More Than a Fling

THREE


Ally touched the side of her Bellechier sports watch as she jogged up to the steps that led to the hotel’s seaside entrance and placed her hands on her knees, hauling in wet air. Humid, she thought, and hot already at seven in the morning. She glanced at her watch: six miles in fifty minutes. Not her best time, but acceptable—especially since she’d tossed and turned all night and when she’d finally slept had had incredibly restless dreams.

All featuring last night’s sexy jerk.

Behind her sunglasses Ally scowled at the waves smacking the beach across the road and promenade. She might have left him in an awkward position last night—good, he so deserved it!—but she hadn’t emerged from their dizzying encounter unscathed. She’d felt tense, fidgety...horny, dammit.

Apart from her inability or unwillingness to connect...and her crazy work schedule...and the fact that she hadn’t dated or felt attracted to any man in a long time...apart from all that she was still a reasonably normal woman in her late twenties and she did get normal urges.

Up to now she’d always been perfectly content with a bit of self-love and was easily able to sort herself out. She’d tried that last night and, like most of the few lovers she’d had, she hadn’t delivered. She had just ended up feeling more frustrated and hornier than before, which sucked. Maybe it was time to cave in and buy that dildo she’d seen online. Except that now she wasn’t sure that it would help. She wanted masculine fingers between her legs, a hard body above hers, the hot, thick thrust of an erection pushing into her.

She still wanted Ross and that pushed up her irritation levels. Even a long run hadn’t banished her frustration; maybe a cold shower would do the trick.

Ally stood up, placed her hands on her hips and walked to the low wall that separated the beach from the promenade. Placing one foot on the low wall, she did some warm-down stretches as she watched the ships on the horizon and thought about the day ahead.


She was booked on a flight back to Geneva that night so she had the day open to do as she pleased. She could buckle down in front of her computer—as long as she had her computer she could work anywhere—and get a solid eight hours in either in her room, one of the lounges or on one of the many verandas in the hotel. That was what she should do.

Bellechier had a second store opening in Hong Kong and another in Miami, and there were countless items on her to-do list to ensure that these new additions exuded the same class and charisma as their other stores. As Brand and Image Director, it was her job to make sure that the look and feel of the new stores was everything their customers expected them to be.

Then she had magazine adverts to approve, paperwork regarding their sponsorship of a yacht race to plough through and a new face to find for the new line.

Ally wiped the perspiration from her brow before resting her forehead on her knee. She wished she was the type of person who could just pull on a bikini, grab her e-reader and towel and hit the beach—who could spend the day in the sunshine doing nothing. But that just wasn’t Ally. No: she’d sit down and within a half-hour she’d be feeling guilty because she wasn’t being productive, feeling tense because she’d be making mental lists of what she could be doing.

The truth was that she was happiest working; at work she didn’t have to think about anything else except the next task she had to do. Work was her entertainment. She felt safe there. It was her demanding lover. Ally looked at the beach again and sighed.

Intellectually she knew that she should want to take time off, that she was entitled to relax, to have some fun, but she couldn’t translate the thought into acceptance. Working was her way of repaying her debt to Sabine and Justin; it was her way of saying thank you. She couldn’t be the soul-sharing, emotionally expressive daughter they wanted—dear God, she would be if she could—so hard work was all she could give them.

She’d do anything they asked unless it involved her heart—not that she was sure she had one any more. She knew what her life could have been like, and the thought of it still made her shiver. If Sabine and Justin hadn’t pulled her out of that sterile hotel room the Thai authorities and later the British Embassy had shoved her into after they’d removed her dad’s body from the beach in Phuket, God knew what would have happened to her. She had no other relatives—none that she knew of anyway—and no one else would have run to her rescue.

She owed them for giving her a home and an education, but she couldn’t risk loving them too much—just in case they got whipped away as well. She didn’t think she could survive that.

She had to work this morning, but it would be an absolute sin not to spend some time on the beach. So...what if she printed out those reports she needed to go through on her portable printer and took them to the beach with her? She would still be working...and getting a tan. And since she needed to concentrate while reading them she wouldn’t have time to think of Ross Bennett—the A-grade sexy dipstick.

