RADD’S FINGERTIPS DUG into his biceps and it took every bit of determination he possessed to keep his tongue behind his teeth.
Because Brinley Riddell was drop-dead stunning.
Radd pulled in a deep breath, then another, trying to ignore his racing heart and the fact his pants were a size smaller across the crotch than they’d been ten minutes before. He looked around, desperately looking for an alternative explanation for his racing heart and why his nerve endings were on fire.
Maybe he was getting sick, but that wasn’t likely since he was super fit, took vitamins and was as healthy as a horse. No, it was because this woman had the power to drop him to his knees...and that was crazy. He was clearly losing his mind.
He liked women and women liked him back, but he’d never been the type to allow any female to rob him of his breath, or his ability to speak.
Brinley Riddell, damn her, had come closer than most.
Radd dropped his sunglasses over his eyes and, while she took in his job offer, allowed himself the immense pleasure of looking at her from behind his mirrored shades.
She was the embodiment of a rainbow-nation child, a variety of races and mixed genes. Her skin was a rich, luscious creamy light brown, her cheekbones were high and sharp, and her mouth was wide, sensuous and made to be kissed. Her hair was a tumble of long, loose, dark curls and, he’d bet his car, soft to the touch.
She was tall for a woman, five eight or five nine, but he still had five or six inches on her. Her tiny denim shorts showed off long and shapely legs, and the wind occasionally lifted her loose vest, allowing him glimpses of spectacular breasts under two orange-colored triangles. Her stomach was as flat as a board, but he’d caught a glimpse of her ass as he’d pulled into the parking area and it was, yeah, stunning.
She was possibly the most attractive woman he’d met in a long, long time. And if he hadn’t been in such a bind, he’d walk away right now. It didn’t happen often, but when he met a woman who could impact his life, he always, always left.
He liked sex, had it as often as he could—which hadn’t been too often lately, thanks to his workload—but he chose his partners carefully. They were always attractive, knew not to talk to the press and, most importantly, they accepted he wasn’t interested in anything more than a few hours of mutually shared pleasure.
And, crucially, they didn’t make him feel anything beyond the normal drive for sexual fulfillment. After being tainted, teased and tormented by the gossip generated by his parents crazy-ass lifestyle and escapades—up until their death he’d lived his life on a knife-edge waiting for the next story to break or shoe to fall, another scandal to slap him sideways—he’d decided, years ago, to not only live his life out of the limelight, but to do it solo. He could control his words, actions and choices, but not anyone else’s.
Also, critically, casual affairs allowed him to remain emotionally numb and, after spending the part of his life coping with his unstable and narcissistic parents and then dealing with Jack’s death, he and Numb were comfortable companions.
And, it was proven, relationships brought surprises, and surprises were something he could, without a doubt, live without.
Radd pulled his thoughts back to what was important. He needed to get Brinley to agree to fly to Kagiso with him this afternoon and to make—he’d checked—an arrangement for the lobby, two for the long dining table, one for the veranda and more than a dozen smaller arrangements, one for each of the guest’s beds and bathrooms.
“It’s a tall order, but the original florist committed to the time frame, so it’s doable.” Radd finished his explanation, searching Brinley’s face for a reaction. When she just stared at him, he rubbed the back of his neck again. “Is it doable?”
Brinley held up her hand, silently asking him to slow down. He’d give her a minute to catch up, but they were running out of time, dammit. They had to be at the airport in forty-five minutes, and it was, even in the Aston, a thirty-minute drive.
Knowing they were short on time, he’d arranged for Abigail to return to the home she shared with Brinley and pack her a bag, then drive to the airport to leave it with his air steward. If Brinley said yes, and he had no intention of letting her say no, they would leave for the airport immediately.
“Well?”
“Twenty-five grand?” Brinley whispered. “And I’ll be back in Cape Town tomorrow night?”
“I’ll go to thirty if you make up your mind in the next minute,” Radd stated, impatient.
Two dimples appeared as her mouth widened into a smile, and he felt like she’d slammed a battering ram into his solar plexus. God, that smile should be registered as a dangerous weapon.
“Deal,” Brinley said. “But I need to go home, shower and change, and pack a bag.”
“Your friend is packing a bag for you and she will deliver it to the airport. You can shower and change on my plane, but we’re leaving now,” Radd said, standing up straight. He had her agreement, excellent. Now all he had to do was keep his hands off her for twenty-four, twenty-five hours.
