by Ally Blake
He leant in so close his breath tickled her hair against her ear. ‘Somehow I get the feeling uncovering your layers will be worth every cent I’ve paid.’
Her knees buckled, and her airway all but closed up. Only years of lobbying men as intimidating and less likely to soften any disapproval with a gorgeous smile helped her get by without her voice giving her away. ‘I’m sure you’re quite aware that you could make an appointment to see me, in more layers than I am wearing tonight, at my office any time. Here, I would have thought the weight of do-gooderness in the air might cramp your style.’
‘Nah,’ he said, his voice dropping a note, maybe even two, ‘my style will be just fine.’
He took a step closer as he looked back out into the seething, sparkling crowd. ‘So, which of these poor schmucks do you plan on getting your claws into tonight?’
‘It’s my night off,’ she shot back. ‘I’m here to relax and have a nice time. You and your sort are safe from my sticky clutches.’
She felt his eyes on her again, but she knew better than to lock gazes at this proximity. She turned and backed away. ‘Do me a favour?’
‘Name it.’ Dylan slid a hand back into the pocket of his trousers. Wynnie did her best to keep her gaze on his receding face.
‘These good people are here tonight because they care about clean energy and that’s why they’ve paid good money to be here. Try not to rub off on them.’
And then he laughed. Head back, rumbling laughter that from deep within his belly. Heads turned, all female.
But Dylan’s eyes remained fixed entirely on her. ‘Wynnie,’ he called out, not caring a lick who heard, ‘I could ask the same of you. But then we’d both be disappointed.’
The further she backed away, the more the burgeoning crowd surged between them. His laughter, and his smile and the intense electricity that surged through her with simply being near the guy, gradually dimmed to a sweet buzz.
‘You’ll get a neck crick,’ Hannah said.
Wynnie came back to the present to find the Minister for the Environment, Heritage and the Arts had finished his speech and a jazz band had struck up a soft shuffle on stage. She was sucking air through a straw as her mocktail was empty bar crushed ice and lime pulp, and she was staring at the back of Dylan’s head as three tables over he had a dozen people in stitches.
Placing the offending glass on the pink tablecloth, Wynnie spun on her seat and glanced at Hannah who was grinning at her over a mouthful of caramel tart.
Wynnie said, ‘I know I am officially off the clock, but this is my first opportunity to watch the guy interact with his peers. If I’m going to win him over, I need all the help I can get.’
Hannah laid a hand on Wynnie’s wrist. ‘If that’s the line you’re sticking with, then more power to you.’
Wynnie shook out her shoulders and spooned a mouthful of mocktail-flavoured crushed ice from the bottom of her glass before a liveried waiter swept it away.
‘Wynnie,’ a deep familiar voice said from behind her, ‘may I have a word?’
And she almost choked on the ice.
Hannah’s chair squeaked loudly against the stone floor. Wynnie, coughing, glanced across to find Hannah had leapt to her feet with her hand outstretched while somehow, simultaneously, leaving barely any daylight between her body and Dylan’s.
‘Hannah Laskowski,’ she breathed huskily. ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
Dylan, ever the coolest man on the planet, managed to smile as if he meant it. He took Hannah’s hand. ‘Dylan Kelly, the pleasure is mine.’
‘I’m Wynnie’s boss. Sort of. So anything you have to say to her, you can say to me. Here, or elsewhere.’
Wynnie suddenly felt her chair sliding backwards and she had to stand or fall flat on her butt. She spun, and released a loud ‘oomph’ as she smacked into Dylan who, it turned out, had been the one pulling her chair out from under her.
She grabbed tight to his velvet soft lapels to stop from falling in a heap. He slid an arm around her waist for the same reason. Funny, she thought, blinking into his blue eyes, it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to keep me from falling at all.
He said, ‘Thanks for the offer, Hannah, but I prefer to keep my business contacts close. The wider the spread, the more chance things can get lost in translation.’
‘Fine with me!’ Hannah said. Wynnie shot a look over her shoulder to find her friend grinning like a proud fairy godmother.
