, what are you doing?’ she said, forced to throw her arm around his shoulders.

’Mr? Seriously, Princess? Don’t you think we’ve gone beyond that?’ he asked, enjoying her indignation—a lot.

He marched down the corridor towards the exit, with her squirming deliciously, the backless gown sending a whole new level of torture through his system.

‘Mason,’ she said, sending him a stern look, which did not slow his heartrate one bit. ‘You don’t have to carry me...’

‘Sure I do. It’s quicker, it’s safer—because you’re barefoot—’ he said, pleased he could make a reasoned argument when his brain was starting to disintegrate. ‘And I like the feel of you in my arms.’

‘Really?’ she said, with that odd combination of awareness and surprise. Why was that so captivating? When it couldn’t be genuine.

‘Yeah, really.’ He glanced down as he bumped open the door to the emergency staircase with his backside and caught her staring—avidly—at the barbed wire tattooed on his collarbone, which he’d once thought was cool.

He had come to hate the low-rent design, had considered having it removed for years, but as he saw the fascination in her eyes, he knocked it right off his to-do list.

‘Stop wriggling,’ he added. ‘I wouldn’t want to drop you on your very nice backside.’

She huffed, but tightened the arm looped around his shoulders as he jogged down the stairs.

When they reached the ground floor, he was forced to carry her back into the fury of the dancefloor. The DJ was pumping out a club classic. But as he toted her through the crowd, he became aware of camera phones lighting up as people noticed them.

‘You can put me down now,’ he heard her shout, but allowed the words to get swallowed by the music.

He didn’t want to put her down. Didn’t want to risk losing the adrenaline rush of anticipation which was making him ache.

At last, he stepped onto the building’s forecourt and the night air hit—helping to cool the increasingly problematic heat. His shiny new SUV appeared, and the valet leapt out to whisk open the passenger door.

He was forced to relinquish her, and deposit her in the front seat.

‘Buckle up, Beatrice,’ he said, not even winded despite the fact he’d just carried her the length of the building. He pulled his wallet from his jacket and handed the valet a fifty-pound tip. ‘Cheers, mate.’

‘Thank you, Mr Foxx. Have a great evening,’ the teenager said.

Oh, I intend to, he thought, the anticipation starting to choke him.

He skirted the bonnet and climbed into the driver’s seat. Then turned to his guest. The spurt of pride and possessiveness shocked him a little as he took stock of her, looking serene and elegant and yet so perfect sitting in his car.

But as he closed the door and started the ignition, he forced himself to get the foolish spurt of pride under control.

Just a one-night booty call, Mase.

And not a foregone conclusion at that, because this woman had more class than he could even dream of.

He shifted into gear and roared away from the kerb.

The lights of old warehouses which had been turned into luxury flats flickered over the car’s new paintwork as they drove along the river. These same warehouses had been derelict when he was a boy, the broken glass and rubble becoming his own personal adventure playground. Their newly pointed facades and gleaming glasswork reminded him he was no longer that feral kid, but a rich man in control of his own destiny.

So what if he wanted Beatrice Medford...a lot? Didn’t mean he needed her. At all.