Off Limits

  “I want to taste you tonight.”

  With chemistry this hot, it’s worth getting burned...

  Billionaire Jack Grant is totally off-limits to Gemma Picton. He’s wild, deliciously dangerous...and her boss. When working late turns X-rated, it’s better than her wildest imaginings—and Gemma’s imagined a lot! But Jack has major emotional baggage, so when Gemma starts wanting to heal his heart as well as enjoy his body, she knows she’s in big trouble...

  “Dare is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

  —Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author

  CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia amongst a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a sure-fire sign that she’s in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boons continue to be her favourite ever books. Writing for Mills & Boon is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or her Facebook page.

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  Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

  Off Limits

  Clare Connelly

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  ISBN: 978-1-474-07109-3

  OFF LIMITS

  © 2018 Clare Connelly

  Published in Great Britain 2018

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

  By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

  ® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  This book is for romance readers everywhere, who fall in love again and again with the characters of our creation.

  You give our stories life just by reading them.

  Thank you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Back Cover Text

  About Bio

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Extract

  Prologue

  The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

  Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

  Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

  For nothing now can ever come to any good.

  —WH Auden

  ‘YOU’VE GOT THE Prime Minister calling in ten minutes.’

  Jack nods, showing not a flicker of response at the prospect of this. Then again, nothing about Jack Grant is what you’d expect. For a self-made billionaire-investor-cum-philanthropist-cum-sex-god, he is wild, disrespectful of authority and the establishment, and rough around the edges. Deliciously so.

  Take this situation: Jack, in his bed, naked as the day he was born, uncaring that he should have been at his desk an hour ago. That I can see most of his beautiful back and backside. That my insides are clenching with hot, steamy lust.

  ‘About...?’

  It’s a lazy drawl as he flips over and pierces me with those intelligent green eyes. His accent is pure Irish brogue. Like Colin Farrell after a night of cigarettes and booze: deep, hoarse and throaty.

  ‘The latest episode of The Great British Bake Off.’

  I roll my eyes. We’ve been negotiating to buy a huge swathe of Crown land for the last six months; it’s at the highest level of negotiation and, given the media interest, the Prime Minister has become involved.

  ‘What do you think?’

  His laugh is a rumble that barrels out of his chest. ‘Well, every man needs a good scone recipe.’

  ‘And you’ve got one?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He grins. It’s a grin that is at once devilish and charming, and I know how easy it must be for him to get women into bed. And that’s before you factor in the body, the money, the power.

  ‘Nine minutes,’ I snap.

  His grin unfurls like a ribbon on his face. My heart kerthunks. I ignore it. Stupid heart.

  ‘Did you book Sydney?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He arches a brow at my impatient tone and, as if to contradict it, stretches in the bed, his arms high over his head, his body gloriously on display for me.

  ‘And, Amber?’

  I don’t mean to sigh but when the Prime Minister’s office is calling I feel there should be some air of responsiveness. Jack, apparently, doesn’t agree.

  ‘All arranged.’

  Lucy’s sister is taking a year’s sabbatical from her job as an executive at a bank to manage the foundation’s start-up year. She’s insanely qualified and personally motivated.

  ‘Salary agreed; she’ll be based out of Edinburgh, as we discussed.’

  He nods, but makes no effort to move.

  ‘Seriously, Jack. Eight minutes. Get the hell up, already.’

  ‘Ouch. Did you get out of the wrong side of bed this morning?’

  He runs his fingers down his chest, drawing my attention to the ridges of his abdomen, the flesh so perfectly smooth and sculpted. My mouth is bone-dry.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re even crosser than usual,’ he teases, and my lips tighten impatiently.

  As it happens, he’s right. I got The Invitation this morning. The one that arrives every year, beckoning me to come and pay homage to my parents’ marriage.

  Ugh.

  It’s my least favourite social event—and the one time I’m forced to remember who I really am. The one time a year my parents recall me to the mother ship, reminding me that no matter what I do, professionally or personally, I’ll always be Gemma Picton. Lady Gemma Picton.

  Ugh.

  ‘Sit down. Tell me all a
bout it.’

  He pats the bed beside him and I roll my eyes again, hoping he won’t know how sorely I’m tempted. Just once I imagine giving in to this—the electrical current that is arcing between us. I never would...never could. He is as off-limits as hell is hot—the stuff of fantasies and nightmares.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Personal stuff,’ I say, and he shrugs.