Wynnie was frowning by the time she glanced back at Dylan. ‘Hannah knows the word “no” in as many languages as I do. What on earth could get lost in translation?’
His arm slid tighter still, pressing her hips against his with such force her head rocked back. ‘Come with me and you’ll find out.’
His spare hand found one of hers and soon she was being pulled in his wake. She turned back to Hannah for help, but her friend was sitting at the table, resting her cheek on her palm and licking the last drop of liquid off the end of a flamingo-shaped swizzle stick.
‘Mr Kelly,’ she said, smiling at those she wriggled to avoid as they surged through the crowd. ‘Dylan!’
He stopped so suddenly she slammed into him again. This time she reached out and pushed against his chest before she ended up in his arms.
‘Yes, Wynnie.’
‘You said you had something you wanted to talk about.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’
‘So talk.’ She crossed her arms, and stuck a high-heel-clad foot out in front of her, pointy toe up, keeping a healthy gap between them.
Still he managed to grab her hand, spin her out and draw her back in close, right as the band started playing ‘The Way You Look Tonight’.
‘What are you—?’
‘Shut up and dance or everyone will stare.’
‘Considering we are the only ones on the dance floor,’ she hissed, ‘everyone is already staring.’
‘Then we may as well make the most of it.’
Dylan tucked her close, moving her around the dance floor as though he were on wheels. She gave in and followed as best she could, and soon the crowd faded away as his clean scent, his hard body, his gentle embrace served to fill up every ounce of room her mind had on offer.
She was adrift on a cloud of pure pleasure when the fingers of his left hand wound around her wrist before sliding back up to wrap about her right hand.
‘All better?’ he asked.
‘So long as I keep away from cheap handcuffs I should be fine.’
‘I can give you the line on where to find a more respectable brand. If the need ever arises.’
She shot him a sarcastic smile. ‘I have no doubt.’
He ducked her under his arm, slid her around his back, and she was in his arms again before she even knew what was happening.
‘Smooth,’ she said, a tad breathless and not from the exercise. The guy could really dance. And he was smooth. Of course he was, he was perfect—perfectly bred, perfectly arrogant, perfectly oblivious to what someone with his infamy could do to look out for not only those closest to him, but his whole community.
He even smelled perfect.
‘Did you say something?’ he asked.
She tensed, slowing him down to a soft shuffle so she could extricate herself before she did something really stupid like leaning her head on his shoulder and sighing.
‘Won’t your date wonder why you’re not out here with her?’ she asked.
‘No date tonight.’
Her flicker of a glance took in at least half a dozen women watching him from the sidelines looking ready to pounce. ‘I imagined you the type to have a little black book the thickness of War and Peace.’
His smile was breathtaking. ‘I gave the inhabitants a night off.’
‘How magnanimous.’
He offered a shallow bow, and the look in his eyes when they found hers again was anything but magnanimous.
The exact reflection of her own absorbing attraction in his eyes might
have been real or imagined. It didn’t matter. What mattered was how much she needed fresh air and for that she needed to be anywhere but in Dylan Kelly’s addictive arms.
‘Mr Kelly—’
‘It was Dylan a moment ago.’
‘Fine. Dylan, if your conscience has finally come to the party and you are ready to sit down with me, properly, and make a deal about how I can change the way you do business for the better—’
‘That’s a lot of weight for you to carry on such small shoulders,’ he said, his hands running over them, his eyes following.
‘That’s why I need you to share it with me.’
His eyes shot to hers. Deep, reclusive, unreachable.
‘One person can make a difference,’ she said. ‘A hundred people can change the world.’
‘Mmm,’ he rumbled in her ear as he pulled her close. ‘So you keep telling me.’
Her rebellious body melted against him, softening to fit as closely as it possibly could without needing an X-rating.
He said, ‘You know what?’
‘What?’
