Ruben couldn’t believe his fucking luck.

Even the knowledge that Hans was loitering along this street somewhere, dogging their every step, wasn’t enough to wipe the smile from his face. He was walking into town with Cherry Neita. Cherry Neita.

This morning, he hadn’t even known that name. Now it held as much significance to him as Jan Amos Komensky’s.

Although, he’d never wanted to fuck the father of modern education senseless. So maybe not quite the same.

She strutted beside him, her hips twitching within the confines of that tight, knee-length skirt—not that he could see much of it, thanks to the coat she wore. Bloody January weather.

But his imagination was filling in the gaps just fine.

“Are you sure you want to walk?” He asked. “It’s cold.”

She gave him an odd look. “The town centre’s just around the corner.”

True enough; he could hear the busy traffic already. But he didn’t want her to walk a metre if it wasn’t necessary. Ruben cast a worried glance down at her high heels. “Don’t your feet hurt?”

“No,” she smiled. Not enough for the dimples, but enough to make him feel slightly dizzy. “They aren’t that high.”

He raised his brows, sceptical.

“They aren’t,” she insisted with a laugh. “I’m just tall.”

“How tall?”

“Five-eleven. How tall are you?”

At home, most women knew his exact height. It was part of his supposed eligibility, and one of the only positives about him.

But here in England, no-one gave a fuck about the royal family of a tiny Scandinavian island—which was why he came here so often. No-one knew him until he knew them. That was how it should be.

“I’m six-four,” he said. “I like that you’re tall.”

“Oh, well if you like it, I can rest easy.”

He looked over to find her pursing her lips, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Feel free to laugh at me,” he grinned back. “I know I’m arrogant.”

She chuckled. “As long as you know.”

“What I meant,” he said, “is that I like talking to people who are at eye level.” They turned into the town centre, right onto the little high street. “Where do you want to eat, by the way?”

She shrugged. “I don’t really mind. Somewhere with cake.”

“You like cake?”

“I love cake. Plus, it’s my birthday.” The word ended quietly, her voice fading away, as if she wanted to snatch it back. Her eyes flew to his, and he had the distinct impression that she hadn’t meant to tell him that.

Well. Too late now.

“Your birthday,” he repeated slowly, coming to a stop. He caught her hand in his, swinging her around to face him. Every time he touched her, something inside him snapped to attention—as if, now they’d made physical contact, the party could really begin.

Right. Because women always went from hand-holding to the bedroom in a matter of minutes.

She looked up at him—but not up up. She really was tall, and he really did like it. A lot.

“We should do something to celebrate,” he said.

She shook her head. Her hair bounced around her face. He had the strongest urge to sink his hand into the curls, but she’d probably slap him for it.

Definitely, in fact.

“I don’t celebrate,” she said, her voice low.

“Ever?”

“Not birthdays.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “Well done, you continued to exist? It’s ridiculous. Birthdays are for children. I am not a child.”

“But you want birthday cake,” he murmured. Did she notice the fact that he was pulling her closer? He didn’t think so. She came as if floating, half-dreaming, and now he imagined that he could feel the heat of her body, even through both their coats. There was barely a breath between them. He could kiss her. Did she notice? Or was she as mindless right now as he was?

“I always want cake,” she replied, her voice absent. “Everyone wants cake.” But her eyes were focused firmly on his lips. Maybe he should kiss her.

A bus barrelled past, its engine thundering and its heavy wheels splashing through the puddles left by last night’s rain. In an instant, Cherry went from half-hypnotised to razor-sharp, twisting away from the road until she stood firmly behind him.

Ruben blinked, disarmed. “What are you—?”

“A bus splashed me once,” she said. “Ruined my stockings. Anyway, shall we go? I’ve only got an hour, you know.”

His heart fell. She no longer sounded hypnotised. But on the bright side, he now knew that she wore stockings rather than tights.

That was valuable information.

“You know,” he said, “I’m sure Tabary wouldn’t mind if I kept you out a little longer. It’s not like you have a class schedule, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “Are you serious? Chris is all about punctuality. I’d have to be the Queen of bloody England to get away with that.”

Ruben felt his lips twitch. “Fair enough.” He turned his attention to the high street, scanning the rows of shops and cafes before them. “That place looks good.”

“Copper?” She blessed him with a smile. “You have good taste. Let’s go.”

* * *

Cherry was no stranger to flirting.

