Midsummer Man

by Zelah Roberts

  Her mouth dropped open. Drake!

  She had told the truth to Melissa. Her characters were real to her, but they weren’t actually real. She definitely didn’t expect a man who was the perfect embodiment of her male hero to sit down beside her.

  For a moment, her world seemed to tilt. Was this some sick cosmic joke? Something she had dreamed up as a result of her conversation with Melissa earlier? Was this her midsummer man, invoked by superstition and a fragrant handful of rose petals? Was she going completely mad?

  He grinned at her, his laughing, sapphire-blue eyes intelligent and teasing in a face that was quite simply the most handsome example of the male species she had ever seen.

  Her gaze drifted down the long length of him. Quite apart from his startling and gorgeous face, his body was just ridiculous.

  Ridiculously sexy, anyway. The man’s shoulders were wide and muscular, his arms beneath the elegant tuxedo jacket evidently strong and powerful. His chest was broad, his torso slim, his legs, encased in well-cut black trousers, muscular. Even his feet, shod in expensive polished black leather, were sexy.

  And his scent. Good grief, she’d never smelt anything like it in her life. It was like cedar with a faint hint of lemon, reminding her randomly and vividly of a sunlit woodland. Beneath it there was a faint warm muskiness, the scent of clean, healthy male. It was delicious.

  Holly, who had never in her life even thought about the appeal of a man’s scent before, reacted in a sudden, wholly feminine way that brought a flush of heat to her cheeks.

  Which was so not needed right now. She had to pull herself together. What on earth was the matter with her? He was just a man, an ordinary man—nothing at all to do with Melissa’s arrant, superstitious nonsense. Snapping to attention and hoping he hadn’t noticed her rather intent appraisal of him, she cleared her throat.

  “Yes,” she said, huskily. “he’s definitely doing his job. I can’t believe how much that scarf is going for.”

  She watched, bemused, as a complacent, well-preserved man in his sixties waved his programme.

  “Nine hundred…”

  “Crazy,” she breathed.

  “No.” Drake, as she’d dubbed him, made a subtle gesture towards the pretty young woman clad in a daringly skimpy black dress who sat beside the older man. “He’s making a statement. Showing the girl he’s trying to impress that he’s got the power to lavish money around for the right inducement.”

  “Cynical.”

  He shrugged. “Not me. Just realistic. Beauty and power… They always come together.”

  She glanced at him, her writer’s mind wondering if the pun was intentional. He smiled at her blandly.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the one you’ve all been waiting for. Tonight, the woman who created the dark, delicious and debonair Drake Blaine and the feisty, fiery, flirtatious firebrand Isabella Heron is here to offer a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—” he broke off as the crowd clapped, whistling and cheering.

  Holly swallowed, feeling sick. She’d never aspired to the stage, and, quite frankly, she dreaded going up there. Drake leaned over to whisper in her ear. “You look like you’re going to the gallows. Courage, now. And afterwards, will you dance with me?”

  She looked into his beautiful eyes, and suddenly all her nerves were forgotten—which, she realised, was what he’d probably intended. She shot him a quick grin. “Depends how much you bid,” she said teasingly.

  “So, ladies and gentlemen, with no more ado, allow me to give you a taste of the beautiful, the adventurous, the wild and wicked…Holly Mason!”

  A huge round of applause thundered through the room. Like an automaton, she mounted the steps and prayed she wouldn’t send herself flying on her spindly silver heels. Making it to the top, she turned to face the audience. The electric sense of expectation and anticipation in the ballroom was acute. She really needed to put on her game face and brazen this out.

  With a wide, sassy grin, she waved at the audience and blew them a kiss. There was a roar of approval and some enthusiastic wolf whistles.

  Wrapping an unwelcomed arm around her, the rather sweaty Jack smiled genially at the crowd. “Well, now, Isabella,” he began, and ripple of laughter ran through the room. “Oh, I’m sorry… Holly. But, boys, don’t you think she looks just like the glorious Isabella Heron with her fantastic shapely…gown and beautiful bedroom hair?”