But she’d only be productive if she didn’t think of his clever mouth, his big hand on her breast, that hard thigh pressing into her crotch. Ally sighed as her skin prickled and her crotch throbbed. Casting a last look at the ocean, she turned to walk back into the hotel. Here we go again.

A cold shower was her last resort; if that didn’t work then she was definitely ordering that sex toy.

* * *

Like most of his gender, Ross hated apologising. It made him feel stupid and weak and...stupid.

But stupid he had been, and although Ally had punished him for it—being in a lift with two nosy old ladies with a full erection had not been fun—he knew that he still owed her an apology. He’d tried most of last night and all of this morning to find a reason why he didn’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t—and still hadn’t found one.

He’d opened his big mouth and by doing so he’d screwed up, and he was enough of a man to admit it. For most of the morning he’d tried hard to ignore his conscience but at noon, when he realised that he’d achieved sweet FA, he’d given in and left his office to head over to Ally’s hotel.

He needed to apologise—not only because his conscience dictated it but also because his father had never been able to do so... Saying sorry is for wusses, pansies and pathetics. That was one of Jonas Bennett’s favourite sayings. But Ross had always vowed to be as little like his dad as possible.

Propositioning Ally in the way he had was the kind of thing his father would do: when Jonas wanted something he used any means he could to get it. Winning, getting his way, coming out on top was all that mattered to him, and last night Ross had proved that in certain ways he was still his father’s son.

He loved and hated that fact. Loved that he had his father’s drive, passion and work ethic. Hated the fact that he also had his deeply competitive streak. And his stubbornness.

His mother was either a fool or a saint for staying married to him for nearly thirty-five years. How did she do it? Love, she’d once told him, wasn’t an emotion but an action. When you’d been married as long as they had, she’d added, sometimes you had to choose to love and to fight for love.

That sounded too much like hard work, and Ross had yet to find a woman who interested him enough to consider the possibility of a lifetime with her. Ally Jones definitely wasn’t a candidate. Besides, even if he was looking for ‘the one’, he wouldn’t choose a tense, pushy, uptight corporate drone. He’d left that world behind years ago—and all the stress that went with it; why would he ever get involved with a woman deeply entrenched in it?

No, he liked to keep his personal relationships simple and above all honest. So if he hooked up with someone he always made it clear that he wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship. One thing was for sure: when he did find Wonder Woman—he was still too busy to commit the time needed to find her—he’d never let his partner feel she had to compete with his work for his attention, as he’d had to do as a child.

Right—enough introspection. Let’s get this damned apology done and dusted so I can get some work done today.

He believed Miss Jones was on the beach, the concierge told him, so Ross walked out through the doors leading to the promenade, flipping his sunglasses onto his face to hide his eyes from the blistering glare of the midday sun.

Standing at the wall, he scanned the beach, which was reasonably busy for a Thursday in September. Female faces were hidden under floppy hats, caps and sunglasses, so how was he going to find her?


By going up to every single woman on the beach and acting like a pervert, that was how. Perfect. Just what he needed.

Ross stepped onto the beach, ignoring the hot sand that crept into his flip-flops as he made his way to the most populated part of the beach. He looked out to the sea and watched as a woman walked out of the waves and pushed her wet hair back from her face.

He instantly recognised that body, its essential bits covered by fluorescent aqua triangles; he had felt it tremble under his touch last night. A waist he could span with both his hands, curvy hips, legs that went on for ever. Ross swallowed, realised that saliva had disappeared from his mouth and stood still as she strolled up to a beach blanket and dropped onto it, tipping her elfin face up to the sun.

A fist grabbed his heart and squeezed. She was utterly, maddeningly, crotch-jumpingly beautiful and he still wanted her. Probably would do anything to have her.

Just for a night...a couple of nights; just to get lost in that face, that body, the comprehensive femininity of her. And, because he’d been an utter ass, he probably never would.

That sucked.