  But there’s curiosity in his eyes. A curiosity I have to ignore. Along with desire. Lust. Want. Need.

  We have our boundaries and we definitely know better than to cross them.

  Jack pushes the sheet off, exposing the tattoo that curls across his lower back and snakes around his hips to the tops of his legs. It must have hurt like hell to get it done—especially on the skin of his thighs, right near his cock.

  I asked him once why he’d got it. His answer? ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  He doesn’t care that I see him naked. It’s not the first time and undoubtedly won’t be the last. Sometimes I wonder if he’s goading me, waiting for me to react. After all, it’s classic workplace sexual harassment.

  Except it isn’t. Because I’m not harassed.

  I’m amused. And more than a little turned on.

  In the two years since I started working for Jack I’ve probably seen him naked on average once per week. That’s over a hundred stare-fests and he is totally worth staring at. I don’t think he used to be like this. Before this there was her.

  Lucy.

  His wife.

  But she got sick and died, and two months later I came to work for him and he was like this. Dark and brooding and desirable and sexy and messed up and mourning and fascinating.

  This sleeping with anything in a skirt is post-Lucy. Same as the copious Scotch-drinking afterwards. It’s sensual self-flagellation but he won’t see it that way.

  So, no matter how much I want to stare at his naked arse, I know he’s for looking at—not touching. Like when Grandma used to take me shopping at her favourite Portmeirion boutique and I was allowed to stare at the intricate floral and botanical artwork for hours on end, but never, ever to touch.

  Because touching might lead to breaking—and, yes, touching Jack would, I fear, break me.

  ‘See something you like?’

  Another drawl—he’s so good at that. He lets words slide out of his mouth like liquid chocolate.

  ‘Nope.’ My smile is saccharine. ‘Seven minutes.’

  I spin on my heel and leave, a smile playing around my lips as desire pools between my legs.

  * * *

  Gemma is staring at me, and the mood I’m in I feel about two steps away from going all ‘Me Tarzan, You Jane’ on her. I want to grab her round the waist and pull her down on my length. No foreplay. No teasing. Just her...taking me deep.

  In my fantasy she’s not wearing panties and she’s left her brain at the door—because real-life Gemma would quote me a thousand reasons not to have sex even as she was moaning in my arms.

  Last night was fun. At least, it started off as fun. But the woman I brought here...Rebecca? Rowena?...talked too much.

  She’d wanted to be romanced.

  I wanted to screw.

  So I gave her cab fare and showed her the door.

  And now I have a raging hard-on and an assistant—she hates it when I call her that, so I do it often, even though she’s technically my in-house counsel—who seems to have moved into my sexual fantasies permanently. When did that happen?

  I rack my brain, trying to pinpoint the moment I went from observing her to obsessing over her. From looking dispassionately at her in those suits she wears one day, and the next imagining how long it would take me to strip her out of one.

  I don’t think it was one day, though, because that implies some switch was flicked. No, I think it was a look as she got into my helicopter in Spain. A laugh over dinner. Hearing her hum as she stared out of a window, her mind obviously running at a million miles an hour.

  Then there was that blackout we were once caught in at the City office. The fire alarm shut the place down, closing us inside an elevator for close on an hour, with just the dim flicker of emergency lights that made her legs look so long and smooth. By the time they cranked the doors I was about ready to pin her to the carpeted floor and screw her senseless.

  Yeah, that was probably the moment I realised how much trouble I was in.

  I’m not interested in a relationship. But I do want to fuck her. And I think she wants it, too. I’ve seen the way her caramel eyes drop to my arse when she thinks I’m not looking.

  But I’m always looking lately.

  Chapter One

  SHE MIGHT AS well be naked. The dress is skin-tight, bright red and low-cut. Tiny straps slip over her shoulders. The dress is short, too. Not indecently short but, Jesus, her legs are long and smooth, and while she’s wearing that dress I find it impossible to look away.

  She’s hotter than any woman here—and that’s saying something, given that this launch event has brought together most of London’s elite. There are models, actresses, singers, athletes, and lots of those women who’ve married for money and now make it their life’s work to live up to their husbands’ expectations.

  And then there’s Gemma.

