by Anne Oliver
‘This is the third party we’ve been to and his ego must be bigger than the bar bills. All these beautiful young girls and so few men for them to flirt with. Well, men who like women, that is.’
Tara scanned her fellow partygoers, nodding her agreement. There was more oestrogen in the room than you could shake a fluffy pink wand at. The legions of gay best friends didn’t quite boost the already depleted testosterone levels. Even the men in the celebrity underclass were over-preened, with their shaped, tinted brows and oily orange complexions. Really, really not a turn-on.
Tara’s men were edgy, dark, beta. And invariably in her past. The last real relationship she’d had, with a sensitive, eyeliner-wearing musician, had been during college. The relationships she had now were with champagne and investors. Oh, and the media. Her biggest flirt of all.
‘I was wondering if you had seen Fernanda, actually.’
Angelica’s tone still had its feather-lightness but Tara could sense a little edge of concern.
‘I thought she was staying home, but maybe she has come here with you?’
Tara looked around. Fern hadn’t been with her for quite some time now. ‘She is here—she went to dance. But if she knows Michael’s here she’ll be hiding out in the toilets. She had a major meltdown earlier. He must have some hold over her.’
Angelica steered them through to the dance floor, smiling as she passed the partygoers and securing them two glasses of champagne from a conveniently placed table.
‘He means well—just worries about her because he is responsible for her. It was never easy for him, being guardian to two orphaned girls.’
She patted her arm as Tara vaguely recalled their back story. Something about him halting his own highly successful model/actor/presenter career when his mum and stepdad were killed in a car crash. Overnight he’d gone from number one Euro party boy to serious, silent and sober. What was it her Irish granny used to say? ‘A young tart an old nun makes.’ Or something like that. Yes, there was no doubt that his condescending aura was just reformist hot air.
‘He thinks everyone in fashion is self-serving and nasty or stupid—because he had such a bad experience when he was younger. You should meet him. Help him put his mind at rest. Oh, and we must have that chat about my dress.’
The very words Tara had been longing to hear. She swallowed her gushing mouthful of thank-yous and smiled coolly. ‘Of course. Any time you like. I won’t be heading to Paris for a week.’
‘Lovely…’ Angelica sounded distracted. She unlinked her arm and squeezed her hand. ‘I think we should go and find Michael. Maybe you can convince him to stay on here while I take Fernanda home. Discreetly.’
She nodded to where Fern, locking lips with her cutie, was swaying in time to some bassy, carnal music. The fact that she didn’t seem to care who saw her grind her hips and lose herself in his mouth kind of screamed that she had kissed goodbye her inhibitions along with several glasses of booze.
Angelica rolled her eyes ever so slightly. ‘He won’t like it if she’s been drinking. He’s so protective of her, and it would save a load of heartache if he never had to know.’
Actually, Tara thought that a hell of a lot more heartache would be saved by telling him where to get off—but each to their own.
She squeezed Angelica’s hand back. ‘I’m on it.’
Helping her friend and getting more into Angelica’s good books made a whole lot of sense, too. The only downside was that it was going to mean actually communicating with the grade A-is-for-ass, macho man. What on earth did they have in common? Spain’s one-time boy idol, all grown-up and gone cerebral. Who only spoke in words of five syllables in the language of the super-successful.
Maybe it would be simpler if she dropped her clutch and twerked for him. It was rumoured that he still spoke that particular language, and maybe then she’d be able to hold his attention long enough for his sisters to get out and away from his overbearing presence.
She had. She’d escaped—or rather, she’d plotted and executed her plan. Walked away when the time was right. And if she could do it any woman could. It was the best thing that had happened to her. Ever. Honestly. When she ruled the world she’d arrange for all the arrogant bullies to be herded together and thrown in a pit. And Michael Cruz would be the perfect trophy for the top.