Surely, he could do that?
Brinley didn’t move from her position. “Wow, you certainly don’t waste time.”
“I know what I want and I know how to get it,” Radd replied, sounding edgy. Tough.
Brinley lifted a stubborn chin and patted her crappy car. “I’m not leaving Betsy here.”
He didn’t understand why people named their cars—it was stupidly sentimental and frankly ridiculous—but, strangely, the old-fashioned name seemed to suit. It did look like a down-and-out old lady.
“I suggest you use some of those dollars I am paying you to buy a new car. That car is held together by rust and a couple of bolts.”
“Don’t insult my car, and I am not leaving it here to be stolen. I’m taking it home or I’m not going with you,” Brinley stated, stubbornness in those light, unusual-but-exquisite silver green eyes.
Radd looked toward a black SUV parked a few spaces from them and jerked his head. The doors immediately opened and his long-time chauffeur, Marcel, stepped out of the SUV.
“If you give Marcel your keys, they will make sure your car—” he refused to call it Betsy “—makes it home.”
Radd thought there was a good chance that it would blow up or fall apart before it hit the motorway, but that wasn’t his problem. And if it did, he could easily replace it with something better and safer.
A car that wasn’t on its last legs. Or, he glanced down, on its last bald tire.
This woman had a death wish...and the thought made his heart cramp. Was he feeling concerned, a little protective and, if so, why? He’d met her maybe fifteen minutes ago.
She was not his problem, Radd reminded himself. She’d be out of his life by tomorrow afternoon, and he’d never think about her again.
Radd watched as Brinley reluctantly handed over her keys to Marcel, along with a long list of dos-and-don’ts. Frustrated, he stepped in and cut off her rambling explanation. “Marcel will figure it out. We need to go.”
Panic flashed across her face, but then she straightened her shoulders, reached for her beach bag and pulled it through the open window. Radd turned to open the passenger door to his car to reveal a state-of-the-art interior. He liked his car; it was fast, technologically advanced and the best money could buy.
Brinley sighed, placed her bag on the floor and lowered herself into the comfortable leather bucket seat.
Radd kept his eyes on hers and watched as shock, then disbelief, jumped in and out of those incredible eyes. “Wait!”
What now? “Problem?”
“Did I hear you right? That you are paying me in US dollars? That’s nearly four hundred thousand rand.”
Radd lifted his brows at her shocked expression. “I can pay you twenty-five thousand in rand if you like.”
Brinley sat back, folded her arms and shook her head. “You’re mad. Who charges that sort of money for a day’s work?”
“Apparently celebrity London-based florists,” Radd responded, his tone super dry. “Can we agree on the currency so we can get moving? Rand or US dollar?”
Brinley narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh, I’m not an idiot. If you’re offering US, that’s what I’m taking. And it’s thirty, not twenty-five, because I made up my mind in a minute.”
She was smart as well as beautiful. Beautiful was easy to dismiss, but brainy? Not so much. “Fine.”
Radd closed her door, bid a smiling Marcel goodbye and, gesturing to her car, wished him good luck.
Marcel, with the familiarity of a staff member who’d taught him to ride a bike, then a motorcycle and a car, grinned at him. “I think you’re going to need that good luck more than me.”
And what, Radd wondered as he dropped into his seat, the hell did Marcel mean by that?
The bathroom on Radd’s jet was almost as big as the one in her flat back home, but a thousand times more luxurious. Brin washed with the expensive toiletries she found in the cabinet, amused to find the air steward had left a glass of ice-cold Prosecco in the bathroom for her when he had went in to lay out some towels.
Brin, with one of those soft, huge towels wrapped around her frame, stepped into the master bedroom and eyed the massive king-size bed, covered in a blue-and-white duvet with a bold geometric pattern. Another glass of icy Prosecco stood on a coaster by the credenza, and her suitcase was already on a stool in the corner, ready to be flipped open.
Brin eyed the suitcase as she sipped her drink, yummy bubbles popping on her tongue. It was the bigger of her two suitcases. Why had Abby packed so much for an overnight trip? Shrugging, Brinley opened the lid and looked down at the hastily scrawled note on top of her clothes.
