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Ivy took the glass of champagne he was holding for her. ‘It’s Friday night,’ she reminded him. ‘Wouldn’t all the restaurants that serve superb meals be fully booked?’

‘There’s not a maître d’ in Sydney who wouldn’t find a table for me,’ he answered, with supreme arrogance.

She sipped the champagne, felt the fizz go to her head, promoting the urge to be reckless. ‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘I will have dinner with you.’

A treacherous tingle of anticipation invaded Ivy’s entire body. She didn’t wait to hear him make arrangements, pretending it was irrelevant to her whether or not he secured a table for the promised dinner. Undoubtedly he would. Jordan Powell could probably buy his way into anything, any time at all.

But he couldn’t buy her.