Ross ran a hand through his hair, gestured to a beach vendor and bought two bottles of water from the elderly man. Cracking the seal on one, he took a long sip and headed to the beach blanket where Ally lay back on her elbows, smiling at two toddlers who were arguing over a spade.

He sat down next to her, handed her a bottle of water and jumped right in. ‘Sorry.’

Ally took the bottle, raised her eyebrows at him and curled her lip. ‘You think a cold bottle of water and a half-assed apology is going to work?’

‘No.’ Ross twisted his lips in frustration. ‘But I thought I would give it a go.’

Ross removed the bottle from her grasp, cracked the lid for her and handed it back. ‘I opened my mouth and spoke without thinking—not something I often do. I wanted to take the words back as soon as I said them.’

Ally cocked her head.

Bloody Nora, the woman had a stare that had all the power of an industrial laser. And why did that turn him on?

‘Then why did you follow me up to my room?’ she asked.

What? Was she kidding? Judging by her puzzled look, obviously not.

‘Have you looked at yourself lately? You are seriously hot!’ He sighed and lifted one arrogant eyebrow slowly. ‘Men are simple creatures, Jones. When they hear “let’s have sex” everything else goes out the window. I thought I’d hit the mother lode. Yeah, I messed up, but you were prepared to ignore that and nail me anyway. I wasn’t going to turn you down. A saint couldn’t—and I’m no saint.’

‘I just bet you aren’t,’ Ally muttered, sitting up and reaching for her bag.

Pulling out a pair of sunglasses—Bellechier, slick and sexy—she pushed them onto her face and leaned back on her elbows again, bending her knees and digging her toes into the sand. Drops of water still lay on her skin, gathered in her belly button, and Ross wished he could sip the salty water from that little receptacle, slide his mouth over her flat stomach, explore the skin that covered her hipbones.

Frick, the woman could rock a bikini.

‘Gorgeous day,’ he mumbled, staring hard at the ships on the horizon, waiting to dock in the harbour further down the beach.

‘Very.’

‘So...sorry.’ He thought he needed to say it again—hopefully for the final time.

Ally tipped her head back and her wet hair, curly with salt water, almost touched the sand behind her shoulderblades. ‘Your apologies could use some work, Bennett.’

True. ‘So I’m forgiven?’

Ally shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

It did, actually. Ross lifted one shoulder. ‘I’m a straight shooter, Ally. Normally. Despite last night’s mix-up, I don’t play games and I don’t confuse sex with business.’

Ally looked at him and he couldn’t believe how relieved he felt when he caught her mouth twitching with amusement. Leaning over, he pushed her glasses down her nose and saw that her eyes were lighter, almost dancing with mischief. He felt stupidly relieved.

‘What?’ he asked, not entirely sure if he really wanted to know why she was smiling.

‘So how long did you spend in the lift facing the wall?’

‘Far too long,’ he growled. ‘Those wrinklies thought I was sick. They kept asking if I was all right.’

Ally grinned. She lifted the water in a toast. ‘Are you expecting me to apologise?’

‘For the kiss or for leaving me high and dry for the rest of the night?’ Ross asked sourly. Ally gurgled and he couldn’t help smiling at her infectious laughter. ‘I loved the kiss and I deserved the frustration. I’m a big boy. I coped. Are we done with this now?’

Ally hiccupped a laugh. ‘Oh, no, you’re not getting off that easily.’ She dropped her knees and sat up, pushing her glasses into her hair. ‘You, mister—’ she rammed a finger into his bicep ‘—are going to sit through my entire presentation and you are going to seriously consider my offer.’

Ross flopped back into the sand and groaned loudly. Gorgeous and pushy...why was life punishing him like this?

* * *

She’d arrived in Cape Town yesterday and so far she’d kissed a hot man, had a swim in the Indian Ocean and spent some time in the sun, Ally thought, walking from her hotel room to the lift. That was more excitement than she’d had all year.

Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the lift doors, she nodded her head at her professional look. She felt a great deal more confident in a short flared skirt and ruffled white top; talking to Ross in that tiny bikini—the only one in her size in the hotel shop—had made her feel self-conscious and far too exposed. She’d caught the glances he gave her and been very glad she’d recently hit the salon for her monthly waxing and defoliating session. Imagine sitting there with hairy legs, fuzzy underarms and an untidy crotch—how mortifying that would have been! Ally felt herself blush and told herself not be ridiculous.

Business, Jones. Try to act professional, you moron.

Ally rolled her shoulders... It was back to business now and she would be all and only business. Ross had reluctantly agreed to take her back to RBM, where he would listen to her whole proposal for the campaign, sit through her presentation and seriously consider Bellechier’s offer. She didn’t know if his about-face was because he was embarrassed about his behaviour last night or because he’d rethought his position, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was that she’d got a second chance to do her job—a job that she was good at—and that after this meeting she’d be able to go home to Geneva and tell Luc that she’d given it her best shot.


If Ross said no she could go on to the next candidate feeling utterly guilt-free—she’d tried. Luc would be disappointed—and that sucked—but he wasn’t unfair. He knew that there were some horses—asses?—that were too ornery and too stubborn to drink when they were led to water.

Ally stepped out of the lift and her heart bumped when she saw Ross standing by the indoor fountain. His black shorts hit his knee and he wore a checked orange and white button-down shirt over a white T-shirt. He hadn’t shaved. She suspected that he left his beard to grow for days until it started to annoy him and then he shaved again. She wondered what he’d look like in a suit and tie. Gorgeous, she decided. He had that tall, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped frame that would make a hessian sack look good.

Ross turned as she approached him and immediately took her laptop bag off her shoulder and gripped it in his hand. Lazy eyes started at the tips of her feet and ended on her face.

‘I really, really prefer the bikini, Jones.’

Ally twisted her lips in annoyance but her skin flushed with pleasure. ‘Can you at least try to be businesslike, Bennett?’

‘But it’s so much more fun making you blush.’ Ross placed his hand on her lower back to guide her to the lifts that would take them to the underground parking lot and Ally sucked in her breath at his touch.

Concentrate, Alyssa.

‘Are you always this serious, Jones? Do you ever cut loose, have some fun?’

No, but she’d never tell him that, she thought as Ross jabbed the button of the lift.

‘Well, do you?’ Ross pressed.

‘Of course I do,’ Ally lied. ‘All the time. I work hard but I play harder.’

Ross’s thick eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Really? And how, pray tell, do you cut loose?’

Damn, Ally thought, thinking fast. ‘I dance. Latin American mostly.’ It wasn’t a complete lie—more like a very stretched-out truth. She had taken dance classes when she was a teenager and she’d been pretty good. Until her dance partner had declared that he couldn’t dance with someone who couldn’t communicate and had dumped her for a tall redhead who never shut up.

‘Okay, dance. What else?’ Ross said as they stepped into the open lift.

Okay, now she had to flat-out lie so that he didn’t realise that she did nothing but work. She fiddled with her watch and thought hard. Dammit, what did normal people do?

‘I go clubbing, meet friends for supper, go to the theatre. Movies.’

‘What was the last movie you saw?’ Ross leaned his shoulder into the wall of the lift, half smiling.

‘Why are you interrogating me?’ Ally demanded.

‘Why are you lying to me?’ Ross countered.

‘And why would you think I’m lying?’

‘Because a person who sends e-mail messages at ten-thirty on a Saturday night and leaves voice messages with me on a Sunday morning, Sunday evening and at nine p.m. on Tuesday night does not have a rocking social life. She might even be a bit work-obsessed. And...hmm...who was that person?’ The lift doors opened with a ping and Ross grinned. ‘Oh, wait! That was you. So what was the last movie you saw, Jones?’

Ally just scowled at him. Note to self: Ross remembers small details. Dammit.

‘No comeback?’ Ross asked as he escorted her across the parking lot to a clump of motorbikes next to the lift.

‘I’m thinking of a polite way to tell you to a) mind your own business and b) that you are talking rubbish,’ Ally replied in her coolest voice—the one she used when she wanted people to back the hell off. Desperate to change the subject, she looked around. ‘Where’s your car?’