I had no idea what to pack for an overnight trip to one of the most luxurious places in the world, so I packed everything!
Woohoo! B, by next week you’re going to have enough money to open Brin’s Blooms! Feel free to spoil me.
Seriously, I’m happy for you.
Have fun. Love you!
xxx
Brin sat down on the bed, suddenly overwhelmed. This morning she’d left for an afternoon at the beach, and now she was on a jet, flying northeast, accompanied by the sexiest man she’d ever met.
And, provided she didn’t mess up, she’d have more than enough money to open up her own florist shop, to pay the deposit and several months’ rent, to buy stock.
Hell, she’d even probably have enough left over to buy a new car. Sorry, Betsy, but locks would be great, and air-conditioning even better.
Could she do this? Brin’s fingers clutched the cool cotton of the bedcovers, hanging on for dear life. Oh, the dream of owning her own business was, in theory, lovely. It was easy to dream big when the possibility of success was remote but if nearly a half-million rand hit her bank account, she’d have to act, to put her money where her mouth, or her mind, was.
Brin gulped. Would she succeed with little to no experience? So many small businesses failed within the first year, would hers be any different? And was she cut out to be the boss, to make the decisions? She’d always worked in the background, taking orders rather than giving them, implementing someone else’s visions and decisions.
Could she make her own?
But what choice did she have? She’d rather stab herself between her eyebrows with a rusty fork than go home, admitting to her mom and sister that she couldn’t cut it.
If she did this, she’d have to trust and believe in herself.
Take a deep breath, Brinley. All she had to do was arrange some flowers and put up with Mr Arrogant for a day. She’d worked for Kerry, the definition of difficult, for years, so she knew she could deal with a bossy, arrogant, emotionally unavailable man with shadows in his eyes.
Brin sipped her drink, the cool Prosecco sliding down her throat as she considered the man sitting in the lounge area of this flying palace. He was driven and determined and, yes, autocratic, but he intrigued her. Oh, within two minutes of meeting him she knew he was emotionally distant and naturally cynical. But Brin sensed that he was, under his can’t-be-rocked exterior, turbulent. She saw it in the way his one index finger tapped a hard bicep, in the changing shades of blue of his eyes, in the way he hauled in air as if to calm himself.
It was as if finding a floral designer was a bother, beneath him, and...well, she supposed it was. He was a billionaire businessman, ruthless and, it was said, intolerant, so why was he the one running around organizing a floral designer for a pre-wedding week at his ranch? That was normally a task that would be delegated to an underling.
Brinley wasn’t complaining, she was glad he’d offered her the job, but why was he bothering with what should be a minor detail in his life?
After racking her brain, there was only one reason she could think of that explained why he was involved in the minutiae of this wedding.
He was the groom and this was his low-key, possibly secret wedding. It was the only explanation that made sense.
And, frankly, Radd’s impending marriage was a relief. She didn’t believe in coloring outside the lines, hers or anyone else’s, and his engagement meant she could, she would, stop thinking about whether his bottom lip was as soft as it looked, whether he had a six-or eight-pack, and whether he sported hip muscles sexy enough to make a girl weep.
Brin placed her chin on her hands and tried to make sense of her raging attraction to Radd Tempest-Vane. He was gorgeous, ripped, sexy...
Any normal woman with a pulse would be attracted to him. But he belonged to someone else and Brin Riddell didn’t poach.
Besides, Brin wasn’t looking to become involved with anyone, anywhere. She was just starting to reconnect with herself, to work out who she was away from her dominating sister and mother, and any type of relationship would jeopardize any progress she’d made.
Kerry’s light had always shone so much brighter than hers, and competing was impossible. Brin always felt like she stood on the outside of her family circle, knew her longing to be accepted had always been her driving force.
But it was like trying to shove a square peg in a round hole and she’d twisted herself up into complicated knots asking for something they’d never be able to give her, so she had to look to herself for what she needed.
Now, after months of being away from them, she was feeling less anxious, a lot braver—she would never have jumped on an offer like Radd’s six months ago!—and a tad more resilient.
Best of all, her heart, battered and bruised, was starting to heal. And she’d never risk it again. Any type of involvement—physical or emotional or a combination of both—with a man like Radd, who was tough, hard and alpha to the tips of his toes, would be the equivalent of asking someone to use her heart as a bowling ball.
Not happening.
