Dragging her gaze off his hard profile, Jordan let out a shaky breath. Had she done something wrong? Aside from forgetting to put her seatbelt on?
She glanced down and—Oh...
Oh, no...
Was that what he’d seen? The clear outline of her hardened nipples thrusting like little beacons of desire against her cotton bra and T-shirt?
Heat suffused her face. Mortified, she folded her arms over her breasts.
For heaven’s sake. What was wrong with her? With her body? It wasn’t as if she’d never met an attractive man before. Her ex, with his square jaw, dark blond hair and deep blue eyes, had always drawn more than his share of female attention and probably still did.
But Josh had always had to touch her—intimately—to induce this sort of powerful, conspicuous reaction.
If Xavier could have this effect without even touching her, what would happen if he actually put his hands on her?
She hugged her arms more tightly over her chest. Spontaneous combustion came to mind.
Which was silly as much as it was unsettling. She didn’t even believe in this sort of thing. Not really. Plain old physical attraction she understood, but the much more abstract concept of chemistry...? Not so much.
Whenever she’d heard sex described with words such as explosive and mind-blowing and electric, she’d always dismissed them as exaggeration or pure fiction. Sex with Josh had been enjoyable for the most part, but she didn’t remember ever feeling any lightning strikes of sensation or ‘explosions’ of pleasure. Orgasms for her had been a rather hit and miss affair—secondary to Josh’s release—and on the occasions when she had climaxed it had been satisfying, but hardly a ‘mind-blowing’ event. And, because Josh had seemed to know what he was doing, she’d never imagined there was much more to sex beyond what she’d experienced with him.
Anyway, sexual chemistry was supposed to be a mutual thing, wasn’t it? Whatever she’d glimpsed in Xavier’s eyes had looked more like anger than arousal—or maybe even disgust. Which was mortifying on a whole other level. Clearly he was not attracted to redheads with modest curves and pale skin covered in too many freckles.
That conclusion was enough to douse any lingering heat—for which she was grateful. Who wanted to feel attracted to someone who very obviously didn’t fancy them back?
No, thanks. She’d learned at the tender age of six how much rejection hurt. Twenty years later she knew better than to make herself vulnerable to that kind of pain again. She’d made a mistake with Josh, but she’d been smart enough to realise it and she had been the one to walk away. And although her heart had felt a bit bruised, and she’d shed a few tears, she hadn’t ended up bitter and disillusioned.
She knew that good men existed in the world because her dad had been a gentle, loving man. She simply had to make wiser choices when it came to relationships and men.
Mr Right was out there somewhere.
And he most certainly wasn’t the man sitting beside her.
* * *
Some eight hours later Jordan woke from a nap she hadn’t planned on having. Memory crept in slowly, reminding her where she was, so when she opened her eyes she wasn’t startled by the unfamiliar surroundings.
She sat up on the bed and noted the shallow angle of the sunlight slanting into the room, suggesting the sun had commenced its evening descent. She checked her watch and was startled to find she had slept for well over an hour.
She hadn’t meant to sleep at all. She’d only intended to lie down for a minute or so, just long enough to determine if the ornate iron-framed canopy bed, with its diaphanous white curtains and the thick mattress layered in soft snowy linens, was as comfortable as it looked.
It was.
And she had never slept in anything so luxurious. Or so enormous.
It must have been the sheer comfort combined with the fresh air and exercise she’d enjoyed that afternoon that had sent her off to sleep.
She scooted off the bed, walked barefoot over sumptuous pale carpet to the French doors that led to a private balcony and stepped out to appreciate the magnificent view.
From here she could see the path she’d taken on her solitary walk after lunch, zigzagging down no less than six beautifully landscaped terraces to a white strip of sandy beach at the foot of the hill.
Directly beneath her lay the longest section of the wide natural stone terrace that wrapped around three sides of the villa, complete with an inviting infinity pool and the shaded alfresco area where she’d eaten the scrumptious lunch Rosa had prepared for her—which, aside from the housekeeper’s brief appearances to check everything was okay and to clear away the dishes, had been another solitary affair.
She hadn’t been all that surprised when Xavier had returned to work rather than accompanying her to his villa. Everything she’d read about him painted him as focused and driven, so there were probably very few things that would lure him away from his work responsibilities on a weekday afternoon.
This morning, in the car, he’d only ended his call as they’d pulled up outside the Vega Tower. ‘My housekeeper, Rosa, will greet you at the villa and get you settled in,’ he’d said, his tone impeccably polite, and then he and Juan had got out, leaving just her and the driver.
Jordan would have tried to chat with the man if not for the dark glass partition between them. Instead she’d focused on the scenery as they’d exited the city, her interest sharpening when, after about thirty minutes, they’d started to climb, weaving up and up through large, sloping groves of olive and citrus trees until finally they’d levelled out at a location that offered glorious views across the glittering blue of the Balearic Sea.
Rosa had appeared on the stone steps at the villa’s entrance before they’d even drawn to a stop. The fifty-something housekeeper had a neat salt-and-pepper bob and a broad, welcoming smile, and she hadn’t seemed at all fazed by receiving a house guest at short notice.
She’d shown Jordan her room and given her a tour of the main living areas, all of which were light and spacious and luxurious beyond anything she’d ever seen. The grounds were beautiful, too. Outside on one of the upper terraces Rosa had introduced her husband, Alfonso, who worked as the chief groundsman, and their grown-up nephew, Delmar, who was helping his uncle with some landscaping.
The whole place was gorgeous. And tranquil. A home only a billionaire could afford.
Too bad he probably spent more time at work than here, enjoying his amazing home.
Turning away from the stunning view, she went inside and took a shower in the massive en suite bathroom, and afterwards pulled on a pair of navy dress jeans and a short-sleeved white blouse. She hadn’t thought to ask Rosa about the dress code for dinner, and she’d never dined with a billionaire in his home before, so ‘smart casual’ seemed the safest option.
After tying her hair into a loose knot at her nape, she checked the time and decided to make an appearance ten minutes earlier than Rosa had recommended. If her host was a stickler for punctuality she’d rather be early than even a minute late.
The villa was so big she took two wrong turns on her way to the formal dining room before she finally located it. Pausing in the hallway, she touched a hand to her hair, took a deep breath and then walked into the room. Rosa was there and Jordan smiled at her, then shifted her gaze to the long dining table—and the single place-setting at one end.
Before she’d fully processed the implication of that single setting, Rosa said quickly, ‘Ho sento, molt. Senyor de la Vega sends his apologies. He must work late.’
Her heart sank. After all the nervous anticipation, discovering she would be dining alone—again—was a huge let-down.