by CC MacKenzie
It was obvious that while Daniella Pebbles was physically attracted, she was not romantically interested in him.
And yet.
His limo purred to a halt.
His mind was so busy dealing with the knotty problem of Danni that he didn't spot the slim woman with a long-lens snapping as he'd slid into the backseat of the car.
Last month in London that one kiss with Danni had gone so hot so fast he now wondered if he'd imagined her response. Then she'd gone so cold so fast on him that he was amazed he hadn't got frost-bite. Until their kiss today, she'd given him the brush off. But there was something about Daniella that called to him. He followed her style blog Girl Gains Glamour. She had a forensic eye for a style that had become a trend, and a descriptive flair that connected her to her readers on an intimate level. Readers who were rabidly loyal and trusted her implicitly. She wrote for real women. And understood their personal hang-ups, body-issues as well as the strain on their finances.
Danni Pebbles was an internet sensation who'd remained grounded and spoke to young women in a language they understood.
And she was totally incorruptible. He knew this because a couple of Big Names in the couture world had tried to buy her with big bucks. He'd even tried it himself by offering free flights, exclusive hotel accommodations for fashion shows, plus free handbags and shoes, but she'd refused all.
But what underpinned everything was the fact he badly needed her in his bed.
She was an interesting character and he had a bone-deep desire to get to know her better.
Plus, she'd most definitely responded to his kiss today. She'd been with him all the way and then, bam. She'd slammed the door closed, locked it and thrown away the key.
He sighed.
Danni was an enigma.
A puzzle waiting to be solved.
A mystery.
Good job he enjoyed working out mysteries.
He was looking forward to the evening, looking forward to getting to the bottom of what made Danni tick. It would take effort, and probably time and attention.
He hoped she was worth all three.
Wearing a flirty little number in black silk by VB, the bright smile on her face hiding the clutch of nerves deep in her belly, Danni decided Pascal Wolfe was a charismatic and dangerous man. Her gaze couldn't help but admire how those wide shoulders, lean muscled thighs filled a pale grey pants suit, with an open-necked white shirt that did wondrous things to his tan. The suit color only enhanced his amazing eyes, turning him from a handsome to gorgeous man. In the privacy of her own thoughts, Danni was prepared to admit those facts. And he smelled good enough to.... Her thoughts screeched to a halt as the voice in her head told her not to go there. Blushing furiously at the thought of even touching him, never mind tasting him, there. Instead, she struggled to concentrate on why this thing between them would never work, to focus on the negatives. Even if he was too tall, too big, too muscled and deadly to her fragile heart, he was still astonishingly attractive. Like an alpha wolf was attractive. Until he went for your throat.
Now she placed her hand in his as she slid into the back of the limousine and caught another whisper of his signature after shave. A sexy, masculine mix she absolutely adored.
Once he joined her, he took her hand again, pinned her with those amazing grey eyes.
"You look beautiful, Daniella," he drawled. Then his eyes dropped down slim but shapely legs to her black patent shoes and his lips curved. "I am happy you like my shoes." His deep voice with its fabulous French accent, made the nerves in her belly flutter madly. Then those eyes flicked back to hers, and all humour was gone. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before he continued, "I want to talk to you about our relationship."
Pascal watched Danni's slender fingers tighten hard around his. The color on her cheeks flared red before draining from her beautiful face leaving her too pale. Then she jerked her chin before her eyes met his.
"Do you mean our business relationship?"
He enjoyed the chin jerk, enjoyed the way her brown-gold eyes, doe-eyes, he decided, flared into his.
Excellent, he thought. She might be shy and maybe even a little scared of him, but the girl had plenty of back-bone. It was a good start to what, if all went well, promised to be a very interesting evening.
"No, our personal relationship."
She blinked, like a baby owl, all big eyes filled with confusion and alarm.
"We don't have one."
No, but they were about to embark upon a deeply personal one, even if she didn't want it, yet.
"We will."
"But... I told you I'm not in the market for a relationship, Pascal, with anyone."
As he opened a built-in cool box, lifted out the opened split of champagne, a glass, he managed not to grin in satisfaction at her determined tone, the fire in her eyes.
He poured, slid the glass into her hand, then poured his own.
He looked deep into her wary eyes.
And for some reason that wariness fired his groin in a way he hadn't felt, well, for years.
"Let us see what the evening will bring, shall we, ma petite?"
Stunned, mind scrambling to keep up with the sudden turn of events, Danni simply stared at the crystal glass in her hand and decided she'd better think, and think fast.
"Salut, to us," he said, and clinked his crystal glass against hers.
She lifted her gaze and couldn't seem to tear her eyes from the intensity of his.
"What is your favourite color?" he asked now.
"Baby pink," she responded without thinking.
He smiled, the grey eyes warming.
"Oui. I can see you in the very palest pink. It will suit your amazing coloring."
She had amazing coloring?
Seriously?
Her whole life she'd battled the curse of the red-head, being called carrot-top among other things. Although it was true that as she'd matured her hair was now the color of a rich mahogany.
