“Not tonight,” Stella said. “There’s a man in the outer office asking for you. And, honey, if I were ten years younger, I’d be all over that.”

“What man?” A trickle of apprehension slid through her.

“Tall, tan, and British. That voice. Mmm, mmm. I’ll send him in.”

“Wait—” But Stella had already gone. Monica had spent the entire day pushing Cal out of her mind, and now he’d popped up in person. Why wouldn’t he just leave her alone?

Quickly, she pulled out a compact she kept in her desk. Gazing into the tiny mirror, she ran her fingers through her hair, then snapped it shut in disgust and threw it back in the drawer. She wasn’t going out with him. She’d firmly tell him no and get him to accept it this time. And if her makeup was a mess, so what?

Monica’s hand flew to the hollow of her throat as she stood. With shaky fingers, she fastened the top two buttons on her shirt. She probably looked Amish, but she didn’t care.

Cal walked in a moment later. The tattered jeans from this morning had been replaced by a slightly less faded pair, which he teamed with a black button-down. He’d rolled the sleeves up to reveal his lean, tanned forearms. The stubble from this morning had disappeared, leaving his face smooth. Groomed or not—the man looked sinfully hot either way.

“Had a good day, love?”

“What are you doing here?” In spite of her best intentions, Monica’s gaze slowly slid over him. He even wore a pair of black motorcycle boots. Goddamn it. Was he trying to make her come on the spot? If he flashed another glimpse of that tattoo, it was a real possibility.

She forced her eyes back up to his face. To that irritating smirk he wore.

“We were having dinner, remember?”

“No, we weren’t. I told you I had to work.”

He snapped his fingers. “That’s right, so you did.” He glanced around, taking in the picture window that framed the orange sun hanging low in the sky. “You spend all day, every day, in this little box, do you?”

“It’s called an office. People work in rooms like this all over the world.” Being in such a small space with him made her muscles tighten. Tension, electric and immediate, thrummed through her body. She needed to be on her guard, ready for combat.

“Reminds me of a zoo,” he said and began wandering around. He took in the framed photos of various distinguished events and tapped the glass of one picture. “You look good in blue,” he said with his back to her. When he turned, his leaf-green eyes flickered in assessment, taking in her high-collared blouse. “I think I like you best in red, though. Dark red.”

Monica’s gaze traveled over the pictures on the wall. She wore subdued colors in all of them. She hadn’t worn red in years, unless lingerie counted for something. With both hands, she tugged on the hem of her jacket, hyperaware of the way he kept staring at her.

After a few drawn-out seconds, Cal pivoted and continued to peruse the room. He sauntered to the opposite wall and stopped in front of a large oil portrait. “In loving memory of Patricia Campbell. You named the foundation after your mother?”

“Trevor did.” Monica faced the desk and adjusted the angle of her laptop. She couldn’t look at him. If she did, her defenses would weaken. Hell, they were threadbare as it was. Her stomach fluttered every time he rumbled something in that deep, sexy voice—Jason Statham crossed with James Bond. And he smelled good too—crisp and woodsy. His aftershave came wafting toward her with each step he took.

Immune. Immune. The word kept running through her mind like a chant. She clung to it as if it were a talisman.

“You look just like your mum, except your lips are fuller, especially the upper one.” He faced her then, and her eyes sought him, as if they had a will of their own. Cal’s were riveted on her mouth. When she nervously bit her lower lip, that steady gaze never wavered.

“Thank you,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Look, I still have work to do, so…”

With long, graceful strides, he walked over and dropped into her guest chair. “No worries, I’ll wait.”

How was she supposed to get any work done with him sitting there, looking at her as if he were starving and she was a T-bone? She desperately wished she hadn’t buttoned her shirt all the way up to her neck, because the scratchy, stiff material was starting to itch.

In an effort to regain some control, she sat down and placed her hands flat on the top of her desk. Monica focused on his Adam’s apple. If she looked too deeply into those eyes, she’d fold faster than a lowball poker player with a handful of aces. “Cal, I’m not having dinner with you. I’m going to finish my to-do list and go home.”

“Oh my, I think I popped a bit of a boner just now.” He grabbed his chest with one hand. “To-do lists have that effect on me.”

Monica rolled her lips inward to prevent a grin. “Remind me not to show you my spreadsheet. You’ll never be the same.” Oh God, why was she flirting back?

“You, Monica Campbell, know how to put the sin in Sin City.”

He was the tiniest bit amusing. Still, if she gave him half an inch, he’d have her flat on her back in under a minute. She knew herself too well to pretend otherwise. That bad girl part of Monica had been hibernating for the past few years, but the minute Cal Hughes blew into town, it had started to wake up and rattle around inside the tight little cage where Monica kept it. Cal represented Old Monica—the shot-slamming, bad boy–loving, promiscuous girl she used to be. Immune, remember?

“It was so nice of you to drop by, Cal, but I really have a lot of work to finish.”

“Are you seriously going to sit here and cross off items on a list, rather than have dinner with me?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head in mock sadness. “I’m profoundly disappointed. Wouldn’t you rather take in a show? Or better yet, we could hit the craps table. Ever wonder what it’s like to place a ten-thousand-dollar chip on one roll of the dice? I’ll give you a hint,” he whispered, cupping both hands around his mouth. “It’s thrilling.”

Monica set her jaw. “Do you know how much good you could do with ten thousand dollars?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh God, I can’t bear the earnestness. Fine, I’ll make out a check to the foundation. But only if you come play with me tonight. You’ll have fun, I promise.”

Monica knew she sounded sanctimonious. Trevor had a boatload of money, and she never begrudged him a penny…mainly because he gave a ton of it away. But Cal was so tempting, she felt like Eve staring at a bright, shiny apple.

If he gave a donation, then that would make this a legitimate business dinner.

Sort of.

And the foundation could always use the money.

“You’re rather stubborn, aren’t you?” he asked. “Tell you what.” Standing, he dug into his front pocket and pulled out a silver coin. “Heads, you come out with me. Tails, I pick up takeaway and we’ll eat here.” He flipped the coin a foot into the air and caught it in his right hand. Holding it in his fist, he smiled. “Can you stand the anticipation? My breath is absolutely bated.”

“Cal…”

He slapped it on the back of his hand. “Oh look, Her Majesty’s lovely face. Out for dinner it is.” He stuck the coin back in his pocket without showing it to her.

“That’s cheating,” she said, pointing at him. “It could have been tails.”

“You’ll never prove it.” Placing his hands on her desk, he leaned in. “Since I took a cab, we’ll have to drive your car. The Mustang’s still not running properly. Hurry now, chop-chop.”

She thought about arguing some more, but he was just as determined as she was. And she’d never get anything done with him sitting across from her, smelling so good and looking even better. Giving in to the inevitable, Monica shut down her computer. “Just dinner. Then I’m going home.”

Cal watched her pack her bag with a look of smug satisfaction. “If that’s what you really want.”