by Joss Wood
Ross deliberately yawned.
‘It’s sophisticated!’ Ally protested.
‘Dull,’ Ross countered, just to be argumentative. Okay, not the shoes, but everything else was. He was really enjoying the sparkle in those fire-blue eyes, the flush on her prominent cheekbones, watching her fight to keep her irritation under control. Damn, she was hot.
‘Why would you even consider linking Bellechier with Win!? They have nothing in common.’
‘They do! Of course they do—or else I wouldn’t have travelled twelve hours to see you.’
He tipped his head enquiringly. ‘Are you on crack?’
‘Hey! I’m not the one playing basketball at—’ she snapped a look at her watch ‘—twelve fifteen on a Wednesday morning in this heat! That’s insane!’
‘I suspect that my playing basketball when I should be working is what most offends your corporate sensibilities.’
He hadn’t thought that nose could be lifted any higher but she managed it.
‘I don’t care how you spend your time, or whether you give yourself heatstroke. I just want an opportunity to talk to you about a campaign.’
Ally looked away and he sensed that she was trying to keep her cool. When she looked at him again her face was devoid of expression but her eyes were still spitting spiders.
‘This isn’t the way I envisaged this conversation going... I don’t normally end up in arguments with potential ambassadors in the first five minutes of meeting them.’
‘You do it so well,’ Ross said, his voice super-bland. Time to stop baiting her, he thought. Jamming his hands into his pockets of his cargo shorts, he rocked on his heels. ‘Let’s get this over with, Ms Jones. Even if I was interested in exploring branding opportunities, I don’t see any obvious link between Win! and Bellechier. So—not interested.’
Ally chewed the inside of her cheek. ‘That’s not what my brother Luc thinks. He sends his regards, by the way.’
Luc? Did he know a Luc? A memory of meeting someone called Luc at his old school friend James Moreau’s thirtieth birthday party drifted into his head. And later at James’ sister Morgan’s wedding...
‘Luc? Tall, dark, partial to smokin’ hot blondes?’
Ally nodded. ‘That’s the one. Luc Bellechier-Smith—CEO, my boss and foster brother.’
Huh. He’d instinctively liked Luc—liked the Frenchman’s passion and sense of humour, his quick mind. He couldn’t imagine how and why he’d ended up having Miss Carrot-Up-Her-Bum for a sister—fostered or not.
‘What do you for the company?’
‘Brand and Image Director. Marketing and PR all falls under me.’
‘And it was his idea to approach me?’ he asked, now puzzled. He’d thought that Luc was smarter than that.
‘Yes. We’re talking at cross-purposes due to the fact that we got distracted,’ she said, implying that the distraction was all his fault. ‘We’re launching a new line...would you give me five minutes to explain? Properly?’ Ally looked at the building behind him. ‘Preferably inside, where I presume it’s cooler?’
‘Here is good.’ He was far too attracted to her as it was, and he really didn’t want to extend this torture session any longer. What was wrong with him? He knew women—knew how to deal with them, how to control his reaction to them. They never made him feel off balance, slightly crazy.
‘A boardroom would be better,’ Ally countered.
His eyes narrowed in warning and he knew that she’d caught the hint when she wrinkled her nose.
‘Okay, here it is, then. Never mind that my nose is going to burn and I’m going to freckle...’
He looked for freckles and could find the hint of them under her make-up. On her nose, across her cheeks.
‘Bellechier is launching a new line—’ Ally’s opening gambit was drowned out by a piercing whistle from a balcony on the second storey of RBM.
Ross excused himself and walked quickly towards the building. Eli, his friend and number two, stood gripping the balcony railing, an anxious look on his face.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Jac-tech have picked up a bug in that app we sent them to test and they are not happy. You need to smooth some ruffled feathers, pronto,’ Eli told him, waving his hands in the air.
Along with computer games, RBM also designed game apps for smartphones. It was a very lucrative part of their business.
‘It’s a brand new app...we told them it would have bugs.’ Ross slammed his hands on his hips. ‘Who has their panties in a wad? The suits or the tech?’
‘Suits,’ Eli replied. ‘Who else?’
Ross yanked the band from his hair and raked his hand through it. ‘Figures. Why can’t they keep their noses out of it?’
‘Because they are power-hungry control freaks?’ Eli threw his words back at him. ‘Get your ass up here and deal with it. I’m in development, you deal with the suits.’
‘Yeah, coming.’
Eli jerked his head. ‘Who’s the babe?’
Ross grinned and dropped his voice. ‘Another co-branding offer. Give me two minutes and tell Grace to video conference Paul at Jac-tech.’
Eli saluted and turned away. Conscious of the dull headache brewing behind his eyes, Ross spun around and walked back to the source of the pain in his butt. ‘I have to go.’
‘But—’
He should just tell her to get lost, that he wasn’t interested in any branding deals, but there was something about her—apart from her space-high hot factor—that intrigued him. It was those eyes, he realised, the layers and layers of blue. Confidence, sassiness, intelligence, and once or twice a flash of something deeper, darker. Wilder...
He knew he shouldn’t, but he did it anyway. ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.
