The Real Romero(37)

                ‘Worked,’ Lucas swiftly reminded her and she scowled at the reminder. ‘You worked at an average hotel in West London. Don’t forget that you’re now jobless.’

                ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ Milly said through gritted teeth. ‘And I still don’t know where you’re going with this.’

                Lucas sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, then he reached for his computer, which was on the glass table next to him.

                With a start of surprise he realised that for the first time in a very long time indeed work had not been the overriding thought in his head. In fact, he had a backlog of emails to work his way through, emails to which he had given precious little thought. Dark eyes lazily took in the diminutive girl in front of him sitting in a lotus position, her long hair flowing in rivulets over her shoulders. Self-restraint with a sexy member of the opposite sex had clearly had an effect on his ability to concentrate to his usual formidably high levels.

                He kick-started the computer and when he had found what he had been looking for he swivelled the computer towards her.

                Milly looked at him sceptically. Did anything faze this guy? Whatever the situation, he was the very picture of cool. Chewing her out in the middle of an expensive café in one of the most expensive ski resorts on the planet: cool. Arranging for her to stay in the ski lodge: cool. Telling her a string of real whoppers about the extent of his influence: cool.

                ‘You’re not meant to carry on sitting there,’ Lucas informed her gently. ‘You’re meant to get close enough to the computer so that you can actually read what I’ve flagged up.’

                Accustomed to having the world jump to his commands without asking questions, Lucas had a brief moment of wondering whether she intended stubbornly to stay put until he was forced to bring the computer to her. However, after a few seconds of jaundiced hesitation, Milly stood up and then sat on the sofa, back in her cross-legged position, so that she could read his extensive bio.

                Lucas watched her. She didn’t have to say anything; her face said it all: calm and superior, morphing into frowning puzzlement, then finally incredulity.

                Then she did it all over again as she re-read the article, which, fawningly and in depth, traced his lineage and every single one of his achievements, from university degrees to acquisitions of companies. Much was made of his background and the limitless privileges into which he had been born.

                He had been personally interviewed for this article. It had come hard on the heels of his unfortunate experience with his gold-digging almost-fiancée, and he had not been predisposed to be anything but brusque with the glamorous blonde whose job it had been to glean some scintillating ‘heard it from the horse’s mouth’ titbits.

                His coolness had not bothered her. She had practically salivated in his company and had crossed and re-crossed her long legs so many times that he had asked her at one point whether she needed to use the toilet.

                At any rate, the finished article had been sent to him for proofreading before it had been put online, and he had been amused to note that he had somehow achieved a god-like status, even though he knew he had been borderline rude to the woman. Money: Was there anything in the world that talked louder and more persuasively?

                ‘I don’t understand.’ Milly sat back, drawing her legs up and looping her arms around them.

                ‘Of course you do.’

                ‘Don’t tell me what I do or don’t understand,’ she said automatically, because there was nothing worse than an arrogant know-it-all. But he was right. She understood. ‘You’re not a ski instructor at all, are you?’