"Rock, soul, or blues?" he shot at her.
Beginning to enjoy herself, in spite of the flutter deep in her belly and a pulse that was going too fast, she sat back against the comfortable seat enjoying the scent and feel of butter soft leather. "Depends on my mood."
"Good answer. Meat or fish?"
"Fish."
"Hmm. I am a carnivore."
Well, color her not surprised.
"Fiction or non-fiction?"
"Depends - both."
"I enjoy a good blood-thirsty who-dunnit," he admitted.
Again, color her not surprised.
"Favourite movies?"
"PS I Love You and The Rock."
He threw back his head and roared with laughter, then he turned sparkling eyes on her.
"Nothing with French subtitles?"
"Too pretentious," she said, then immediately worried she'd offended him.
When he bit down hard on his bottom lip, his grey eyes alight with mischief, something unclicked in the vicinity of her heart.
"I agree." He took her hand to his mouth. Her eyes went wide as the tip of his tongue touched each finger. She felt each tiny stroke in the too sensitive spot between her legs. And the sensation shocked her to the core. So much so, she jerked her hand back.
"Don't," she whispered, relieved when he released her but secretly distressed she'd broken a magic moment between them. Then she realized he was watching her very carefully, was enjoying her reaction to him. It appeared Pascal Wolfe liked to keep her wrong-footed. Now her eyes narrowed into his. "Don't push it."
"I want you," he said, his voice went very deep and very low.
"And don't growl at me like that," she snapped.
Grey eyes went wide as if deeply offended, while black brows flew into his hairline.
"I do not growl. I am not an animal."
Oh yes, you are.
"You are well-named, Monsieur Wolfe."
Well, well, thought Pascal as he studied her flushed face, the light of battle shini
ng like gold beacons in her tawny eyes, it seemed his little kitten had sharp teeth and claws.
Thank goodness for that.
When the limo purred to a halt, he got out, held the door open.
"This isn't a restaurant," she said as she exited the car, studying the imposing tall building.
He closed the car door behind her, escorted her through huge double doors held open by two liveried doormen. He waited until they were safely in the elevator and heading for his penthouse apartment, before he responded.
"I wanted to be alone with you."
She removed her hand from his, and again her chin came up. The battle had gone from her tawny eyes, now they went cool as they narrowly studied him.
"You lied to me."
"No. I simply changed the venue. After our kiss today, I decided we needed privacy to talk."
When the private elevator door slid open to his apartment, he waited for her to make the first move. If she had insisted on leaving, he would not have argued with her and done as she asked. However, even though she shot him a dark look, he could see the curiosity in her gaze as she stepped out and moved into the middle of the entrance hall of his home.
"Semantics," she muttered. But she followed him, her black patent heels clicking on the polished sandstone floor as he led her into his ivory and black state-of-the-art kitchen.
Danni's nerves were doing more than jumping, they were making her heart beat too hard and too fast as she watched him move to the handcrafted cupboard that concealed a huge built-in refrigerator, take out yet another bottle of champagne, pop the cork and pour two glasses. The whole apartment was more than opulent, more than stunning, it fairly reeked of money, old money. If the priceless floor rugs, handmade in ancient Persia, antiques and glorious oils painted by masters, carefully lit and hung on soaring silk-clad walls were anything to go by. She wasn't impressed by exaggerated posturing of great wealth. After all, she came from great wealth herself. There was no doubt in her mind that riches made a person's journey through life more comfortable. But it didn't make a person feel safe. If anything too much money complicated life. Made it difficult to trust. And God knew money and the things it bought did not bring happiness. Nine times out of ten it brought, as in her own family's case, nothing but misery and heartbreak.
And all the while Danni wondered what the hell she was doing standing right in the middle of the lair of the Wolfe. She wasn't a fool. She knew she wasn't his normal choice of play-mate. She'd worked hard to build up her own business, was financially independent, and proud of it. But she wasn't a wealthy sophisticate. Her trust-fund remained untouched. Pascal's tastes usually ran to tall and tanned brunettes with breasts and hips. Danni was built like a boy. Flat-chest. No curves.
Now he leaned back against the work-top, watching her over his glass, his grey eyes studying her as if she was a rare butterfly pinned to a board. The way he looked at her was unnerving and terribly uncomfortable.
Her face burned as her deep-seated insecurities again rose to win the brittle battle with bravado.
She didn't know this man.
Not really.
Her pulse began to pound.
For all she knew he was the type to force himself on a woman, especially if that woman was blowing hot and then cold.
She was playing with fire.
Her palms went damp.
What if he refused to take no for an answer?
The thought made perspiration bead on her top lip.
He was so much bigger than her, could overpower her (in spite of her Krav Maga skills) without even breaking a sweat.
What the hell was she doing?
The hand holding her champagne glass began to tremble.
What if...
"You need to relax," he said in that French accent that made her toes curl in her pointy designer heels. "Stop thinking."
If only she could stop thinking.
She knew why she was here, what he expected from her, from the end game.