Brin rolled her shoulders and twisted her head from side to side. She’d veered off into thinking about her past and that annoyed her, Brin didn’t live there anymore. She needed to concentrate on the fact that Radd Tempest-Vane was offering her the opportunity to be completely free of her family. She’d be a fool to allow him to see her attraction or allow it to derail this amazing opportunity.
She just needed to calm down and think rationally, drink some water and rehydrate. Maybe she needed some food.
Her stomach rumbled in agreement and Brin smiled. No, she definitely needed some food.
And—she eyed her suitcase—she needed to dress. Then she would walk back to Radd and ask him what he and his bride wanted her to do with the flowers waiting for her at Kagiso Lodge.
And maybe, if she asked nicely, the lovely steward with the gorgeous brown eyes would bring her something to eat.
Radd looked up at the sound of the door to the master suite opening and watched Brinley walk into the lounge area of the jet, dressed in an ivory-and-pink sleeveless dress printed with huge flowers. Her makeup was light but expertly applied and she’d pulled her hair back into a tail, making her cheekbones look more defined than they already were.
Radd squirmed as the jet lurched and bounced. He gripped the arm of his chair, irritated his captain hadn’t warned him about turbulence. Then, he realized Brinley hadn’t reacted to the dip and sway of the plane. He glanced out of the window and saw the clear blue sky and reluctantly admitted it was the woman in front of him making his stomach dive. It had nothing to do with the weather, the plane or the pilot.
Radd leaned sideways to take another look out the window, struck by the dry beauty of the Karoo landscape miles below. He’d done this trip a hundred times, more, but he’d never noticed the beautiful, arid landscape was touched by patches of green and purple. His country, Radd admitted, had its problems, but God, it was so beautiful.
He couldn’t wait to get to Kagiso, though this trip would be less relaxing than usual thanks to his sexy companion and the wedding party due to descend on Monday.
But at least he had a day and two nights to enjoy Kagiso, the favorite of all his properties. He loved the bush and the animals, but he was honest enough to admit that he also adored Kagiso because there were no memories of his parents associated with the ranch.
No fights, no strange people in wrong beds, no loud music, fights and screaming accusations. The cops had never arrived at Kagiso, no divorces had been demanded or hospital visits required.
Unlike their family home, the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse set among ancient vines, Kagiso was never mentioned in the newspapers or the tabloids.
Digby didn’t care so much but he loathed being talked about, hated gossip. The only news coverage he was prepared to tolerate was related to business or his role as co-CEO of Tempest-Vane holdings.
Radd shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. He tried not to think of the past but, occasionally, he did find himself wishing for the moon: that Jack was still alive, that his parents had loved their sons more than they loved money, the attention of the press, and their constant pursuit of pleasure, that his father hadn’t plundered, stripped and sold their heritage...
But the past couldn’t be changed, so looking back was futile. It was far better to think of nothing at all, it was easier not to remember, to stay numb. And the best way to do that was to concentrate on work.
And that was why he was on a plane flying north, for work.
And Brinley was just another person who’d dropped into his life for twenty-four hours. The day after next she’d be a memory, a week from now she’d be forgotten. He had a mine to buy, a PR and rebranding exercise to plan, and a company to expand.
He wouldn’t countenance any distractions.
No matter how sexy they were.
Radd, sitting on the far end of the four-seater couch, gestured for Brinley to take the chair to the right of him, thinking it was better to keep the source of temptation at a safe distance. Brinley sat down, crossed her long, lovely legs and Skye, his steward, hurried forward to ask her if she required more Prosecco.
Brinley refused alcohol and asked for sparkling water. Then she gestured to the fruit bowl on the table in front of them. “Do you mind? I missed lunch and I’m starving.”
Skye, well trained, immediately responded with an offer to make her anything she wanted. And that wasn’t a boast, Radd had once made an offhand comment in Skye’s presence about craving sushi and, in no time at all, he had a perfectly plated platter placed in front of him.
Brinley smiled at Skye. “Oh, would you mind? A grilled cheese sandwich would be wonderful but, if it’s a hassle, I’ll just eat fruit.”
Skye looked disappointed at receiving such a prosaic request. “I’m sure we can do better than a toasted sandwich,” he replied. “Is there anything you don’t eat or are allergic to?”
