No Strings Christmas - Clare Connelly Page 0,1

I don’t mean a department-store overly manufactured smell. I don’t like men who are too fussy and vain. I like men who put a dab of something on in the morning, something masculine and woody, and then don’t think of it again, so it mingles with their own hormones, and Zach Papandreo has got some kind of magical smell. I try not to breathe him in but there’s some serious testosterone at play here. And is it any wonder?

Apart from being one half of a global media-mogul team—he and his twin brother own everything from television stations to radio networks to newspapers, magazines, websites, blogs and news apps all over the world—he is an undeniable playboy. Playboy? What am I, my mother? Try man whore. I don’t mean that with even a hint of disapproval. He’s renowned for his business nous and an aggressive investment strategy but, more than that, this half of the Papandreo brothers is renowned for the speed with which he goes through beautiful, glamorous lovers.

I’m not sure if he reads gossip blogs—I don’t—but the app and online community I founded a few years back—She-Shakes—seems to get a lot of Zach Papandreo memes posted in there—shirtless ones get the most clicks. And I can see why.

Va-va-voom.

The bartender delivers Zach’s drink; I lift mine towards it. ‘Jessica Johnson.’

He grins again, clinking our glasses together. ‘I feel like I’d remember meeting you, but your name’s familiar.’

My smile briefly falters. ‘You’re probably thinking of my father—Clive Johnson?’

‘Him I’ve heard of. I’ve met him a few times actually.’

No surprises there. Dad and this guy are cut from the same cloth and undoubtedly move in the same circles. I turn away, taking a drink of my Scotch until it burns all the way down.

‘But no, I’m sure it’s you I’m thinking of.’

I purse my lips. ‘Really? Is that a line or are you being genuine?’

He laughs again and my whole body responds. My nipples tighten against the silk of my bra, my stomach clenches and heat fires in my veins.

‘What do you do?’

I know he means for work, but I can’t help flirting. I lean a little closer, my eyes locked to his in a way that is laced with suggestion. ‘Do?’ I sip my Scotch, not dropping my gaze.

His laugh is just a short sound now, husky and showing he has heard every hint of my suggestiveness and is returning it with his own.

I smile and lean back, more confident. ‘I founded an online community, and a couple of years ago launched an app alongside it.’

He clicks his fingers. ‘For women. The one that helps with job prospects and the like. She—She something.’

He’s legitimately heard of me? ‘She-Shakes,’ I supply, surprised.

‘Right. You’re killing it.’

Pride hums inside me. It was a simple idea that kind of blew up into something much, much bigger. We’re practically global now; the biggest hurdle is finding the support structures in each region.

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m serious. You work with women who are looking for jobs?’

I shake my head, brushing aside the over-simplification. ‘It’s so much more than that. We’re an all-service programme for women. Yes, we offer job-prospect advice including how to rewrite CVs, premarital financial counselling, post-marriage financial counselling.’ My lips twist cynically for a minute as I think of how many women use the latter service and how few the former. I see something spark in the depth of Zach’s eyes, as though he understands the slight scepticism that colours my words. ‘We help with salary negotiations and legal advice for all sorts of work-related situations.’

‘Impressive. And your user base?’

‘We have over five million clients worldwide.’

‘On a subscription service?’

I nod. ‘It’s a modest fee for what we offer and we make sure we offer a percentage of our enrolment free every year. This isn’t a money-making venture.’ I frown. ‘At least, it wasn’t intended to be.’

He laughs. ‘So what you’re saying is you’re making a shitload of money without meaning to?’

I sip my drink, not smiling. ‘I reinvest almost all of the profits into building the community.’

His eyes are serious as they hold mine. ‘You’re an altruist.’

‘And you’re a capitalist.’

‘You think you can’t be both?’

I lift my shoulders. ‘I’m not sure.’

He grins. ‘Nor am I.’ He chinks our glasses together once more, but this time he keeps his arm resting on the bar, creating a sort of frame around my body. I make no attempt to move away from him. I like being close—the intimacy warms me to the pit of my stomach.

‘And now you’re looking