‘The Riebeek.’
Of course she was. Stately, old, rich... His mouth twitched. It suited the boring clothes and the severe hair, but not the shoes. Those shoes intrigued the hell out of him. ‘Be in the lobby bar at seven-thirty. You can buy me a drink and have your five minutes.’
‘At least thirty minutes if I’m buying,’ Ally stated, in a don’t-mess-with-me voice.
‘Fifteen.’ Ross countered, backing away.
‘Twenty.’
‘Twenty minutes, two drinks.’ Ross whirled around and walked away. At the door, he glanced over his shoulder and sent her a wicked grin. ‘Kick-ass shoes, by the way.’
‘They’re from the new line—the one we want you to endorse. It’s not boring or snooty!’ Ally shouted at his back.
Ross had to smile.
He liked women who could think on their feet. And women with dimples.
* * *
Sitting at the long dark bar in the hotel that evening, Ally felt out of her depth—and she knew that it was all Ross Bennett’s fault.
She crossed one leg over the other and stared at her glass of icy white wine. She’d completely cocked up their first meeting and that never happened to her... She was always professional, calm and collected. She just hadn’t expected the CEO of RBM to be playing basketball at noon and looking so...
Incredible? Amazing? So super-freaking-perfect that her heart had tripped over itself and bounced off the inside of her ribcage? Ally bit the inside of her lip. Within ten seconds of seeing him she’d known that Ross Bennett had the elusive X-factor she needed for the face of the new line. In fact he had it in spades—along with the sexy-factor and the hot-factor and any
other damn factor she needed. That meant that Luc and Patric—the know-it-alls—had, essentially, done her job for her.
Ross would be abso-freaking-lutely perfect as the new face of Bellechier. If she, social hermit that she was, was conjuring up fantasies of ripping his clothes off with her teeth and getting him naked and on top of her as soon as humanly possible, then normal women—and not a few men—would do the same when they saw the commercials. At the very least it would make them buy Bellechier...
Lots and lots of Bellechier products. Holy smoke. The couple of random pictures she’d found on the net had not done justice to the sheer presence of the guy. He practically radiated charisma and testosterone and heat and sexiness, and that meant...dammit...that meant Luc and Patric were right.
Blergh.
Ally glanced at her watch, realised that she still had a while to wait for Ross and returned to the primary source of her aggravation—specifically her brothers. Ally wrinkled her nose, as always uncomfortable with the word. She wasn’t technically their sister—because the Bellechier-Smith family had never formally adopted her—but she had been part of their family since she was fifteen years old so what else could she call them? Anyway, they were the reason she was in Cape Town, and she was not amused because she now had to eat her words.
She hated it when that happened.
She adored Luc and Patric, and she knew that they were fond of her, but they weren’t close. When she’d arrived at Bellechier Estate as their foster sister they’d both been at university and living their own lives. To their credit, they had initially tried to connect with her but she’d been distant and wary and had resisted their easily offered comfort and compassion.
Because pushing people away and stuffing her emotions down rather than expressing them was what she had been taught to do. Her father’s motto had always been: Buck up, don’t cry, deal with it. That was just what he’d done when her mother had dumped on him the six-month-old daughter he’d never known about, and she supposed that was the way he’d dealt with life. How well he had taught her to do the same.
After losing her dad at fifteen, it had been easier, and far less scary, to withdraw into the bubble of self-sufficiency and emotional independence she’d created while living with her introverted, just-deal-with-it father. Thirteen years later and that bubble now had the thickness of a Sherman tank.
She’d had some therapy, and had attended sessions long enough to learn that she was ‘emotionally unavailable’—that her father’s insistence that emotions were wrong had, in the therapist’s words, ‘mucked her up’ for life. He had tolerated her only if she was reasonable and unemotional and, despite her foster parents’ encouragement to express and display her emotions, she’d never quite got the hang of it.
Emotions were messy and ugly. Indulging in them, allowing them to be a factor in her life, was like climbing into a small car the size of a sardine can and playing chicken with a F-17 fighter jet. Something was going to crash and burn and it wouldn’t be the fighter jet. No, it was far better to be sensible and safe.
Why was she even thinking about her past? Ally wondered, switching her thoughts back to the task on hand. She was good at that, she thought with a twist to her lips. She could always focus on work...it was the best way to distract herself from the memories and to keep her from thinking how empty her life was. Work was where she found silent companionship, where she felt safe, needed and valued. It was a harmless place to invest time and emotions.
So, Ross Bennett... He wasn’t a celebrity, an actor, a musician or a sportsperson. He was—she glanced at the folder on the seat next to her—an entrepreneur and the creator of a computer game. A computer game that was selling squijillions, apparently.
Ally recalled the conversation at a family dinner a couple of nights ago that had led to her leaving Geneva and heading south.
‘Run it by me again, Luc.’
Luc had tapped the stem of his glass with his finger. ‘Today’s heroes are not always sportsmen or actors or models. There are others who are doing amazing things...explorers, eco-warriors, conservationists.’
