Page 27 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Until you can’t stop thinking about him. Which leaves you with more complications. But also, more orgasms. Self-administered.

Time to move the conversation on.

“Do you think the men who build these glass-and-metal towers realize they all look like penises?”

“Ryan, men are almost always thinking about their dicks without even realizing it.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“They have two heads, but they can only use one at a time. I think it must be like being tied to the village idiot sometimes.”

“It would answer a lot of questions, I guess.”

“Everywhere you look in London, from Nelson’s Column to the Shard, there are dicks as far as the eye can see.”

“The Shard would be a very unfortunate penis,” I say. “Kind of stabby, all that unbalanced girth and pointy end.”

“We need more female architect leads, because it’s only going to get worse. I mean”—she moves closer as though ready to divulge a secret—“there’s a building currently going through planning called Undershaft. Undershaft. Can you believe that? Wasn’t there a consultation over the name?”

“That’s kind of . . . special.”

“If there was a consultation, you can bet your sweet arse it didn’t include women. Or not enough of them. Of course, you know what’s under the shaft, don’t you? Balls,” she adds with a decisive nod.

“Oh, my Lord.” This is a conversation and a half!

“And you didn’t hear it from me, but Maven Inc. has its sticky fingers in another project I heard they’ve internally christened the Dildo.”

“Internally? Really, Martine?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“You’ve got to be making that up.”

“Sadly, I’m not that creative. Or else I wouldn’t be working in finance.” A pause. “Did you get up to anything interesting on the weekend?”

“Yeah, I forgot to tell you. I signed the lease on my new apartment—no more serviced accommodation for me!” It’s been a bonus, but there’s nothing quite like having your own space.

“Well, that’s wonderful!”

“I get the keys this week.”

“Congratulations. Sounds like you’re about to become a real Londoner.”

“High praise,” I say with a laugh, lifting my coffee to my lips again.

“Praise is my love language.” She gently jostles my shoulder with hers. “Well, that and blow jobs.”

“What the hell!” I splutter, spraying coffee all over the window.

Nine a.m., and the office has come to life, though the vibe is a little different from usual, the buzz increased.

The floor of a hedge fund isn’t ordinarily a quiet place to work.

There are quiet spots, but mostly the offices are full of go-getters and proactive folk.

As hard work is usually only acknowledged at bonus time, and by money and rarely by praise, people tend to be loud about their achievements in their day-to-day business.

But they’re not bigging themselves up this morning.

Strangely, the buzz seems a little hushed. Awed, maybe?

This is interesting to me, but not as interesting as the smorgasbord of breakfast foods a catering company has laid out.

“What have you got there?” Arthur, one of the junior traders, asks, hovering by my shoulder.

“This? A Portuguese tart, I think.”

“Sounds like my last girlfriend.”

“What would she call you, I wonder?” I don’t quite manage to keep the bite from my tone.

Arthur pauses as though giving my question some thought. “Probably ‘that workaholic wanker,’” he answers candidly, then reaches for a Danish pastry. “Gor, dees are goog.”

“I’m not sure they’re a one-mouthful kind of pastry,” I say with a chuckle as I add a little fruit to my plate. Melon, papaya, and pineapple. I avoid the grapes because you know they’re just gonna roll right off my plate. “Why are we the only ones eating?”

“Post-Christmas diet blitz and New Year’s resolutions to maintain for, oh, at least ten days.”

“You’re funny.”

“Funny enough for you to buy me dinner?”

I think the local vernacular would refer to Arthur as a chancer.

I slant him a look as I pop a small slice of pineapple into my mouth, mainly to stop myself from responding Umm ... how about ah-hell no . “Ew.” Suddenly, my mouth turns down, filled with sourness.

“The prospect’s not that unappealing, is it?” Amusement twinkles in his not-wholly-unattractive blue eyes. Pity green is more my thing these days.

“It’s this pineapple. It’s really sour,” I say around the half-masticated mush. While I consider spitting it into my napkin—because I’m classy like that—I swallow it down instead. Urgh. I give in to a shiver because that was really unpleasant.

“Dinner?” he prompts, his blue eyes still twinkling.

“On me?” I respond eventually.

“If you insist.”

“No!” I say. Or laugh. “What I meant is, do you really think that’s a winner, asking me to buy you dinner?”

“Equal opportunities and all that. Plus, you’ve gotta earn more than I do.”

Can’t say that makes me feel bad, even if Arthur is a chancer. And kind of cute with it. Not that it means anything.

“Well.” I pause, searching for a kinder word than no , when, through the glass, I notice the arrival of the senior execs in the outer office.

Or as they call them here, the big nobs.

“Earnings aside,” I say as the lift dings.

“I don’t ...” My words trail off as I track Nigel, the CFO, ushering a group through the office.

“Earnings aside?”

“Hm?” But my attention is elsewhere, Martine’s words echoing in my head. “ Rich as Croesus and as hot as fuck. ” Boy, she wasn’t kidding.

Rich men seem to have an aura, a presence. It’s more than just the cut of their suits or the $500 weekly hair trims. It’s something as intangible as air but just as real, and I sense it in the room the moment they step over the glass-walled threshold.

Hottie number one is tall, dark, handsome, and kind of imperious looking.

Hottie number two is tall, fair, and handsome, with an air of Californian perfection.

Hottie number three, with his head bent over his phone, is tall, dark, and—

Fuck. My stomach plummets, and it has nothing to do with the rancid fruit as I roll my lips together, like the start of his name. Matt. I’m thankful when no sound comes out.

I can’t make sense of this, whatever this is. Why would he be here? In London—in this office? Short of this man being Matt’s doppelg?nger.

“Ladies and gents, if I could have your attention.”

As Nigel speaks, Arthur touches my elbow as though to say we should take our seats. But my mouth isn’t the only thing that isn’t working, my feet having somehow turned to Jell-O.

Matt isn’t in finance. He doesn’t work for a private equity company in the heart of London, because that would mean—

“While I’m sure there’s no need for an introduction ...” Nigel’s mouth continues to work as he casts his gaze over the room, a pinch in his brow evident as it bumps over me. “... Oliver Deubel, Fin DeWitt, and Matías Romero ...”

There. Matías. Not the same name. Except ... Half Spanish, half Irish .

From the other side of the room, the man’s eyes lift from his phone as, like a counterweight, his hand lowers. Seconds and milliseconds seem to slow as he blinks, his lashes long and thick. Then the inevitable. Our eyes meet, his widening with disbelief. Lips lifting with warmth and recognition.

Meanwhile, I feel like I’ve been plunged into an icy-cold pool. I press my hand to my mouth as the power of speech and motion comes back to me in a rush. Which is just as well, as my stomach revolts and I become aware that I’m almost certainly about to vomit.