When she hesitated, he raised a thick black brow. ‘You work for me, right? Espresso, double, black.’
He’d manoeuvred her into a corner, leaving her with no option but to play by his rules. It was annoying how easily Taz could trip her up. His fantastic looks, sheer masculinity and raw sexuality meant that she often overlooked how sharp he was and how effortlessly he wielded words like weapons. He was quick, cunning and unaccustomed to anyone refusing to dance to the beat of his drum.
Millie thought fast. She could argue against making him coffee, implying that she thought herself more than his employee, or she could make the coffee, reinforcing the idea that she was nothing more than hired help. Devil, meet deep blue sea.
Damn him for making her question everything. For making her doubt herself.
It was important to stand her ground and reinforce their boundaries. She needed to be smart, to think with her head. She couldn’t let her libido hijack her common sense. Last night had been a mistake, a universe-rearranging mistake, and it wasn’t one she intended to repeat.
So with gritted teeth, Millie made his double espresso and placed the cup on the coffee table next to him. He didn’t say thank you but just smirked at her. He was testing her.Great.
Walking into his bedroom, she ignored his huge, messy bed, just managing to stop herself from imagining how amazing it would be to share that with him, and walked into his enormous closet. The hotel staff had unpacked his luggage, and they’d arranged his shirts per colour, his pants and suits too. He had at least fifteen pairs of shoes on the shoe rack. He was in town for ten days: How many pairs of shoes did one man need? Unable to help herself, she picked up his cologne, took a deep breath and sighed.
She was getting distracted and more than a little turned-on. Irritated, she pulled the first T-shirt from a perfectly aligned pile and carried it back through to the lounge, draping it over his shoulder. ‘Please get dressed.’
He ignored her and scrolled through his phone. One of these days, she’d brain him with it. Reaching for her iPad on the table, she flipped it open and waited for Taz to pull on his shirt. It lay on his tanned, muscular shoulder, and she knew he was waiting for her to push him to get dressed. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
Summoning her most professional voice, she ran through his schedule for the morning and ignored his surly responses. He didn’t like hearing the wordno. He’d simply have to get used to it. Their sleeping together was not going to happen.
Sex with Taz would blur the lines, make things far too complicated. She was already acting as his girlfriend; she didn’t need thorough research to nail the part. As far as she could tell, if she giggled, made the occasional innocuous comment and looked adoringly at Taz, she’d fulfil her end of the bargain.
‘Are you going to answer me or not?’
Millie lifted her head, doing a mental rewind. Right, he’d asked her something about what she was wearing to the polo tournament. ‘Your stylist sent over a couple of dresses. I’m leaning toward a brown-and-white maxi halter-neck dress…’
He looked thoroughly disinterested. Why ask a question if he wasn’t going to listen to the answer?
Millie sighed. Was this her fault? She’d asked him to treat her as one of his staff, and that was what he was doing. She couldn’t complain about it now. ‘I won’t embarrass you, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
His eyes lifted and slammed into hers. ‘I wasn’t.’
He was properly pissed. Millie closed her laptop and placed it on the coffee table. They had to spend time together, today and over the next few weeks, and they couldn’t snap and snarl at each other. They needed to clear the air. ‘Look, Taz, we can’t sleep together and work together. I can’t be your assistant one minute and your girlfriend the next. It’s too confusing.’
And I can’t afford to lose track of who I am at any time and let the two bleed into each other. On one hand, she might end up doing a terrible job as his PR person and miss something crucial or, even worse, she might find attraction turning into, God forbid,like. Maybe even more. Was she overthinking this? Taz had made it very clear earlier that he wasn’t interested in anything more than sex, and she’d grown up witnessing two highly dysfunctional marriages, so long-term wasn’t for her. But something held her back. ‘This situation is complicated enough without us adding the gasoline of sex to the bonfire.’
His expression remained impassive. ‘Fine.’
She threw up her hands, frustrated. ‘Is that all you are going to say?’
Turbulent eyes met hers. ‘You want to keep things professional, I’m saying okay. What more do you need from me?’
He drained his coffee, pushed the cup in her direction and stood. ‘Get rid of that and order a high protein breakfast from room service. I want it delivered in an hour. I’m going to head down to the hotel gym to work out.’
‘You have a broken wrist—’
‘Not your problem.’
Taz walked away from her, and Millie twisted her lips. Right. Message received. She’d tapped the brakes, and he’d brought the race to a complete stop. She should be pleased. That was what she wanted.
Then, why did she feel so exasperated? And, worse, frustrated?
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE POLO MATCH WAS, essentially, a picnic on steroids—where lemonade was swapped for Moët et Chandon Champagne, PB & J sandwiches for blinis, and jam doughnuts for exquisite patisseries. Designer labels replaced ripped board shorts and battered T-shirts, and inane chatter masqueraded as conversation. Insincere compliments were casually lobbed conversational grenades.
Taz, naturally, was a hit, parrying compliments and questions with effortless charm, utterly polished and charismatic, eliciting sighs and swoons from his captive audience.
Wearing stone-coloured chinos and a navy linen jacket over a crisp white shirt he looked ridiculously good. He hadn’t bothered shaving, and the thick stubble suited him far too well. A green-and-blue pocket square peeked out from his jacket, and every so often, the silver bracelets on either side of his Patek Philippe watch caught the sunlight. His taste—or his stylist’s taste—was, Millie begrudgingly admitted, impeccable.
