Billionaire Fiancés Box Set

by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell

  Maybe it was the recklessness of kissing a stranger, maybe it was the hours of foreplay on the dance floor, or maybe it was just him. Whatever it was, Theresa had never experienced such a rush of desire from a simple kiss. One of his hands rested lightly against her bottom and the other curled into her short hair. She squirmed into his touch, silently urging him to stroke and explore and push her senses further out into the stratospheric levels of lust he’d already evoked. But his kiss remained steady and somehow that just made her long for more.

  The cab ride was agonizing. Buckled in on opposite sides of the back seat, he stretched out his arm so his fingers rested on the nape of her neck. She didn’t dare move closer. Taxi sex was really not on her agenda, even on a reckless night like this. She just hoped he lived somewhere nearby, because the beat of the music was still throbbing in her blood, and her breath was still coming as fast as if she were dancing hard. Touching without looking had been incredibly arousing. Looking without touching was unreasonable torture.

  He had dark hair, slightly longer than her mother would consider respectable, curled over his collar and flopped on his forehead. Visible stubble shadowed his strong jaw but did nothing to disguise the sensuality of his full lips and wide mouth. Hooded eyes regarded her with smoldering lust that made her breath hitch. She turned away in an attempt to take hold of herself.

  “Not long now, chérie.”

  She hadn’t noticed the accent in his brief, murmured words earlier. “You’re French?”

  “Indeed.” He leaned lazily back against his seat but his fingers ceased to trace patterns at her neck.

  “Is it true what they say about Frenchmen?”

  “That depends what they say.”

  God, that accent was sexy, especially when delivered in his deep, husky voice.

  “That they make the most incredible…” She paused, and he raised an eyebrow at her. “…food.”

  He laughed. “Sadly not, chérie.”

  “Shame.”

  She’d bet he had plenty of other skills to make up for any deficiency in the kitchen.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She met his gaze and her mouth went dry. “Oh, yes.”

  He waited patiently by the cab while she texted his address to Julie.

  “She’ll come looking if she doesn’t hear from me tomorrow. Just to warn you, she’s a former national karate champion.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “Good.” Theresa wasn’t prepared to take any foolish chances, even if he was the sexiest guy she’d met in months.

  “Any other urgent calls you need to make?” He stepped closer.

  “Not right now.” She slipped the phone into her pocket and moved towards him.

  “Good.”

  “Kiss me.”

  He grunted and reached for her. Theresa lifted her face, but he didn’t take the hint. Instead, he bent his head to her neck and scraped his teeth against her skin.

  “Ow!”

  He soothed her pain with soft lips and a rougher tongue, tasting and teasing until she forgot the difference between pain and pleasure. Theresa slid her hands into his hair and tugged his face up to hers, pulling hard enough to hurt him back. She knew what she wanted from him and was prepared to fight for it. His lips landed on hers in a clash of tongues and teeth, which gradually subsided into something more tender, subtler, and oh lord, even more arousing.

  “We need a room,” she murmured against his mouth. “Now.”

  He swung her into his arms, ignoring her surprised cry. “Faster,” he said, by way of explanation. He strode towards the glass doors of his luxury apartment block and nodded briefly at the concierge on the way to the lift. As the door slid across, Theresa levered herself out of his grasp and slid down his body.

  “Two minutes,” he said.

  Warning or promise, she wasn’t sure. The men she normally went out with preferred more verbal foreplay than this. But then, the men she normally went out with didn’t have sexual magnetism like they were the North Pole. She couldn’t have stopped touching him if she’d tried.

  Two minutes was long enough to undo the buttons of his shirt. Long enough to flip the cotton aside and gaze at the silken muscles beneath. Long enough to reach for his belt and deal with the buckle. She let her hand slide down, tracing the hard curve of his erection.

  “Two minutes, huh?” She grinned up at him. “I was hoping it would last a little longer than that.”

  His lips tightened. “I’ll make you wish you’d never said that.”

  She shivered under the intensity of his gaze. “Can’t wait.”

  The lift pinged and the door slid back. He walked out, leaving Theresa to follow the short distance to the door of his apartment. She kicked off her heels while he dealt with the card key.

  He stood aside to let her in. The lights came on automatically, giving a warm glow to the large space. She dropped her shoes and stepped forward to get a better look at his home. It was an interior designer’s dream, all sleek, shiny surfaces with chrome fittings and black mirrors. The walls were all but bare, with only the vast flat screen TV breaking up the flat white paint. Expensive, unique pieces of furniture had been chosen with exquisite precision, but not, she would bet money, by Emile.

  “Great apartment.”

  He gestured to the floor-to-ceiling window that made up an entire wall. “It has a nice view.”

  London at night was never dark. The lights of the city from the high-rise apartment made a stunning sight. Theresa turned away from the window until her gaze rested on him. Deliberately, she let her eyes travel down his body and back up again. “The view is excellent.”

  …

  He cocked an eyebrow at her and met the challenge head on. “Right now, I can’t see enough of the view.” He gestured towards her. “There’s something in the way.”

  Dressed for clubbing, she wore a simple blue jersey dress that clung to her body while giving her free movement. But its neckline reached up to her collarbone, its sleeves to her wrists, and the hem came almost to her knees. She’d taken off her shoes when she entered his apartment and her legs were bare. Emile estimated no more than three garments lay between him and his goal.