  For a moment, Holly just stared at him, unable to believe his blatant sexism and crassness. The temptation to tell him to take a running jump was overwhelming. But then common sense prevailed. She would have that discussion with him in private, after she had charmed the audience into bidding on her lot. So instead, she just contented herself by purring, “Why, thank you… You’ll forgive me if I don’t call you Drake with your…ah… figure…” She nodded at his portly frame, noting with satisfaction that his smile slipped a bit, “and your beautiful… ah…” She let her voice trail off a bit whilst inclining her head subtly towards his. Far from having ‘bedroom hair’, he had no hair at all. She smiled cheekily at the audience, who collapsed into laughter and applause.

  Less than five minutes later, the ballroom was silent and tense as the bidding narrowed to two competing parties. She could see one of them from where she was stood—the actor. She heartily hoped he wouldn’t win. She would have the devil’s own job getting the name ‘Woody Savage’ into one of her novels.

  “Five hundred thousand pounds.”

  “Six…”

  The bidding crept up in ones, neither bidder willing to lose the prize. Holly held her breath. She had never imagined it would go so high. Even Jack was sounding a bit strangled.

  Then, from the deep shadows at the side of the stage, a familiar voice drawled, “Two million, if it comes with a dance with the lady.”

  Drake. Drake had bid two million pounds. Who on earth was he to be able to throw vast sums of money around like that? And who did he think he was, trying to buy a dance with her?

  An audible, collective gasp came from the audience. Stunned and defeated, the other bidders shook their heads immediately.

  Jack glanced at Holly, seeking confirmation of the dance. Reluctantly, she nodded. After all, she could hardly refuse that kind of money for Help the Homeless just because she didn’t like being manipulated by rich, powerful men who thought they could buy anything they wanted.

  “Two million pounds, ladies and gentlemen. Two million! Do we have any advance on two million?”

  Silence. Even from the world-famous actor, who was scowling into his drink and looking decidedly disgruntled.

  “Okay, if we’re all done… To the gentleman on my left…going, going, gone!”

  There was a round of rapturous applause as Drake came up onto the stage. Once again she was struck by how unbelievably gorgeous and charismatic he was. In his beautifully cut tuxedo, he looked lean, strong and powerful.

  Powerful enough to have forced her into a dance. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably. She hated the fact that he had been able to compel her to do what he wished, even in so small a way.

  But she hated even more how she reacted to him. Of course, she’d been attracted to men in the past, but she’d never met anyone who had caused quite such an immediate, visceral, physical impact. Was it because he reminded her of her beloved Drake?

  It seemed unlikely. The man who stood before her was a living, breathing, all-too-real human, his physicality a powerful part of what was drawing her to him. He made her want to be close to him, even as she wanted to run from the intense emotions that he was arousing in her.

  And she sure didn’t like his ability to spend millions of pounds on a frivolous auction. That meant he had serious fiscal power—and she really didn’t like rich men. In her experience, they were self-absorbed, morally corrupt and dangerous.

  She caught him looking at her and veiled her dark expression from his curious, perceptive eyes. He stepped forward and held out his hand to shake hers.

  Aware of the
audience watching, she reluctantly put her hand in his. “Miss Mason, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. To her dismay, his big hand engulfed hers, the contact of skin against skin making her shiver inside. His grasp was warm, firm, strong. She could almost imagine the surprisingly rough skin of his hands stroking against more sensitive skin, bringing untold pleasure.

  Quashing the thought, she smiled politely at him. “The pleasure is mine, Mr.—?”

  “Sinclair. Mac Sinclair.”

  A ripple of interest ran through the audience. Almost as one, they reached for their mobile phones, and Holly was acutely aware that in the next few minutes photos of them both would be appearing all over social media. Not that it seemed to bother him. He looked remarkably sanguine in the limelight—much more relaxed than she herself felt, truth be told, though she hoped she appeared at ease.

