Nice Girls Finish Last by Natalie Anderson Read Free Book Online Page A

offer.’
    O-o-okay. So the entendres were appalling. And irresistible.
    â€˜But, you know, I didn’t get to the shops.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘Didn’t get anything fresh.’
    â€˜You were waiting at the stadium the whole time?’ She had only just worked it out now. It had been Dion she’d heard leave.
    He looked softly amused. ‘Well, I didn’t want you to change your mind and disappear on me.’
    She felt the now familiar heat burn hotter in her cheeks. Yes, he’d known she’d been going to. She turned towards the kitchen. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have much in my pantry.’
    â€˜Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’ He brushedpast unnecessarily close, the slight touch sizzling that tiny patch of skin.
    Oh, hell, were they still talking with double meanings?
    Smiling at her insane need and even more insane thoughts, she counted to three before following him to the kitchen. She perched on one of the stools by the bench and tried not to stare.
    Clearly he’d noted the nothing much in the fridge because he was now frowning into the small freezer, obviously not a fan of the microwave meals she usually existed on. She nipped her lower lip, stopping herself from justifying their tragic existence, but she often worked late and was tired when she got in…. Yeah, so much for fresh.
    â€˜You like pizza?’ He slammed the freezer door and spun to face her. ‘I know a great place that does delivery.’
    â€˜Your world-famous crusts?’ She knew it was the pizza business he’d launched then sold when still in his teens that had netted him his first million.
    â€˜And buns.’ He chuckled. ‘You’ve tried them before?’
    She shook her head. ‘I don’t usually do fast food or take-away.’
    His grin widened. ‘Didn’t think so.’ Still that damn doubletalk. ‘Means we’ll have half an hour or so to wait for it,’ he noted with a teasing lilt. ‘What do you think we should do?’
    His gaze met hers and held it firm. Time expanded…. It might have been an hour or so before she answered.
    â€˜Have a drink,’ she croaked eventually. ‘Chat.’
    They had to talk. Even just for ten minutes. That meant they’d have talked for about fifteen minutes before flinging into bed together. ‘So—’ she fought for some kind of conversation starter ‘—you’re not even Italian and you sold everyone pizza.’
    â€˜Pizza’s a universal thing.’ He reopened her fridge andpulled a bottle of wine from the depths with a pleased smile. ‘I wanted to see if I could take an already established product and compete against the big corporates in a new way.’
    â€˜But then you sold out to them.’ She set two glasses on the bench between them.
    He chuckled as he poured, seeming to appreciate her challenge to his entrepreneur credibility. ‘I’d proved my point and was ready to move on.’
    â€˜Oh, right.’ She lifted her glass and jabbed a little more for the fun of it. ‘You don’t just get them to a level of success so you can then sell, make the money and bail before they crash and burn?’
    His gaze went rapier sharp. ‘No. If they crash and burn that’s because the management that took over was incompetent.’
    She smiled wickedly. ‘So it’s not that you’re dealing in smoke and mirrors? Making something look amazing when really there’s very little there. Nothing that has durability.’
    â€˜Well, the tee shirts are still going. The pizza, they took the marketing concepts and made them their own. The buildings are increasing their value—what’s the basis for all this doubt?’
    â€˜The fact that you always move on,’ she said simply. The guy never stuck at anything for more than a few years, frequently less, which was why the property game