Ross walked to an over-large, stygian black motorbike and fiddled with a box on the back. Flipping it open, he removed two black helmets. ‘No car—just this. Put this on.’

‘Of course you wouldn’t use something as normal as a car for transport. Too pedestrian for you.’

‘I like bikes,’ Ross said mildly.

‘I like cars.’ Ally glared at the massive bike. It was muscled, sleek, oozing testosterone...just like its owner. ‘This is the motorbike equivalent of one of those stupid, oversized petrol-guzzling SUVs...’ She snapped her fingers in impatience. ‘What are they called? Those stupid big cars that take up half of the road?’

Ross named the vehicle she was thinking of.

‘That’s it. So, this bad boy is the motorcycle equivalent of that humming car.’

Ross lifted his hand in confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘When men buy hugely powerful machines like this, psychologists think that it’s a way of them reassuring the world that they’re not...ahem...undersized.’

Ally lifted both shoulders at Ross’s shocked face. It was a little bit of payback for his earlier comments.

She widened her eyes to look sincere. ‘What? It’s true. I did psychology as part of my MBA in marketing.’

‘You’re nuts. Men don’t think like that.’ That sexy mouth quirked up at the corners. ‘And I’ve never had any complaints about the size of my penis.’

‘The opinions of two old ladies in a lift don’t count, Bennett,’ Ally quipped, and immediately thought that she’d gone too far.

This was not an appropriate conversation, but Ross had a way of bringing out her inner Crazy Girl. Dear Lord she hoped that he had a sense of humour or else she was up the river Caca.

His loud laugh told her he did. His eyes crinkled as he slung the computer case across her chest and plopped the helmet over her head. ‘You have a smart mouth, Ally.’

‘I really do.’ Ally tried to push the helmet off but his hand held it on her head. ‘And it’s trying to tell you that I am not getting on that bike. It’s big and mean and dangerous. And my skirt is too tight to get on it!’

There—that should stop the argument. She’d be a civilised person and take a taxi to RBM and meet him there. And she’d do it without flashing her panties.

Ross held her hands in his. ‘The bike is just a machine and I control it. I’ll keep you safe, I promise. As for your skirt...’ he gestured to the deserted parking lot ‘...nobody will see you get on. It might hitch up an inch or two. So what? You have great legs that deserve to be shown off.’

‘Flatterer.’

‘C’mon, Jones, it’s a stunning day.’ Ross straddled the bike and shoved the key into the ignition. ‘Cut loose. Prove to yourself that you can.’


The sound pounded through her system and Ally licked her lips. God, how would it feel to have that power beneath her, between her legs?

And the motorbike would be just as good.

‘You won’t regret it, I promise. Stop being uptight and prissy and get on.’

‘I am not uptight and prissy,’ Ally muttered, knowing that she was and wishing she wasn’t. Dammit, was she really going to do this? It seemed she was—if only to show Mr Cool that she could be cool.

Although she guessed that he wasn’t that easily fooled.

‘Don’t peek.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Ross assured her. ‘Throw your leg behind me and put your arms around my waist. When we’re on the road just move with me. Don’t fight me or we will crash. I move—you move. Got it?’

Ally heaved in a breath. ‘Got it.’

‘Trust me?’

Funnily enough, she did. ‘Yes. Eyes forward and don’t peek!’

Ally hitched her skirt up and threw her leg over the bike and sighed as the leather made contact with the inside of her thighs. Then she slid down the bike and her thighs gripped Ross’s hips as her breasts slammed against his broad back. Lust and heat and warmth instantly dialled her panties up from warm to fire-hot.

‘Jones?’

Instinctively Ally glanced over his shoulder to his left side mirror and her eyes connected with his warm, heated gaze. ‘What?’

‘I really, really like your red panties. Colour suits you.’

Ally punched his shoulder blade. ‘You sod! I told you not to peek!’

Ross laughed, and the rest of her protests were lost under the roar of the motorbike.