‘I’m not sure if it was the candlelight or the pink napkins that did it, but the minute I sat down to dinner my heart gave a little twinge I’d never felt before. An inner desire to legalise marijuana, and talk to dolphins, and throw cans of red paint at women in fur coats.’
Wynnie’s melting body snapped upright. ‘You’re an ass.’
She pushed away. She tried to anyway. Dylan’s will to hold her seemed to be stronger than hers to be free.
‘Stay,’ he said, his laughing voice low enough only she could hear. She imagined a lick of rawness. Of the sincerity she had only glimpsed on rare moments few and far between.
She glared at him, but her pushing didn’t get any stronger. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kick you in the shin and get back to my caramel tart.’
He took her back into a dance hold and began to sway, his hips sliding against hers, nothing between them but some ridiculously thin silk and tuxedo trousers. It took all of her energy to keep from whimpering.
‘You think people are staring now?’ he said. ‘Walk off this floor before the song ends and our lovers’ tiff’ll be page three while the coverage of this here party, and any good will towards the charity, will be shunted twenty pages back. You don’t want to be blamed for that, do you?’
‘You are the devil,’ she said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
His smile was pure sin. ‘I admit to nothing. Now stop fighting me. Dance.’
Wynnie took a deep fortifying breath which only pressed her chest flush against his. Not a good idea. Her breasts let her down; swelling, hardening, begging her to stay close to the wall of masculine heat.
She let her breath slowly go, and did her best to relax. There could only be seconds remaining of the song. Seconds for her to wonder what he was playing at. Because she knew as well as she knew her own name, well, both of them, that he wasn’t dancing with her because he had finally realised he couldn’t keep his hands off her. He had some new angle she couldn’t hope to fathom.
The only angle she had the chance to discover was the new angle of his hips as he slid his knee gently between hers. And finally she was undone. Fighting him was all too hard when compared with just giving in.
Her eyes fluttered shut and her breath expelled from her lungs in a soft sigh.
His hand slid lower down her back, the silk of her dress slithering across her skin, and tiny prickles of sweat sprang up in its wake. She didn’t have time to worry, for that was when he somehow tipped her off balance. Her left leg gripped his and suddenly she was arched back into a low dip.
There they stayed. One bar. Two.
Her breaths came heavily. The faint edge of a not so recent shave leant shadows to his carved cheeks. A muscle twitched therein. His eyes narrowed. Darkened. His grip on her hand tightened.
Trust. Bad judgment. Decency. Decadence. The survival of the planet. None of it mattered in that moment as much as the fire in his eyes.
The song came to an end. Then she was upright again. Their heavy breaths intermingled as their chests heaved against one another. Every place their bodies had touched felt aflame. Every place they hadn’t longed to do so. Suddenly the idea of being on page three of the paper didn’t matter a lick. If he leant in, if he closed the gap, if he pressed his lips to hers—
‘Kelly,’ a loud unfamiliar voice said. ‘Thought that was you.’
Wynnie blinked and realised they were no longer alone. In fact, the dance floor was full of couples clapping the band. A gentleman reached past her to shake Dylan’s hand, slap him on the back, sequester his attention.
She slipped out of his embrace, ran shaking hands down her dress and put enough space between them that she could breathe.
His eyes were still dark, and still fully trained on her as the gent shouted about market forces and the Dow Jones and some celebrity golf tournament he’d paid a fortune for at some auction.
A Violent Femmes classic started up and the crowd went wild, jumping up and down, rocking the room. Wynnie offered Dylan a slight shrug, then, taking her chance, she slipped away, trying to concentrate on protecting her peep toes from bouncing stiletto heels, when she could still feel Dylan’s eyes on her back as she pressed through the boisterous crowd.
With each step away she tried to shake off the feeling that rather than dancing just now she’d actually been tiptoeing around the edge of a volcano.
Only once she was free of the crowd and was heading through the now mostly empty tables back towards her seat did she realise whatever it was Dylan had intended to say to her had never been said.
Then again, maybe the dance had said it all.