Brinley shook her head. She grinned at Skye, those sexy, deep dimples flashing and...yep, Radd’s stomach launched itself off its sky-high diving board again.
Seriously, this was beyond ludicrous. He could easily imagine Digby rolling on the floor at his dilemma, laughing his ass off.
Because Radd was never knocked off-balance.
By anything.
His parents—and life—had thrown all manner of trials his way and he’d negotiated his way around all of them, most—Jack’s death being the exception—without allowing the world to see him breaking a sweat. He’d trained himself not to react, to meet both victory and failure dispassionately, and rarely responded with anything other than impassivity. It helped that he went out of his way to avoid trouble and gossip.
He never gave the press anything to talk about because he couldn’t stand to have his private life played out in the public domain.
“No, I’m poor so I can’t afford to be fussy,” Brinley told Skye, pulling his attention back to the present.
Skye wrinkled his nose, sympathy in his eyes. “I hear you, sister.”
Radd snorted. Skye, like all of his staff, was exceptionally well paid. He and Digby were demanding, he wouldn’t argue with that, but their staff were well recompensed.
Skye rubbed his hands together. “I’ll see what I can conjure up. Radd, is there anything, in particular, you’d like?”
Radd saw Brinley’s surprise at Skye’s lack of formality. Radd was the boss and everyone knew it, so calling him “sir” didn’t mean anything. Besides, Skye was older than him and Radd didn’t need, or like, toadying.
He just needed people to do their job, and Skye did his particularly well. “Whatever you make will be fine with me. You can bring me some sparkling water, too.”
Skye nodded, told them he’d be back in a few and left the stateroom, leaving them alone. Radd leaned back in his seat and linked his fingers together on his flat stomach, content to watch Brinley’s profile as she stared out of the window into the endless blue below.
“How long until we land?” she asked without making eye contact.
Radd checked the time. “Probably about an hour. It’ll be dusk when we arrive.”
Brinley turned back to face him. She leaned back in her seat and Radd saw the flash of ivory-colored wedge-heeled shoes with ribbons wound around shapely ankles. She was such a contradiction, and he couldn’t quite make her out.
Her dress was designer, but the shoes weren’t. The bikini she’d had on earlier was expensive, but her flip-flops were the type that could be bought at any flea market. She drove a worn-out car, but her beach bag was Gucci.
She was a paradox. He didn’t like being curious. He wished he didn’t feel the urge to pepper her with questions and he didn’t care for not having the answers.
“Why are you frowning at my shoes?”
Radd jerked his head up to look into her eyes, wishing he could call them silver or green, yet they were neither one shade nor the other. They were a curious, lovely combination of both.
Radd wondered whether they’d darken or lighten or change color in anger or, more interestingly, when she was consumed by desire...
Dammit, Tempest-Vane! Not helpful.
“Uh...” Radd wiped his hand over his face before gesturing to her dress. “Cheap shoes, fancy dress. Expensive bag, crappy car.”
Embarrassment skipped through her eyes before she lifted her stubborn, proud chin. “My sister is in the—” Brinley hesitated before continuing “—fashion industry and has a closet bigger than most clothing stores. Up until I moved to Cape Town six months ago, she passed a lot of her clothes on to me.”
She was obviously reluctant to talk about her sister and that made him curious. Why did she move to Cape Town? Was he imagining the tinge of annoyance he heard in her voice?
She was his temporary employee, a woman who’d be out of his life tomorrow afternoon. He didn’t need to dig into her life, for God’s sake. He needed to get this conversation, and his thought patterns, back on track. She was only here to do a job for him.
It suddenly occurred to Radd that, in his haste to acquire a florist, he didn’t know if she had any skills. This was not, by any stretch of the imagination, his finest day. “How much experience do you have in flower arranging?” he demanded.
Brin looked at him from under long, thick lashes. “Mmm, not much. I’m more of a buy-flowers-from-the-garage-and-shove-them-into-a-glass-vase type.”
Oh, God, he was so screwed.
Brin grinned, leaned forward and patted his knee. “Relax, I’m joking.”
His heart restarted with a lurch and a shudder. “Not funny,” he growled, surprised she had the cheek to tease him. Few people were that brave.
“I couldn’t resist,” Brin said, amusement dancing in her eyes. She reached into her bag, pulled out her phone and tapped the screen.