In fact, she counted it as a hobby. At least 60% of her daily social interaction consisted of flirting, and sometimes she even went wild and followed it up with dates and sex and… well, that was it, really. But the point was, when it came to flirting, Cherry was something of an expert.

Or she’d thought she was. But for the past thirty minutes, all she’d done was choke down her sandwich and avoid eye contact and try not to wring her hands. It was all very embarrassing.

Ruben sat across the table, looking irritatingly gorgeous and infuriatingly confident. He hadn’t mentioned her sudden silence. He hadn’t really tried to lure her out of it, either. There was a gleam in his eye that said he knew exactly what had her so quiet.

She believed that gleam. He seemed the kind of man who knew things. A capable kind of man, the sort with a hard-won and well-earned confidence that sent shivers down her spine and dangerous thoughts through her head. Which was why she suddenly couldn’t flirt—or even speak.

Cherry sent shivers. Cherry inspired thoughts. Cherry drove people wild. Cherry did not forget herself in a public street over the curve of a man’s lips or the incongruous length of his eyelashes.

Yes, it was all incredibly embarrassing. She might be infatuated.

She patted at her lips with a napkin, then rifled through her handbag, which she’d stashed on the seat next to her. At the time, she’d thought it best that he couldn’t sit beside her. But now he was sitting in front of her, and she’d spent the whole meal trying not to drool over his hands. His hands, for Christ’s sake!

She pulled out a tube of lipstick and a compact mirror—but he reached across the table, catching her wrist. It was the lightest touch of skin against skin, hardly a restraint, but it released a torrent of dark images in Cherry’s mind. He could restrain her, if he wanted to. If she asked him to.

God, she was ridiculous.

“What?” She clipped out.

“Cake,” he said simply. And despite herself, she softened. He remembered the cake.

Of course he did, her inner voice snapped. It sounded suspiciously like her mother. Don’t give him points for basic recollection.

He plucked a dessert menu from the centre of the table and handed it to her with a flourish. It was odd—everything he did seemed utterly natural and unaffected, yet he was at once completely charming. In Cherry’s experience, charm took work. Maybe he was especially good at faking it. The thought should have made her wary, but instead, she began to think of him as a kindred spirit.

A kindred spirit with deliciously broad shoulders and a beautiful smile. And very big hands.

“What would you like?” He asked.

“Um…” She studied the menu, as if she hadn’t come here a thousand times. It was a touch upmarket for a weekday lunch, but his cufflinks were mother of pearl. There was no point taking him to bloody Greggs.

“Can’t choose?”

“I might be struggling,” she admitted, allowing herself a small smile. And then, before she could think better of it, Cherry slid the menu into the centre of the table and leant forward. “What do you think?”

He looked delighted. As if he’d been waiting for just this moment—for her to make a move, to come to him. Which she hadn’t, she told herself firmly. She just wanted some advice. Cake was a serious business.

But clearly, Ruben didn’t receive that message. He leant forward too, until their heads were perilously close, and he gave her another of those beautiful smiles. Fine lines fanned out from the corners of his brown eyes, and his scent—clean and fresh, like linen, with a hint of something spicy—enveloped her.

Moving towards him had been a very bad idea. But she couldn’t take it back now. It would be rude. And she was rather enjoying the proximity.

“The obvious choice is chocolate,” he said. “But then, you strike me as a woman with individual tastes.” His gaze caught hers and held.

Beneath the table, Cherry crossed her legs, clenched her thighs. The heel of her shoe slipped free, dangling from her toes—

And then it disappeared. Fell off her foot completely. No—it was nudged.

“Did you just knock off my shoe?” She demanded.

He shook his head. “Don’t know what you mean. Oh, look; they have Cherry Bakewell.”

“Very funny,” she muttered, her stockinged foot gliding tentatively over the floor beneath the table. Where on earth was that shoe?

Instead of her patent leather heel, she came across… another foot. Also shoeless. But much bigger than hers.

Cherry’s eyes flew to Ruben’s. His gaze was steady as ever. “You don’t like Cherry Bakewell?” He asked.

“Of course I do,” she huffed. “Bakewell’s only up the road. My parents took us there every summer.”

“Us?” He asked, leaning closer. In fact, he was so close now, there might as well be no table between them at all. When had that happened? His hand meandered over to hers, which rested on the table top, and he stroked a finger over the gems on her nails. “You have siblings?”

“I have a sister,” she said. Beneath the table, his foot rubbed against hers. It was a slow, rhythmic touch, almost soothing. But it was hard to feel soothed by a man who set your every nerve-ending alight.