She stomped along, in the wake of Angelica’s smooth glide, back to where Michael and his guardette of honour were still lending their eye-blinding beauty to the club photographer. She watched a couple of the better-known runway girls strike poses and got the feeling he wasn’t really keen to play any more. But his smile, when he used it, was as dazzling as his sisters’—and, heaven help her, for a moment she could only stare at the masculine beauty of it all.
And then he turned it on Angelica, and warmth crept over his face. So he had a heart?
He eased himself away from one photo op right into another as he greeted his sister. Then he distanced himself from all the white noise as he guided her—only her—with a proprietorial hand on the small of her back, to the bar. Was he being a deliberate jerk or did he truly not know that Tara was behind them?
She could really take it or leave it. This whole, keeping up with the Cruzes, thing. It was taking her well away from where she wanted to be. There were some very interesting new faces and Mr Arrogant had diss’d her twice already—three times if you counted the show today.
She was just about to let them all get on with it when she saw him turn round. Not fully round, but grudgingly, and then, as if he was giving alms to the poor, he gestured that she should catch up with them.
If there was a DEFCON higher than one she might just have reached it. Who the hell did he think he was? Did every female he met just fall at his feet, or—worse—into line? Not this one. He might look like the man of everyone else’s dreams, but he was her personal idea of a nightmare come to life.
‘Tara. I don’t think we’ve properly met.’
He didn’t think they’d properly met? Really?
She could just see Angelica’s dazzling smile through the haze of red that had fallen around her. Play it cool, play it cool. Don’t give him the control. Don’t make a fool of yourself.
She lifted the glass she was almost crushing in her hand and took a long sip.
He gave a little indulgent, half-cocked smile and then walked towards her slowly, hand extended. ‘I’m Michael—Angelica’s brother. And Fernanda’s. Pleased to meet you.’
Oh, he was good. But she was better. She paused, set her drink with very deliberate care on little elbow-height table closest to her, and turned back to face him.
‘Yes, I’m sure you are. You were at my show today.’ Just in case he thought he would try to gloss over his rudeness. ‘You didn’t really seem to get it. Fashion not your thing?’
Well, he probably didn’t have a lot of women launching conversations with insults, so that might explain his slight double-take. But he covered it well and took her hand. A very warm, very appropriate handshake. No crushing, just firm and male. Very, very male.
His eyes bored right into hers. Combative. He let go of her hand. ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’ve sat through quite a number of runway shows this week. Wouldn’t say it’s been the best use of my time, but…it filled a few hours.’
‘And created a few million for our economy,’ Tara added, sweet as the pie she’d like to throw in his face.
And it was such a yawningly attractive face. Some might even get swept up in the masculine brilliance of the angled cheekbones and defined jaw. Eyes that were slightly almond-shaped and as fathomless as his mood. Lips that were full and dark red, but too hard to be feminine. Lips that she suddenly imagined could give a whole load of pleasure.
Dangerous. Oh. Yes.
She swallowed and forced her thoughts back on track. ‘I often think some people forget just how much is involved in the creation of one dress.’ She fingered the skirt of her own, unintentionally inviting his appraisal.
‘We were both thrilled to be at your show, Tara. Your designs really are beautiful. And you have the perfect body to show them off.’
Angelica’s sparkling tones cut through the heavy air that was swirling between them. ‘You are so wonderfully hourglass. You know, I was reading the other day that we are all turning into rectangles. Can you imagine? Straight up and down. No waists to speak of. No wonder you are the toast of the week, sweetie. All us skinnies want to look as feminine as you. Isn’t she just adorable, Michael? Oh, look, there’s the photographer. We must give him a snap. Michael—you there, arm round Tara. Perfect.’
Angelica buzzed and fluttered and placed herself on Tara’s other side as the cameras flashed. And even though she was still fizzing at the easy way he was glossing over his arrogance Tara knew that now wasn’t the time to challenge.