Sex.
And this time she was determined not to let blind panic get the better of her.
This time she made up her mind to tell the truth.
The heartbeat hammering like crazy against her ribs made her dizzy.
"Okay," she said. She watched him top up his glass, move towards her. Then she took a very deep breath and blurted out the words, "I'm not good at sex."
He stilled, bottle in hand, his eyes blinking into hers uncomprehending.
"Excusez-moi?"
Her cheeks went nuclear even as the pulse in her throat was beating so hard, she could hardly hear herself speak.
"Sex. I can't... I don't think I like it."
It was much better, she assured herself, to be up-front about these things.
Sensible.
Honest.
Oh God, she wailed in her head, she was making an unholy mess of this.
Topping up her glass, Pascal decided he needed clarity and he needed it pretty damned fast.
"You think you do not enjoy sex?"
Hand trembling so much she nearly spilled her wine, she took a large swig, and nodded.
Her eyes were darting around the room, even the ceiling, everywhere except him.
Now she focused on the wall behind his ear, staring holes through a rare Monet.
"I'm not good with intimacy, with people touching me, there."
Fascinated with her, the way her voice had sunk to no more than a husky whisper, and to give himself time to digest exactly what she wasn't saying, he moved to replace the bottle of champagne in the refrigerator.
He turned to watch her hot face, and told himself to follow where she led.
And he was afraid, very much afraid, he was a few steps ahead of her.
"There?"
"On my private places."
"Private places?"
When she glared, temper flashing in her fabulous eyes, at the way he was repeating every word she said, he found it absolutely adorable.
"Yes. I don't hate it. I just..." She shrugged. "I find it very hard to deal with intimacy, to relax."
"So, you can take sex or leave it?"
Danni heaved out a very relieved sigh that he wasn't going to make a really big production out of sex. The whole thing, in her opinion, was vastly over-rated.
Then she went from relieved to wary when he strode towards her.
She forced herself not to take a step back, but her chin lifted, even as her heart battered against her ribs.
"That was not a direct challenge to your masculinity..." The words were trapped in her throat when he removed her wine glass, placed it on a table and lifted her in his strong arms. Omigod. "Pascal..."
"I love a challenge."
He turned to stride down a long and wide hallway, shouldered open a door.
He laid her down on a huge bed.
"I suppose," she said, rising to her elbows and riveted by the shape of him and the way his muscles flexed as he shrugged off his suit jacket. "A big man needs a big bed."
His very lazy and very confident smile simply made every single part of her melt.
"Size, as you are about to find out, matters."
"That was pitiful."
And bracing the weight of his body on his elbows, he lay on top of her.
"Pascal..."
"Hush." He lowered his head, his wonderful mouth a breath from hers. "Have you never wondered what it might be like to just let go? To simply take the intimacy that is missing from your life?"
His body was heavy, in a good way, his grey eyes bright and direct as they held hers, as they waited patiently for her response.
"Sometimes," she whispered.
"Excellent."
He crushed that wonderful mouth to hers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Logically, Anastacia knew she wasn't responsible for Jake's bad behaviour, or for Olivier's (perhaps justifiable) over-reaction to said bad behaviour. But emotionally she felt shredded. Shredded as if by razor blades, leaving her
gut, her heart, her lungs in bloody bits. Her eyes filled again and by sheer force of will alone, battled back hot tears that stung her eyes, burned her throat.
She would not cry.
Tears solved nothing.
Annoyed with herself, annoyed with Olivier and more than annoyed with Jake, she thrust her hands through her hair, grabbed and pulled hard.
Who needed all this crap?
Who needed all this pathetic drama?
Who needed it?
Not her.
In a normal day, in her normal routine, in her normal frigging world, she was the one who made the choices, the decisions. She was the one who ran the frigging show; called the shots; wore the frigging trousers. Everything that had happened in the last twelve hours was so outside her control her head was spinning with how fast her work, her life, and the people in it, had spun so crazily out of her control.
Her knuckles rapped her skull, then her fingertips squeezed hard.
End result, a thumping headache.
Why?
Why hadn't she just used the brain God gave her and dealt with Jake right from the very beginning?
Why?
Why had she avoided the initial confrontation, the meeting?
Jeez, did it matter what frigging label she put on it?
And now Nico had stepped right into the middle of the crap, the shit, the fine frigging mess she'd created by her pathetic cowardice.
She slumped into her chair, placed her elbows on the desk, closed her eyes and groaned out loud.
"By that sound I gather you're not feeling any better," said a sympathetic sounding Bronte from the doorway.
"Men!" said Anastacia sounding as deeply aggrieved as she felt.
Dressed in cropped skinny white jeans and a loose black silk shirt and black leather pumps, Bronte shifted from her position against the door and plonked herself into a leather club chair the color of dark honey. Stunning emerald eyes, filled with sympathy, met hers.
"Yup. Can't live with them. Can't throw them under a speeding train."
Anastacia's ferocious scowl could have scared puppies and small babies.