No Strings Christmas - Clare Connelly

CHAPTER ONE

‘MACALLAN, ON THE ROCKS.’ I tap my freshly manicured fingers against the top of the polished bar, sliding onto one of the stools, not daring to meet my own expression in the bevelled-edged mirror that hangs behind the service area.

I probably look exactly how I feel.

Frazzled and cross.

Fuck my fucking family.

I breathe out slowly, so my dark side-swept fringe lifts a little, landing with a soft thud against my brow. Why did I let my sister talk me into this?

‘You can’t not come home for Christmas, Jessica. It’ll kill Mum.’

Yeah, yeah. I’m a sucker and it’s Christmas—a time for family togetherness and all that schmaltzy warm, fuzzy crap that I usually love, but, ugh! This is the last place I want to be but, just like the good daughter I’m doing my best not to be, I stupidly boarded that plane and came back to Singapore. Except one hour with my parents, my perfect older sister and my sister’s creepy, sleazy, perfect-on-paper husband has reminded me exactly why I’ve made a life for myself in London. And despite the guilt trip my family tries to lay on me, London always will be home. It’s where I spent the first ten years of my life, and it’s where I feel most ‘me’. Plus, when I’m on the other side of the world I only have to see my family a few times a year.

Like this—Christmas.

The bartender puts the Scotch down in front of me and I nod in thanks, lifting my phone to indicate I’ll tap it as payment. He hands over the machine and without looking at the price I press my phone to the device. Several email notifications are sitting on my screen. I’ll check those in a minute. Once I’ve calmed down and got some fresh air.

Well, as fresh as it can be in a bar. For the first time since walking in, I let my eyes drift around this place. It’s long been a favourite of mine and as such is haunted with memories—good and bad. I’ve had a lot of important conversations here. Not to mention that time with sleaze ball Simon, aka my brother-in-law, when he calmly suggested we might like to have sex, you know, no big deal. And of course he did it in a way that almost sounded like a joke, because that’s a skill serial philanderers have; but I knew he wasn’t joking. Bastard. I grip my Scotch as though it’s a lifeline, lifting it to my lips.

The familiar pungency warms me immediately.

Heaven.

Relief.

I’m going to be okay. This is only two weeks.

Two weeks! Why did I come so early? Why didn’t I just wait until December twenty-third?

Because of Dad’s birthday—in a couple of days. It’s a milestone—though he’ll never admit that to anyone outside the family. I think my dad harbours some kind of fantasy that, despite having been at the helm of several blue-chip multinational corporations for the past four decades, and having a daughter who’s thirty-two—Jemima—and me, twenty-eight, people might still believe he’s only fifty.

‘You’re about to strangle that bloody glass, you know.’ A deep, husky Australian accent has almost the same effect on my body as the Scotch. Warm and soothing, it reaches inside me, spreading warmth and pleasure like smoke.

I tilt my head slowly. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see. This is a pretty prestigious institution so not exactly a beach bum, but the only Australian men I’ve ever known all boasted a certain air of salty, sandy dishevelment—just the way I like it. This man is not that.

In fact, this man is...

My eyes widen as realisation dawns.

‘Zach Papandreo?’

His laugh is just as husky and sensual as his opening line would have suggested. His grin sends shards of awareness through me.

‘Have we met?’

‘No. Let’s just say your reputation precedes you.’

‘That doesn’t seem fair.’

‘You think there’s something wrong with your reputation?’

His grin widens and he stands up so I get to appreciate the full six and a bit feet of him, his lean yet muscular frame in a dark grey suit with a blue and white striped shirt. No tie—the top two buttons are undone, revealing his neck and a hint of coarse chest hair. My stomach flips.

‘Depends.’ He lifts his shoulders as he moves to the stool opposite me, pointing at my drink then holding up a finger to indicate he’d like one of what I’m having. A quick glance shows me the bartender has seen and is already complying.

‘So?’

I’m a sucker for male fragrance.