  As if he somehow understood her feelings, he gave her hand a subtle, reassuring squeeze. And as she looked up at him, all she could think was that Melissa had been right. Mr. Rich-and-Famous was hot. And it was surely a sign of how rattled she was, she thought, that she would resort to such a lame, completely inadequate adjective to describe him.

  Jack cleared his throat. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Sir Mac Sinclair. How do you feel, Sir Mac, to have won such a fabulous prize?”

  He smiled out over the audience. “Just Mac, please. I’m delighted, of course. Thrilled. And very grateful to Miss Mason for offering such a fabulous prize in support of Help the Homeless.”

  “Indeed. And for you, it will be a wonderful thing to be featured in such a fabulous series.”

  Mac shook his head. “Oh, no. Not me. I’m hoping that Miss Mason will be kind enough to include my sister’s name in her next book. This is a gift for her. She—and I—are huge fans of the Wayfarer series.”

  “Your sister?” Jack exclaimed. “What’s her name?”

  “It’s Leonie,” he said. “Leonie Sinclair.”

  “Well, there you have it,” said Jack, turning to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first. Leonie Sinclair…the newest character in the Wayfarer series!”

  * * * *

  Afterwards, there was dancing, and Holly looked at him mutinously when he held out his hand to her. He lowered it, warily. “I’ve annoyed you?”

  Her temper sparked. “No. Of course not. Why would I be annoyed at being coerced and manipulated into doing something I don’t want to do?”

  He stepped back immediately. “My apologies,” he said, stiffly. “I didn’t intend for one moment to make you feel that you had to dance with me. I never have, and never will, force a woman to do anything against her will. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  He turned and walked away, his rigid back reflecting his displeasure. Holly swore beneath her breath. Now she felt guilty. To be fair, he had asked her for a dance before the bidding. And she had jokingly suggested the idea of payment.

  Damn, damn, damn… She was an idiot.

  Her conscience was not going to let her off the hook. She owed him an apology.

  Before she could agonise anymore, she set off after him. “Dra— Mac, wait,” she called.

  He stopped, turned. “Did you just start to call me Drake?”

  She shrugged. “Slip of the tongue.”

  “Uh-huh.” He stood, his arms folded, and waited for her to speak. He looked brooding, formidable and unyielding.

  “I owe you an apology,” she blurted out.

  He raised an eyebrow. “No. Really? Why?”

  His sarcasm made her wince, but she squared her shoulders. “I shouldn’t have gone off at you about the dance. You asked me before the auction, and it was me who suggested bidding on it…as a joke, of course.”

  “Of course. Which was how I meant it, as well.”

  His tone was frosty.

  “Ah…yes. So, I’m sorry. Okay.”

  She turned to go, but a hand on her arm stopped her. “Why, Holly?” he asked, his voice deep and gravelly.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you ‘go off at me,’ as you put it?”

  “Oh.” She bit her lip and looked away from his probing gaze. “I’m a bit sensitive about being manipulated. I don’t like it when I feel trapped or pushed into things.”

  “I see. So, will you feel pushed into it if I ask you to dance now? For free, this time?”

  She looked up at his glittering eyes, which now glimmered with mischief, and she smiled. What the hell. She might be wary of alpha males in general, but there was no harm in enjoying a dance with one…especially one she was so very attracted to. It wasn’t as if she were offering to have his babies, after all.

  “Well, since you’ve asked so nicely…”

  His lips quirked. “I can ask extremely nicely when the need arises,” he murmured, and a bubble of laughter welled up inside her.

  The band was playing a lively number, the lead female vocalist belting it out with impressive verve. Soon, they were both dancing, swirling and moving in sync with the pulsing music and the coloured lights flashing across the dance floor. Holly found herself laughing out loud. Drake—no, Mac—was fun to dance with, maintaining eye contact and taking frequent opportunities to twirl her so that she found herself often in his strong arms or pressed against his lean, hard body. It was exhilarating.

  She’d thought he’d stop after a while, head back to his table for a drink or offer to dance with someone else. But he was indefatigable, and it became an unspoken game that neither of them would give in and stop dancing. She didn’t want to anyway. She was enjoying herself too much.

