Playing the Billionaire's Game - Pippa Roscoe Page 0,18

but not too much, making her deeply aware of his masculinity. She tried to retain objectivity, observe purely professionally, but she just couldn’t. She might have studied the human form more than most doctors, followed the direction of paint across scenes of sensuality so incredible they’d been preserved for hundreds of years, traced her hands over cool marble sculptures...but she’d never seen this much of a man in real life and couldn’t help but blush. It was almost painful as it spread over her cheeks and she bit her lip from...what, she honestly couldn’t say. He was overwhelming. And by the time she raised her eyes to his, sparkling with more than a little awareness, she knew he knew it too.

‘We like to keep the temperature warm in here,’ he said, reaching for a towel, still not breaking eye contact, ‘for obvious reasons. There are costumes you can borrow any time you like.’

‘I’d rather not wear your girlfriend’s cast-offs,’ she replied, surprising herself with the acidity in her tone. But Sebastian? No, he seemed to find her response amusing.

‘The costumes are for guests. My girlfriend wouldn’t need one,’ he said, turning and offering her a view of his back that made her want to dig her nails into the defined musculature there. She tried to shake off whatever spell he’d cast on her as he wrapped the towel around his waist.

‘Breakfast?’ he asked, walking past her back to the door towards the main part of the house, his bare feet leaving quickly drying watermarks where he stepped. She suddenly had the strange desire to place her own foot within the imprint, to follow in his steps, to slip into this strange world of butlers, indoor pools and swimming naked that was most definitely not hers.

Sebastian was aware of Sia behind him as he stalked through the halls of his London apartment. It had never bothered him before, going straight from the pool to breakfast, he’d never cared that his feet were bare, his skin half dry, his hair still wet. But there was something about Sia...so buttoned-up and fully clothed that he was conscious of it all. Not self-conscious—no, his ego was far above such things. But he still reached for the white robe that his butler had left for him beside the table where breakfast had been placed.

He’d hoped that last night he’d imagined it. The power her beauty had on him. Tried to convince himself that it had been a trick of the light, or the shock of her intention, even the challenge that she presented. But no. It was still there. That unwavering sense of...electricity, energy arcing between them. And he couldn’t tell if she could feel it. Sometimes it seemed that she could and sometimes not.

He gestured for her to sit before he took his own seat. He ran his eyes over the breakfast table. A steaming pot of coffee, fresh fruit, croissants, a selection of meats and even a few boiled eggs. He nearly laughed. He wondered what Sia would say if he told her that he usually just had toast.

He doubted that she’d believe him.

‘Coffee?’ he offered. He was already pouring her a cup before she’d nodded her agreement.

‘So, is this what you do all day?’ she asked. ‘Swim, eat and luxuriate?’

‘You want to know what I do?’ he asked and, in doing so, pointed out the rather presumptuous, slightly defensive tone of her question, before playing right into her preconceptions. ‘As little as possible.’

Which, of course, was a lie. He’d worked through the night, finishing only at six that morning, dealing with a crisis in the Hong Kong hotel. In truth, he was exhausted, running on fumes and his hundredth cup of coffee in the last eight hours. Not that he would let her see that for a second.

Sia, in contrast, looked like a breath of fresh air. She wore a crisp white buttonless V-neck shirt tucked into high-waisted, wide-legged blue wool palazzo trousers. Given that, perhaps she had just been hot in the pool room. He got the distinct impression these were her work clothes. They were high quality and looked good on her—they’d have to, of course, especially if she were meeting sheikhs, royals, billionaires and whoever else might have their hands on hundreds of millions of pounds’ worth of art. But they didn’t necessarily feel like her.

He had to drag his eyes away as she reached for the coffee. The sight of her slender wrist, skin that had seemed pale