Free For All the Wrong Reasons by Louise Bagshawe

and ill at ease, and Michael was some schmuck, some years younger than Ernie and over a million bucks poorer. He detested the way Cicero looked at him as though they were equals. Didn’t he know who Ernie Foxton was?
    â€œNot buy the company”—that was a slip of the tongue, and Foxton chided himself—“buy ourselves a partnership. Think about this. All the other houses offered you a salary. We are offering you partnership, because we believe in you.”
    Michael hesitated. He loved passion. The figures sounded good. Was it a smart move to turn down a winning lottery ticket? That’s what this sounded like.
    Ernie shook his head. “No pressure right away. I’ll send the suits back to the grind”—he flashed his troops a charming smile—“and you can come out with me and my wife. We’re a personal firm, here. Blakely’s cares who it deals with.”
    â€œSounds good.” Cicero extended a ridiculously firm handshake to Ernie.
    â€œGreat. Great.” Damn it, Ernie thought, I got him. And in about three months I’ll have the firm, too. Once this arrogant little bastard’s taught us all we need to know. “Diana’s actually got a table for me over at the Russian Tea Room. Come along and have a drink.”
    â€œSounds very good.” Michael relaxed.
    *   *   *
    The waiter deferentially ushered them to one of the choicest banquettes in the house, and Michael tried to ignore all the rubbernecking businessmen who were leaning out from their tables and staring at Ernie and him. He understood that they were trying to figure out who he was.
    You haven’t seen me before, he thought, thrilled, but soon each and every one of you will know who I am.
    â€œYou can’t let business encroach on your pleasure time,” Ernie said genially. Michael couldn’t have disagreed more, but kept silent. The guy was making a lot of money. He must know what he was doing.
    â€œThere she is.”
    Ernie waved at a female walking toward them. “My wife, Diana Foxton.”
    â€œExcuse me, darling, I was just freshening up,” she said. She leaned forward and kissed the air at the side of her husband’s cheeks. “And who’s this?”
    â€œMichael Cicero. A new business associate of ours. At least, I hope so,” Ernie said. “You’ll thank me for introducing you, Diana, it’s somebody your own age to talk to.”
    Michael stared at her. He knew he was staring, but he found it hard to stop. There was something so wonderfully, vibrantly beautiful about the girl … was it the arch of her slightly thick brows, the daring comfort of the tiny, perfect little sweater that draped over those stunningly sexy breasts, that tilted upward at him, almost aggressively … or could it be the sweet blue eyes and lusciously shining platinum hair, that he longed to dive into, just breathing in the clean scent of her shampoo? She smelled of baby powder layered over the sweet breath of perfume from her skin.
    â€œDelighted, Mr. Cicero. Or can I call you Michael?”
    Diana smiled charmingly at the rude boy who was staring at her. Honestly, did Americans have no manners at all? She extended one hand in a delicate, well-bred gesture.
    Cicero shook it. His handshake was firm and dry. There was a lot of power in his grip. He was a big, coarse sort of a man, Diana decided. Look at those muscles; he must lift an awful lot of weights. She rarely met men of this sort; they made her edgy. Cicero’s dark eyes and fighter’s nose were too much, altogether. He was bristling with testosterone. It was strange to see a man with a body like that in a suit. Surely his natural job would be as an extra in some Hollywood action flick, possibly starring Sylvester Stallone or Arnold Schwarzenegger? He was shorter than Ernie, but so much stockier. And why were his eyes raking over her tights and shoes? Was there a run