Because now he was moving right into her space, extending his arm. Even as her eyes fell on the mouth that twisted into that slight smirk she had just seen. Even if this time the smirk was eclipsed by the pure male sensuality of his lips. And, though she hated that predictable shadowy stubble, defined jaw look, her eyes widened as the up close and personal space of Michael Cruz became shared with her.
She felt his arm circle her waist and draw her to his right side. Firmly. He held her firmly—as if he had every right to wrap his big arm around her and pose her in the camera glare. As if it was totally fine for him to pull her so close to his body and cause fireworks in her nerve-endings. Could everybody see what she was feeling? How embarrassing! Since when was Tara Devine reduced to a puppet by anybody?
She really didn’t want to run with that particular thought…
His grip on her waist was tight and unequivocal. She was just a full-fat version of the calorie-free hors d’oeuvres he’d sampled five minutes earlier. And she hate, hate, hated that he could do that to her.
* * *
Michael felt sure the muscles in his face would spasm any moment now. After the day he’d had, these brutal after-parties were the last thing he needed. But what the hell? He saw Angelica so little that he could stomach hanging out here, since it seemed to be such a big deal to her. Though he hadn’t figured on winding up next to this pocket Miss Whiplash: Tara Devine, wildest little firecracker in the box, renowned for her partying, her comic book curves and her utter lack of self-control.
But more to the point—he scanned the room—thankfully Fernanda had been smart enough to leave all this well enough alone. At least she’d been as good as her word and stayed home. And, despite begging him to let her model this week, she seemed to have retained some of the self-control he’d spent the last sixteen years drilling into her. She was young, she was naïve. And she was allying herself to the vacuous people in this awful industry.
He’d be damned if the sense and intelligence she was blessed with would be wasted on all of this. The place was awash with drugs and drink—these parties always were. He’d had more than his fair share back in the day. And he’d be a fool to think there wouldn’t be predators trying to get his sister hooked up in it.
He glanced down at the mini sex bomb tucked beneath his arm. She seemed to have burst onto this scene overnight—and wasn’t it just typical that his two sisters found her so ‘engaging’. This woman had her own look, all right—strawberry blonde hair with strange streaks of platinum and gold, combed and pinned in a kind of soft beehive—not his thing at all. He could see the curve of her throat as it met the creamiest, most flawless skin of her décolletage. The swathe of ivory satin that skimmed the most talked-about society breasts just enhanced them even further, and he dropped his eyes to take them in again.
What the hell? He was a man.
Angelica was right. Tara’s waist, now that his hand had relaxed and splayed out against her hip, was actually much smaller than he’d thought when he’d ever thought about it—which was never. And her hips in that skirt—what little there was of it—were soft and round. The whole look reminded him of someone. Someone very feminine. Very sexy. She’d turned, was looking up at him, and her eyes were so blue, outlined in thick black make-up that she just didn’t need. Her lips… The reddest, fullest most swollen pout of a mouth he could remember seeing. She was saying something.
‘Yes, Fernanda is an amazing model. She has potential to be world-class—a real supermodel. I’ve booked her for another week. For Paris.’
The fog in his head suddenly cleared. If Fernanda thought he was letting her loose into this circus again she was out of her mind. He’d indulged her notions this once—let her get it out of her system. But no way was she making a career out of this—not when she had the potential to do something worthwhile with her life.
Time for a little distance.
He leaned in to whisper in Tara Devine’s ear. ‘You’d better unbook her, then. No way will my sister be working for you, next week or any other.’ He smiled as he spoke his words right into her ear, felt her stiffen. He lingered a little longer, and could have sworn she shivered. ‘I don’t know what she told you, but she has more important things to do than walk up and down wearing a bunch of crazy clothes.’
‘Wow, you really are a control freak!’ Tara hissed at him out of the corner of her mouth, even while she pouted and posed.
She was playing her coy little games for the snappers. The men in the room—the men who weren’t caught up in this fashion nonsense—were all posturing, their eyes trained right at her and her frankly ridiculous curves.