“Older or younger?” He prompted.

“Um… Younger. Maggie. She’s in America.” Usually, Cherry loved bragging about her sister, even when it came with the usual twinge of worry. Always, she worried about Maggie.

But today, her words were as muddled as her feelings. “I mean—she goes to Harvard. She’s very clever.”

“Takes after you, then?”

Cherry’s brows shot up. “I’m not clever.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He rolled his eyes, and then his voice flattened in a fair imitation of Chris Tabary’s. “Cherry, you silly girl, you’ve mucked up the sums!” Returning to his usual deep tones, he grinned. “I know you did that on purpose.”

Despite herself, she smiled. “Okay, yes. I was on a mission.”

“And that mission was…?”

“To see you,” she admitted. “Everyone was going on about the gorgeous man in Chris’s office. I was sent to investigate.”

“And did I meet your expectations?” He asked. The arrogant arch of his brow, that lazy smile, told her he already knew the answer.

But still, she only said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yes.” He said simply. The look in his dark eyes became burning hot, its intensity completely at odds with the casual confidence he exuded. But then he looked away, and his easy smile returned. “I like your nails,” he said. Apparently, they were changing the subject.

“Thanks. I got extra sparkles. You know, for my birthday.”

He laughed. “For a woman who supposedly doesn’t like birthdays—”

“I know,” she admitted. “I just like to feel my best, starting a new year and all.” It was only the 9^th of January. She could attribute the nails—and the new lipstick, and the lace on her garters—to New Years’ cheer rather than birthday extravagance.

“You need to choose your cake,” he said. “Or you’ll be late back.”

“Oh, yes.” He was right. She’d lost track of time. Which she never did.

But they wouldn’t be late, because he had things under control. And, apparently, gave a shit about her schedule. How refreshing.

Cherry belatedly realised that her standards appeared to be rather low.

“Chocolate,” she said firmly. “It’ll save dithering. Just chocolate.”

“Just chocolate it is,” he murmured.

But when the cake arrived, it was a bigger slab than she’d ever seen in a middle-class cafe—places of notoriously stingy portions.

And it came with two forks.

* * *

Cherry was looking at the pair of cake forks like they’d hopped up from the table and started dancing the cancan. Ruben bit down a smile. He had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate being laughed at.

He wouldn’t have thought, based on first impressions, that she’d be… like this. Direct in some ways, skittish in others. Verging on shy. Maybe she needed to get to know him. Maybe she found it easier to beat people into submission with those dimples and that cleavage than she did to just… talk.

Or maybe she was as blindsided by this attraction as he was, and had less experience following her instincts. All of those explanations felt right, but he’d like to know for sure. He’d like to know her.

Ruben picked up a fork—since she clearly wasn’t going to—and said, “Do you mind?”

The words seemed to jerk her into action. If Cherry was a puzzle, manners were her key. “Oh, no. Of course not.” She picked up her own fork and, after the slightest hesitation, dug in.

And here came the part he’d really been looking forward to. Watching Cherry eat cake.

She carved out a neat little piece with her fork, scooping up as much fudge icing as she could. He approved. She slid the mouthful between her lips, or rather, between her teeth. She appeared to have perfected the art of eating without messing up her lipstick. He didn’t know why she’d bothered pulling out that little mirror. She must know that she still looked perfect.

He’d like to smudge that lipstick for her. Wondered if she’d let him. Of course, he was getting ahead of himself.

The sight of her lashes fluttering in pleasure, of her tongue sliding out to trace her scarlet lower lip, would do that to a man.

She let out a satisfied little sigh as she chewed. Then her eyes flitted to his and she raised her brows. Swallowed. Said, “Aren’t you eating?”

He, of course, said the first thing that came into his head. “I was enjoying the view.”

She rolled her eyes. “Predictable.”

“I suppose you hear that kind of thing a lot.”

“I certainly do.” She smirked, spearing another bite of cake. “Seriously, eat. I can’t finish all this on my own.”

“I had no idea you were such a delicate flower.”

“Fuck off.”

He laughed as he finally dug in. “If Chris, darling, could hear you now.”

“God,” she snorted. “He’d skin me alive. Swearing at important visitors.”

“How do you know I’m important?”

She arched a brow. “Those men outside Chris’s door this morning. What were they, bodyguards?”

Ruben choked on his cake. “What—why would you—?”

“My uncle on my mum’s side, and all his kids, they’re in the military. Mostly air force.” She tapped her temple. “Plain clothes can’t hide that training. I can see it in you too.”