  Still, it was a relief for her feet when, towards the end of the set, a slow dance came on. With a wide, welcoming smile, he held his arms open to her, and she went into them.

  Oh, the pleasure. He still smelt delicious, clean and masculine. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his strong body firmly against hers. He was taut and muscular and felt wonderful. Holly’s eyes fluttered closed as she rested her head against his broad shoulder and swayed along to the music.

  She felt the soft touch of his lips on her hair and looked up into his brilliant blue eyes. They glittered with an unmistakeable intensity.

  He took a ragged breath then muttered, “Damn, Holly…”

  Pulling back a little, she looked keenly at him. “What is it?” she asked softly.

  A dull flush ran across his high cheekbones. “I… When I came here tonight, I didn’t imagine… I wish—”

  He broke off.

  “You wish what?”

  He swallowed. “I wish that things were different. I’m no Prince Charming. There’s no place in my life for a relationship, not even for a fling. But I wish… I wish I could have you, spend time with you tonight. A time out of time, just for us. I’ve truly never felt anything like this before…”

  There was a long silence as Holly considered his words. She’d never felt anything like it either. And, goodness knew, she definitely wasn’t in the market for a relationship, especially with a rich alpha male like this one. But one night, just for them… It sounded wonderful.

  She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anyone in her whole life. She’d never felt chemistry like it. This might be her only chance to ever have what she was sure would be a brilliant experience with someone who really ‘did it’ for her. She would be a fool to turn down such an opportunity.

  She smiled slowly and took a deep breath. “You know, Mac, I don’t need—or want—a prince. I have my own life, my own money and I don’t need rescuing, thank you very much. But I am interested in interior décor.”

  “Interior décor?”

  “Mmm. I hear the bedrooms in this castle have the most fabulous furnishings.”

  * * * *

  They did. The room he took her to had a beautiful trefoil mullioned window with a soft, padded window seat. The walls were panelled in oak and hung with red and gold tapestries. But what drew the eye more than anything else was an exquisite, Tudor-style oak t
ester bed carved with vine leaves and grapes, which was laden with thick, sumptuous cushions.

  “Oh, this is beautiful,” Holly breathed, even as she tried to quell the unexpected butterflies in her stomach. Would she soon find herself entwined around him on that very bed?

  It was memories of her ex-partner, Taylor, that were inhibiting her, she knew. He had been her first and only—a nice, non-alpha, anodyne kind of guy. She’d been attracted to him because he felt safe and mild and sensible. She’d needed that after all the instability and chaos of her young life.

  Though, as time had passed, he had become more controlling, more jealous, more critical. When she had plucked up the courage to call a halt to their destructive relationship, he had been brutal in his condemnation. ‘You’re a frigid cow,’ he’d snarled at her. ‘No man will ever want you. You’re ugly and fat and you wouldn’t know what to do with a man if he came with instructions. Pathetic!’

  She’d moved on since Taylor—Melissa and her other friends had helped her pick up the pieces. Nowadays she was much more confident and certain of herself, except in the bedroom. She’d never risked sex with anyone again…until now.

  Granted, she hadn’t met a single man who had made her even want to have sex. Mac, though, was different. Somehow, he had awakened all kinds of yearnings in her. Her body felt wild and restless and oddly hungry.

  Mac watched her prowl tensely around the room. It didn’t take a genius to see that she was nervous, though she was putting up a good front admiring the furnishings.

  It surprised him how much he disliked seeing her so uneasy. He wouldn’t want any woman to be uncomfortable in his presence, but he really, really hated seeing Holly like this. Downstairs she had been relaxed, laughing, full of effervescent joy. But now, she was a pale facsimile of herself.

  How could he put her at ease? Keeping his body language relaxed, he said, “Would you like a drink?”

  She glanced at him then away, folding her arms. “Ah, yes, please.”

  He went to the mini bar, which was concealed behind some panelling. “Okay, what would you like? There are all the usual culprits in here, plus a few quirky extras. Or I could send down for some champagne?”