And then his gaze shifted to her hair, moving over the wild mass of honey-blonde curls that more often than not defied her efforts to tame them. Which was why she always, always restrained her hair in a tight chignon for work.
Wishing again that she’d left it up, she tugged the end of a thick curl. ‘It’s a little wild.’ She sounded almost apologetic. ‘I was going to put it back up. If you wait a minute—’
Ramon caught her wrist before she could turn away. ‘Don’t.’ His voice was deep, gruff. ‘Your hair is beautiful.’
Her heart gave a little jolt, as if his touch had cranked up the voltage on her awareness and fired a tiny electric charge through her body. ‘Actually, it’s a nightmare,’ she said, brushing off the compliment and ignoring the small dart of pleasure that pierced her.
He released her, and though it was fanciful she imagined she could still feel the warm imprint of his fingers on her skin.
‘I like it.’ His lips curved and she wondered how many women had fallen prey to that lazy, sensual smile. ‘Are you ready?’
Because it was too late to back out, she made herself nod. ‘I’ll just grab my bag.’
Reluctant to invite him in, she left Ramon at the door while she slipped her phone and a few other essentials into a silver clutch and grabbed the velvet wrap she’d left on her bed when choosing her outfit.
On the landing, she stopped to lock the door and glanced at Ramon. ‘This wasn’t necessary, you know. I told you, I could have met you at your club.’
‘Are those the kind of men you normally date?’
She looked at him sharply and felt heat creep into her cheeks. It had been a long time since any man had taken her on a date. ‘Excuse me?’
‘The kind who are happy to let you traipse across the city alone at night?’
Hearing his sharp tone, she turned to him. ‘This isn’t a date.’ She slipped her keys into her clutch. ‘And we might be business partners, but I don’t think my personal safety falls under your purview.’
She headed towards the stairs and Ramon fell into step beside her.
‘Perhaps not,’ he said. ‘But it would be very inconvenient if something happened to you.’
She shot him a sidelong glance. His profile looked stern, but there’d been a teasing lilt to his voice.
‘I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’ She had, after all, been doing it for a long time. ‘Believe it or not, I’m even rather good at it.’
‘Yet you live in a building that isn’t secure.’
As they started down the stairs, Ramon cupped her elbow and the brush of his fingers was warm, light and not entirely unwelcome. After six years she was familiar with the carpeted stairs that led to her beloved home, but she normally navigated them in the ballet flats that lived in her work bag for the specific purpose of her week-day commute. Descending in four-inch heels felt somewhat more precarious.
‘The main door is usually locked,’ she defended, and made a mental note to have another word with Mr Johnson. ‘My downstairs neighbour is elderly. Sometimes he disables the self-locking handle if he’s bringing in more than one load of shopping then forgets to unlatch it.’
‘You should have an alarmed access system with an intercom for visitors.’
In spite of herself, Emily’s mouth twitched. ‘This is Wimbledon. Not the Bronx.’ Something occurred to her then. ‘How did you know which flat to come to?’ The converted mansion housed five residences, two each on the ground and middle floors, and hers taking up the entirety of the top floor.
‘You mentioned you lived at the top.’
She thought for a moment. Yes. She might have—when they’d had the conversation which had started with her telling him she’d make her own transport arrangements and ended with him overriding her. Ramon de la Vega, for all his easy charm, was not a man accustomed to hearing no.
Outside, a sleek, black sedan of European design waited by the kerb with its driver sitting patiently behind the wheel. Ramon guided Emily into the back and then joined her from the other side. His big frame made the enclosed space, with its tinted windows and luxurious leather, feel disconcertingly small.
Emily tugged at the hem of her dress, which had ridden up as she’d slid onto the soft leather, and cast around for a conversation starter. ‘Tell me about your club,’ she said, settling on a topic that felt safe.
‘The London club?’
‘Of course.’ Wasn’t that where they were going? ‘I read somewhere that the waiting list for membership is estimated at five years long.’
‘At least.’ His tone wasn’t boastful, just straightforward, matter-of-fact. ‘We have a strict limit of a thousand members at any one time.’ He went on to describe a range of high-end facilities, including restaurants and bars, a health spa and a grooming salon, fitness amenities and luxury accommodation for members who lived abroad.
Emily felt a touch of envy as she listened. Ramon had a clear vision for his clubs and the freedom to pursue it. She, on the other hand, was hamstrung by a conservative membership that was allergic to the very whiff of change and anything that might be remotely perceived as bucking tradition.