  Her blond hair is pulled into a ballerina bun, her face is serious and her body is like pale silk that I want to wrap around me.

  She’s said something funny, going by the way the guy with her leans forward and laughs. Is he her date? A frown pulls at my brow. I stare harder. Did she bring a date? Isn’t she technically here as my plus-one?

  Seeing her with another guy does something dangerous to my equilibrium. A possessive impulse threads through me, knotting at my chest.

  I pull a couple of champagne flutes from a passing waiter and cut through the room. I’m aware of people trying to get my attention but I have no time for them. Gemma is in my sights.

  ‘Jack...’

  Her lips purse as I approach; her eyes flick to me in that way she has. How is it possible for one person to imbue a simple gesture with a measure of cold disdain even when there’s the hint of a smile somewhere in that symmetrical face of hers?

  I hand her a glass of champagne and she takes it, her fingers briefly wrapping over mine. Immediately my mind puts them elsewhere on my body.

  ‘You remember Wolf DuChamp?’ she says. ‘He manages our accounts in New York.’

  I remember his stupid name, but not the man himself. Nothing memorable about blond, pretty-boy looks and that air of Ivy League he seems to wear like a coat.

  ‘Sure.’ I extend my hand, knowing I have to meet the convention even when my body is singularly focussed on Gemma.

  ‘Good to see you again, sir.’

  Gemma’s lips quiver. I hate being called ‘sir’ and she knows it. Out of nowhere I have an image of her saying it to me, bent at the knees, her eyes moving up my body to meet mine as her lips clamp down on my length. Okay, maybe in some circumstances I could make an exception...

  What the hell am I thinking? These fantasies are one thing, but screwing Gemma cannot happen.

  Cannot happen. Might as well get that tattoo added to my collection.

  ‘I was just explaining the software overhaul we’re looking at to Gem.’

  Is he trying to piss me off? First of all by removing the very nice image I was enjoying by talking about software. And then by referring to Gemma as ‘Gem’—as though they’re best buddies who paint their nails together.

  ‘I’ll summarise it for you later,’ she says, sensing my impatience though I suspect not the reason for it.

  ‘It’ll make a huge difference to our operations,’ Wolf pushes.

  ‘Gem’ angles her body a bit, turning away from me, giving me a chance to escape.

  ‘I’ll look into the feasibility. The problem is going to be short-term. We’ll need to make sure the systems are protected during the transfer of data. You handle som
e of our most sensitive work—a data breach would be unacceptable.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that, too,’ Wolf carries on—and I am dismissed, it would appear.

  Across the room a platinum blonde with a sensational rack and legs that go on forever is trying to catch my eye.

  I want Gemma, but I can’t have her. And I’m not one to wallow in self-pity. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.

  I have two rules when it comes to the women I fuck.

  No commitment.

  No redheads.

  Commitment was for Lucy.

  And Lucy was a redhead.

  I freeze. A vision of Lucy is in front of me, a scowl of disapproval on her face. I messed around a fair bit before we met, but nothing like this. I’ve taken it to a whole new level and I don’t care. Except for that scowl. Even in death I don’t want to upset Lucy.

  What did you expect, Luce? You left me a pretty big void to fill.

  Don’t blame me, I hear her snap back. Your life. Your choice.

  Yeah, right.

  My eyes wander of their own accord back to Gemma. She’s got her head bent now, and Wolf’s fingers are typing something into his cell phone. She nods and smiles, then presses a hand to his forearm. My stomach rolls on a surge of emotion I don’t much care for.

  I stalk towards the blonde as though she is the only woman in the room.

  ‘I’m Jack Grant.’

  Her lips are painted a bright red. She purrs. ‘I know who you are.’

  ‘Then you have the advantage.’

  Her lips part. ‘From what I hear, telling you my name wouldn’t serve much purpose. You won’t remember it tomorrow, right?’

  I laugh, appreciating her honesty. ‘No...’ I lean forward so that my lips are only a whisper from her ear. My breath flutters her hair and I see a fine trail of goose bumps run across her skin. ‘But you’ll remember me for the rest of your life.’

  Her laugh is husky. She’s everything I would usually find sexy, but in that moment she’s just passably acceptable. If I’m honest, I’m bored. It’s a phone-it-in flirt. A What the heck? situation.

 
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