“Right,” he said faintly. His throat felt slightly scratchy. He reached for some water.

“And you’re rich as shit.” She nodded towards his suit. “I know that’s a Ricci.”

Great. He’d gone from choking on his cake to choking on his drink. “How do you know it’s a Ricci?” He spluttered.

“Mind your business,” she sniffed.

“Mind my business?”

“Yes. Here’s a tip: if you want to fly under the radar, try toning it down to Armani or something.”

Ruben sighed. “Noted.”

“So what’s up with that? Are you sponsoring the Academy?” If he wasn’t so attuned to the tone of her voice, to the tilt of her lips and the light in her dark eyes, he might have missed the tinge of disapproval in her words. But Ruben had spent their lunch watching her as closely as he’d watched her hips that morning. So he noticed. And he wanted to know why.

“If I weren’t,” he said carefully, “would you try to persuade me?”

“Persuade you?” She took another bite of cake. He watched her jaw work as she chewed. The sight should not be erotic, but apparently his libido was on the rampage today.

“Convince me to join the cause,” he said. “Enlist me. Whatever.”

“Ah. Um… Why, would you listen?”

“To you?” Beneath the table, his ankle was hooked around hers. Almost absent-mindedly, her foot had started rubbing against him, silky and slow, like a cat. “You know I would.”

“Oh I know, do I?” She grinned, and those damned dimples popped into view. “Because we’re such good friends?”

He leaned in, his voice low. “We could be good friends.” He shrugged. “Or something.”

“Or something?” She repeated, her voice soft.

He reached out to capture her wrist. No reason, except he enjoyed the sight of his fingers holding her still, and she seemed to enjoy it too. Every time he did it, her eyes widened and her lips parted and he wondered if that was how she’d look when he—

“Oh crap,” she said, twisting her head to read his watch. “I’m going to be late.”

Well, shit. So much for his skills of seduction. “Don’t worry. We’ve still got fifteen minutes.”

“We should start walking now, then,” she said. She retrieved the lipstick and mirror from her handbag, popping open the compact with an ease that spoke of practice. She arched a brow at him as she twisted up her lipstick. “Catch a waiter, darling, would you?”

Ruben requested the bill with just a look. Again: practice. Then he turned back to Cherry and said, “Don’t darling me.”

She paused, the lipstick partway through its journey round her mouth. She had a ridiculously defined cupid’s bow. He wanted to trace it with his tongue. “I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t need to manage me. I’m not Tabary.”

Her lips pursed, one side bright, the other faded. “No man wants to think of himself as a Chris Tabary. But whether you are or not remains to be seen.” Then she winked.

Winked.

This woman would be the death of him.

“Fair enough,” he sighed, and she graced him with a smile. As if she was proud of him for being so reasonable. How would it feel, he wondered, for a woman like Cherry Neita to hand him all that glittering power of hers? To willingly submit?

If he asked, she’d probably say she’d rather die. But he wouldn’t ask.

She would.

Ruben settled the bill as she slid on her coat, doing up the neat little buttons. He’d taken pity on her and pushed her shoe over, beneath the table. Neither of them mentioned the fact that he’d effectively stolen it in the first place.

As they left the cozy warmth of the cafe, Ruben reached out to catch Cherry’s arm. She turned towards him, and she was so ridiculously beautiful, he almost forgot to breathe. His body screamed, Kiss her.

But, for once, he managed to ignore his baser instincts. Instead, he simply said, “Two questions.”

“What?”

“First: you don’t think I should sponsor the Academy.” Of course, he hadn’t intended to, but she didn’t need to know that. “Why not?”

She rolled her lips inwards. Shifted from one heel to another. “I don’t want to discuss that.”

Fair enough. But she hadn’t denied it—and that was all he needed to know. His suspicions were confirmed.

He would not be partnering with the Academy for his Trust’s scholarship.

“Alright,” he said. “Second question: if I wait for you, after work—will you come out with me again?

“No,” she said immediately.

Fuck.

But then she continued. “I’d have to get changed first. I don’t dress like this all the time, you know.” She smiled. “Maybe you could come back to my flat. While I get ready.”

Ruben shifted, trying to lessen the sudden pressure of his cock against his zip. It didn’t help; not with the way she was looking at him, mischief and challenge and lust in her eyes. So he just said, “Yes. I will most definitely come with you.”

“Good,” she said softly. And then she turned on those high heels and headed up the street.