Wynnie stood in the corner of the museum foyer, on her tippy toes, trying to spy Hannah’s blonde curls from amidst the slick-dos, wishing the girl hadn’t had one too many cocktails or her goodbyes would take forever.
‘Well, if it isn’t Guinevere Lambert.’
She landed back on her heels with a thud, kept her eyes dead ahead and swallowed as discreetly as she could while she pretended that she hadn’t just heard someone use her real name.
A body slid in beside her. It felt big and tall and male. It smelt like cigarette smoke and too many hours spent wearing the same clothes.
‘It is Guinevere, isn’t it? I saw you earlier with Kelly on the dance floor and something pinged in the back of my head. I couldn’t place you and then suddenly…there it was. Ten odd years ago. Sweet, little, hippy waif Guinevere Lambert, chin up, lips sealed, surrounded by the boys in blue as they led you from your uni class and all the way to police central.’ He held out a hand smack bang in the middle of her personal space. ‘Garry Sloane. Allied Press Corps.’
She glanced down at the hand to find it held a digital voice recorder the size of a tube of lipstick. She bit her lip, and pressed her feet hard into the harder floor to stop herself from trembling. She wouldn’t lie to the guy, in the end that would serve no purpose but to make sure she never worked in public relations ever again. But neither did she have a clue what to say.
Where the hell was Hannah? She’d said she’d be two minutes!
‘Sloane, leave the lady alone.’
Wynnie looked up to find the big man at her side was being overshadowed by an even bigger man. One with pure venom lighting the depths of his dark blue eyes.
‘Kelly,’ Sloane said. ‘This has nothing to do with you or your darling family. So why don’t you sashay on away and leave me and this nice lady to our conversation?’
When the reporter turned to face Wynnie she was caught looking him in the eye. His weathered face broke into the kind of expression that ought never to be allowed to be called a smile. ‘Am I right?’ he asked.
She stared at him, and narrowed her eyes. He was right about one thing—what he wanted to talk to her about had nothing to do with Dylan and neither did she want it to.
She turned to Dylan, and had to swallow before she could mana
ge a word. ‘I’m fine.’
He glanced at her throat, which was still working hard to get any kind of moisture to her poor mouth, then back into her eyes. Whatever he saw there had him ignoring every word she said.
‘Nevertheless,’ Dylan growled, ‘I think you wouldn’t find it hard to track down cockroaches more worthy of talking to.’
Sloane puffed out his chest and Wynnie had the distinct feeling that this no longer had anything to do with her.
‘Surely,’ Sloane hissed, ‘you of all people know better than to rub me the wrong way.’
‘Go,’ Dylan said, his voice as cold as ice. ‘Now. Out of my sight. Before I do something you’ll regret.’
Wynnie backed up a step. Good thing, too, as from nowhere the Sloane guy swung, and connected, and big, bad Dylan Kelly spun on his heel to land square on both feet facing his opponent. His eyes were so dark they were no longer so impossibly blue, a smear of blood appeared on his lower lip, and his right fist was clenched into a white ball.
Instinct be damned, Wynnie threw herself between them. Dylan’s eyes connected with hers, and cleared enough that he held himself in check.
She shook her head, still slightly stunned. She knew without a doubt he’d have hit back if he’d had the chance. But there were cameras everywhere. He’d come to her defence, it was her turn to come to his.
She blinked, then ran her thumb across his lip. It came away glistening with his blood, and tingling with the sensation of having done such an intimate thing.
She held it up to him. He frowned, then his tongue darted out and licked at the split in his lip. Then he glanced down at her thumb and before she knew what he was about to do he had the end of her thumb in his mouth as his tongue curled around the tip. Once it was clean, he let her go.
She wrapped her other hand around her thumb the second she had it back, but no manner of squeezing could rid her of the heat radiating from the spot.
Wynnie glanced over her shoulder to find a crowd had gathered, but Sloane was nowhere to be seen. Meaning the coward knew he was in deep trouble. And if they hadn’t already, she and Dylan had become the talk of the party.