‘MR KELLY?’Dylan looked up from his corner office desk on the thirtieth floor ofKelly Tower to find his assistant, Eric, practically quivering in thedoorway. ‘Shoot.’Eric’s voice tremored as he tried to say, ‘I…There’s…I’m not sure Iquite know how to…’Whistling a breath through the smallest gap between his lips, Dylanpushed back his chair and leant his chin upon steepled fingers. ‘Take abreath. Visualise your happy place. Count to ten. Whatever it takes.Just remember that I am a very busy, very important man and get tothe point.’Eric did as he was told, so quickly Dylan thought the kid mighthyperventilate. But he managed to say, ‘I have to get onto yourcomputer for a sec.’‘Go for your life.’ Dylan pushed his chair back to give the guy room.Eric slid into place, his fingers flying over the keyboard with the speedof a kid born with a laptop attached to his thighs. ‘A friend of mineworks for an online news mag and he messaged me to say I had to seesomething. This address ought to give us a direct feed.’Dylan’s cheek twitched. ‘Seriously, kid, if you’ve come in here all afluster because some blog has footage of me feeding spaghetti andmeatballs to that nifty little Olympic diver I met in Luxembourg lastweek…’
His next words froze on his tongue and he slid his chair back beneathhis desk with such speed Eric had to leap out of the way.The monitor was not in fact showing any footage of him. Or the niftylittle Olympian. Or meatballs, for that matter.Dylan didn’t even have the chance to be the slightest bit ashamed ofhis own self-absorption as the crystal clear digital footage brought hisraison d’être, the family business he championed day in day out, back tothe forefront of his mind with a wallop.The half-acre forecourt keeping Kelly Tower clear of the maddeningCBD crowds that traversed Brisbane’s hectic George Street had in itsnorth corner a twenty-foot-high, silver, zigzag sculpture—symbolisingthe impressive escalation of fortune that securing representation withthe Kelly Investment Group ensured.The sculpture usually stood proud and alone bar a few stray pigeonsbrave enough to cling to its slick diagonal bars. Today it had been takenover by camera crews and reporters with mini-sound recorders andlogo-labelled mikes. That kind of excitement had encouraged a crowdof ten times as many interested onlookers.No wonder.From what he could make out through the sudden ache descending uponhis head, the excitement in the reporter’s voice, and Eric wheezing inthe doorway, in some kind of crazy protest a woman had handcuffedherself to the zig. Or was it the zag?
Dylan had nothing against handcuffs per se. They had their place in thezeitgeist of the single man. Just not in the middle of a busy workday,not in front of his building, and not when as the head of MediaRelations it was his job to make the fact that a crazy person hadpicked that particular statue to attach her daft self seem lessinteresting than it certainly was.The crowd parted, and Eric’s friend’s camera slipped into the gap,giving Dylan a better look at the ruination of his afternoon.She was fair skinned, dark-eyed, with dark wavy hair made all the moreinteresting by the fact she kept having to shake its wind-mussedlength out of her face. A floral top cinched and flowed in all the rightplaces, telling tales of the kinds of curves and hollows that coulddistract a weaker-willed man. Not to mention the white calf-lengthtrousers into which her second-glance-worthy bottom had been poured,or the pair of the most insanely high-heeled hot pink sandals…And, of course, handcuffs.‘What are we going to do?’ Eric said in whispered awe.Dylan jumped; he and the woman had been having such a moment he’dforgotten his assistant was even there.The heel of his palm reared up over the mouse, ready to jab thewebpage closed, when a sudden gust of breeze blew the woman’s hairaway from her face and she looked directly into Eric’s mate’s cameralens.Dylan’s hand went rigid a breath from touchdown leaving him staringinto a pair of brown eyes. Bambi eyes, for Pete’s sake. Big, beautiful,
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Getting Red Hot With a Rogue
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