‘Titans, pioneers, visionaries...’ Patric added, leaning forward and placing his arms on the table. ‘Social media has changed the way we live our lives.’
‘Computers, gaming, technology.’ Luc snapped his fingers. ‘Entertainment, but not films or music.’ Luc’s face broke out into a smile as he snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it... That’s who I want.’
Oh, good grief, Ally thought, this is going to come out from left of field—far, far left. ‘Who?’
‘Ross Bennett.’ Patric leaned back in his chair and Luc raised his hand to high-five his brother. ‘Well, him and his game.’
‘Win!?’ Patric asked.
‘Win!’ Luc confirmed.
Patric whistled. ‘That’s pure genius.’
Win what? Ally wondered, seeing Luc’s satisfied smile. She exchanged a confused look with Gina, Patric’s wife. ‘Who?’
‘Ross Bennett,’ Luc said, as if she hadn’t heard the first time. ‘Win!’
‘Win what?’ Ally demanded, frustrated. ‘Stop talking in code!’
‘Ross is an ex-London-based entrepreneur who relocated to Cape Town. He is responsible for bringing some of the brightest computer geeks in the world together to create the best-selling computer game...ever. It’s a sports and leisure game called Win! He’s recently been named one of the most influential people in the world under thirty-five. He is also the founder of... Jeez, I can’t remember its name. but it’s some kind of technology think-tank that takes the brightest of the bunch—inventors, visionaries—and lets them work on developing new tech and systems to benefit developing countries.’
Blah, blah, Ally thought, scrabbling in her bag for her smartphone. ‘Yeah, but is he hot?’ She caught the dual rolling of eyes and prayed for patience. ‘He’s selling one of the most iconic brands in the world, hot is the minimum I require!’
‘He’s tall.’ Luc offered.
God save her from cretins, Ally thought, pulling up her search engine and typing his name in. Twenty seconds later her small screen was filled with a masculine, angular face dominated by a long nose and a rather gorgeous pair of hazel eyes. The goatee would have to go, and the highlights in his brown hair would need to be redone or taken out altogether. He wasn’t, looks-wise, in the league of their other ambassadors—although she was, admittedly, making that call on the basis of a couple of grainy photos on a very small screen.
But still...on a scale of one to ten he clocked in at seven, eight... She needed at the very least a twelve.
‘Jeez, Luc, I really don’t think so.’ Ally thought that they needed to play it safe, stick to what was trusted and true. ‘He just isn’t popping for me.’
Yeah, he was cute—but cute didn’t sell high-end merchandise. ‘Look, if you want someone different, who’s related to sports, then I’ll have another list of suitable candidates by morning. Suave, debonair, sophisticated candidates who match the brand.’
‘I don’t want someone who matches the brand. I want someone who brings a little extra. My gut instinct tells me that this is the guy,’ Luc stated, his voice taking on that tone that suggested that he was digging his feet in. ‘He’s a new breed of CEO—part bad-ass—’
Patric leaned across the table to interrupt him. ‘Did you hear about how he walked into a meeting with the boss of the biggest movie studio in Hollywood and then refused to give them the rights to adapt Win!
into a movie because they were too—as he later explained— “up their own ass corporate”?’
‘I read that he’s sold the rights to an independent, small company because they understand the vision of Win!. He’s very determined, very focused, and he marches to the beat of his own drum.’
Direct translation, Ally thought, prima donna. Just what she needed.
‘Luc, trust me on this. He’s not the right guy,’ Ally said in her most rational voice. She didn’t work well with people who coloured outside the lines. They confused her.
‘No, Alyssa, trust me,’ Luc responded. ‘I’ve met him a couple of times and I thinks he’s exactly who we are looking for. He’s rich and successful in his own right, even though he comes from a wealthy family. He’s in touch with a new generation of tech-savvy people who have money. He’s charismatic and interesting. I want you to go to Cape Town, meet the guy, and if you still think he’s the wrong choice then we’ll talk again.’
The wrong choice? Ally now thought. Hah! The perfect choice.
Her mobile rang and she glanced down at the name that flashed on the screen. Luc...of course. She slid her finger across the screen and answered the call.
‘Where are you?’
‘Waiting to meet Ross Bennett again,’ Ally replied in a resigned voice. ‘He’s a strong candidate.’
‘I am the man!’ Luc crowed with a loud, undignified whoop. Ally hoped that he was alone in his office and that nobody could hear his self-congratulations. ‘And that is why they pay me the big bucks, ladies and gentlemen!’
‘Yeah, Luc.... You are the man,’ Ally grumbled. ‘Luc one, Ally zero.’
Luc was silent for a minute before he spoke again. ‘Ally, you can’t possibly be upset because I had an idea that panned out...can you?’
‘Maybe a little,’ she admitted.
Luc’s chuckle was warm and affectionate in her ear. ‘You are such a pork chop, kid. We run Bellechier as a team effort—you know this. I might be the CEO but I frequently ask my dad for help and advice. When Patric gets stuck on a design he calls our mother and they talk it through. You can’t find the face and we’re trying to help you out. When are you going to stop taking everything so personally, sweetheart?’