She smiled at them, turned in his grasp and cupped his cheek. ‘What are you so afraid of? That she’ll actually enjoy herself?’
She leaned right into his ear as she spoke and he felt her lips brush his skin and the press of her breast on his arm. So she wanted to play? He could live with another minute of her company if it taught her a lesson.
He caught her wrist, brought her insolent hand down sharply behind her, so that her back arched into him and the spill of those creamy breasts was even more obvious. She let out a little gasp and he trailed his eyes super-slowly right over her smooth silky skin. The bodice of her satin dress was so low and his view was so good. And damn it if the slow smirk he was feeling didn’t warm him all the way to his groin before he could turn back to the cameras.
He could feel the air in the room shift. He could feel the interest in the scene sharpen.
Your move, honey.
And, boy, did she move. Just as a TV crew arrived. Brilliant.
‘Well, guys, I think it’s safe to say that Señor Cruz has just shown us, in the most obvious way imaginable, that he’s a big fan of Devine Design. You all know that I had the best of times this week—my clothes are for real women, with real bodies. I design beautiful, feminine clothes for beautiful, feminine women. And, hey, sometimes even a super-smooth dude like Mickey here can forget his manners, but we forgive him. He can’t help it.’
She linked her arms through his and through Angelica’s. Angelica was smiling as if her face would split, and for all the world he thought Ms Devine was going to take a bow. He couldn’t help but chuckle at her little speech. He’d obviously upset her ego. Always the same—the brash types were the mushiest inside. So he’d give her this one, but he’d also make sure they moved well out of the range of any more cameras or reporters, just in case she got brave again.
‘Angelica, I’m having the time of my life trying to keep up with all the highbrow conversation in the room. The car will be here in about five minutes. Does that give you enough time to do whatever it is you’re hell-bent on doing?’
Angelica had stopped giggling with her little friend and was scanning the room.
‘Yes, Michael. Of course.’ She suddenly seemed a little tense. ‘I’ll just get you and Tara another drink—wait here.’
Another drink? With Whiplash? He moved to cut that right out of the plan but his sister was off, and it struck him, as it suddenly did at times, just
how much she was like their mother in the line of her cheek and the fall of her hair down her back. Such regal quality and such ambassadorial skill. She smoothed and shushed where he bulldozed, and they both knew it. And it worked.
So what angle was she working now? Something was up.
‘Where’s Fern?’
He turned to Tara. She glared at him with those huge blue-black eyes. And then shrugged her shoulders.
‘No idea.’
She lifted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and knocked back a large gulp. Not quite the ladylike sips he was used to seeing in the women he dated.
‘Thirsty?’
‘Bored.’ She pointedly looked away, then knocked back another mouthful.
‘You should get out more.’
She turned to face him. Set a scowl across her face and pursed her plump, pouty lips into an even more furious moue. ‘If it wasn’t for the company I’d be having a wonderful time.’
‘You would?’ She was so easy to snare. He smiled as her scowl deepened. ‘What’s wrong with the company, then?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? I can’t be the first person to call you on your appalling manners, surely?’
‘Actually, my manners are the least of your problems.’
It wasn’t like him to be anything other than courteous to women. His mother had been pretty lax about most things, but charm came cheap—the problem was this one got under his skin like a heat rash, and he didn’t want to stop scratching.
‘Meaning…?’
‘You really have to ask?’
She swilled what was left of the golden liquid in the narrow flute, and then tossed it back in one mouthful. He watched her throat constrict as she swallowed, half expecting her to wipe the back of her hand across her mouth like a saloon whore from a fifties Western. Ms Devine was anything but ladylike. And she was getting all fired up—maybe this was going to turn into an interesting party after all.
‘The only problem I can see is that you and your ego are still here. I can’t be the only one who’d much rather you and your dull suit and boots got yourselves the hell out of here.’