She held the device out to him and told him to swipe left to see her photos. He flipped through, saw wedding bouquets and huge tumbling arrangements, and tried to act like he knew what he was looking at. They looked fine, which was a relief.
“I’ve done a few weddings, some corporate functions and arrangements for parties. I’ve always loved flowers and gardening and making stuff grow.” Brin told him, and he heard a note of insecurity in her voice. “It used to be a hobby, but I’m good enough to turn it into a career. Or so my clients tell me.”
He wasn’t in the business of handing out reassurances or support, and he’d never been the cheerleading type—he most definitely wasn’t a hand-holder—but the urge to allay her insecurities was strong. Radd gripped the bridge of his nose and applied pressure to push these uncomfortable notions out of his head. Brin was not like anyone he’d ever met and she, for some reason, possessed the power to disarm him.
Why this woman and why now? He needed to stay detached, to be indifferent and emotionally uninvolved. He’d trained himself to be stoic and disengaged, but there was something about Brinley that made him want to step out of his carefully crafted cocoon.
He had to stop, retreat and pull himself together. If he had any sense, he’d pull out his laptop and ignore her for the rest of the flight.
He was paying her to do a job, he wasn’t required to entertain her.
Brin leaned forward and pointed to her phone. “So is my work okay?”
Radd handed her phone back and shrugged. “I guess. I don’t know anything about what you do.” There was no way he’d tell her he liked the unstructured arrangements the best, they looked wild and free and...lush.
Lush? Holy hell, who was this person who’d taken possession of his mind?
Brin looked momentarily disappointed at his reply but she recovered quickly, and he appreciated the fact she didn’t pout or sulk. “Can you give me some idea of what flowers I’ll have to work with?” Brinley asked, putting her phone back in her bag. “And what you want?”
Was this a trick question? “I think they are blue. And we need them in vases.”
Brinley gave him a look that was part amusement and complete frustration. “And that’s all you have for me?”
“Pretty much,” Radd admitted.
“Excellent,” Brinley murmured, sarcasm coating every syllable. Skye placed two glasses filled with ice in front of each of them and cracked open a bottle of water.
“Well, will your fiancée be at the lodge? Maybe she can spare some time to give me an idea of what she wants,” Brinley asked.
His...what?
Radd heard Skye’s snort and sent him a hot glare. Skye’s expression turned neutral and he quickly finished pouring their drinks. When he left the room, Radd looked at Brinley. “Why would you think I’m the one getting married?”
“You aren’t?”
Radd noticed her dismay and wondered why she looked so damn disappointed on hearing he wasn’t about to be hitched and stitched. To clarify, he told her he was very single. Then he wondered why he felt the need to do so, because explaining wasn’t something he ever did.
Radd watched as Brinley hunted for a reason for her confusion. “I just thought that, because you are so involved in all of this, you have a personal connection to the event. Men of your...um, men like you, high-flying businessmen, have people to organize stuff like this.”
Fair point. But those were men who didn’t have a multi-billion-dollar investment riding on this wedding and weren’t dealing with a spoiled bride and her doting father.
Radd drank half of the contents of his glass before putting it back on the table. “It’s crucial we keep the bride, and her father, happy, and trust me, they make it difficult.”
Brinley’s grasp on her glass loosened and the tension in her jaw eased. “Oh. Well, who is getting married and why do you need to keep them happy?”
He could tell her; it wasn’t common knowledge, but neither was it a secret. “We are in negotiations with Vincent Radebe, he is selling us something we want. A condition of the sale is we provide his daughter Naledi with the best wedding experience possible. And that means pre-wedding festivities at Kagiso Ranch and an out-of-this-world wedding at The Vane next Saturday.”
Radd had heard the expression color drained from her face before, but he’d never seen it happen until this moment. Brinley’s eyes widened and, as her face paled, the freckles on her nose and cheeks stood out in stark relief.
She was going to faint, he just knew it. Radd sprang to his feet and placed his hand against the back of her head, pushing her head gently down to rest between her knees, his fingers covered by soft, fragrant curls.
Maybe she’d had too much sun, too little food, or maybe she was dehydrated. It was possible.
Or maybe, just maybe, the fact she was doing flowers for a celebrity couple was overwhelming. Which was, he admitted, a little disappointing. Brinley didn’t seem the swooning type.
She certainly hadn’t with him.