  By way of reply, she picked up the hem of the dress and pulled it over her head. Merde. Her bra was a stretchy, non-sexy affair that she disposed of equally swiftly. With her eyes fixed to his, she hooked her thumbs into the edges of her plain black panties and shimmied them down.

  Emile had seen plenty of women strip. He’d watched deliberately tantalizing erotic dances in which women gradually discarded their garments. He’d seen bras with so much cut out they might as well not have been there at all. He’d had thongs tossed to him and all manner of lips pouted at him. He’d even taken a few shy women to bed, women who’d had to be coaxed out of their clothes and persuaded to leave the light on. He had never known a woman so coolly confident and wholly natural as this. She knew she didn’t need to tease him. He was already hers.

  Naked, she leaned against the wall and watched, hazel eyes fixed on him while he rid himself of the rest of his clothes. He didn’t bother to make a show of it for her. He wanted her to be turned on just by him, in the same way that he was turned on by the unadulterated her. She hadn’t hidden the evidence of her desire and she deserved the same honesty in return.

  “Now that’s a view worth paying for,” she said when he bent over to remove his socks.

  He grinned as he straightened up. “Likewise. Name your price.”

  She tilted her head. “Not money.”

  He gave a derisive laugh. “No.”

  “It’ll have to be your body then. Make me come and you can look all you like.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  He loved a woman who knew what she wanted and asked for it with the right words. No fancying it up with prissy pretense of love. This was sex. Putain de Dieu, it felt good.

  They moved together, just as they had back in the club, instinctively feeli
ng the other’s rhythm and matching their own movements to it. She was strong and lean, even though she wasn’t tall. Her limbs were petite compared to his, but there was nothing delicate about her. She wouldn’t break, no matter how hard they went, and he loved knowing that about her. There wasn’t a shy bone in her body as she grasped and squeezed and pulled his body to do what she wanted of it. One hand propped against the wall behind her, Emile lifted her leg, tilted his hips and slid home, a second before he realized.

  “Damn. Wait.”

  Panting, she slid to the floor while he went to the bathroom and ransacked his cabinet.

  “There’s one in my handbag,” she managed to say when he returned.

  “I have eight.” He pulled a condom from the box and chucked it onto the coffee table. “And you need to come over here.”

  He grabbed the cushions from his sofa to form a makeshift mattress on the floor. When she was near enough, he reached for her waist with both hands and dragged her down so that she straddled him with her knees. “Put this on me.”

  She raised an eyebrow at his command but took the foil packet and dealt with the condom efficiently. And then, with equal efficiency, she raised herself on her knees and slid down onto him.

  “Merde.”

  She didn’t reply, but lifted up and repeated the action.

  “Putain de merde.”

  “Feel free to join in any time,” she grunted, through panted breaths.

  Emile twisted his lips into a smile. Feisty, even with his cock deep inside her. He sat up and gripped her hips, preventing her from moving. She didn’t look too pleased about that, so he kissed her until the tension in her body eased away. “I think I promised to make you beg, no?”

  “No.” She gave a funny little gasp when he nibbled at one of her deliciously pert nipples. “You promised I’d regret teasing you. You didn’t say anything about begging.”

  “Ah.” He switched his attention to her other breast and waited until she was panting for breath. “And are you regretting it yet?”

  “We made a deal,” she said. She’d managed to slip one of her hands between them and her fingers were walking down his stomach. “You could look all you like, but only if you make me come.”

  “So we did.”

  “You’re looking,” she said. Short dark hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, but her eyes were bright and her mouth so kissable that it was impossible not to look.

  He shrugged. “Sue me.”

  “No need.” Her fingers found their target. “Just fuck me.”

  He rolled her onto her back and pinned her down. Still inside her, Emile gave the tiniest shift of his hips. “Like that?”

  “More.”

  Her whole body was flushed hot with desire and her fingernails dug into his arms. So he did it again. She writhed against him, as if her pelvis could provoke his into action. She was hungry and needy and loving every second of it, if the gleam in her eyes was any indication.

  “Two minutes, I believe you said?”

  “Damn it, just do it already!”

  “Since you ask so nicely.” He stroked a strand of hair away from her face, dropped a kiss on her forehead, and slammed back into her.

  Chapter Two

  It was true what they said about Frenchmen, after all. This Frenchman, anyway. He made love like he was born to it. He knew instinctively, just as he’d known on the dance floor, how her body moved, what it could do, what it liked to do. He knew where her limits were and how to push her beyond them.

  Theresa turned on her side and looked at him. They’d finally reached the bed on their third attempt, and now he was sleeping with a white sheet pulled up around his waist. His skin was darkly tanned and accented with tattoos on his shoulder and across his lower back. The five o’clock shadow she’d noticed earlier had developed into designer stubble that rasped against her skin. There was another thing she’d never known she liked before tonight. Before she’d gone to bed with…

  She sat up in sudden shock. She didn’t even know his name.

  She’d picked up a guy in a club, come to his apartment, and spent the night with him, and she didn’t have a clue who he was. It was one thing to prefer her flings without strings, but she did not do nameless shags.

  All she knew about him was that he was French. Sexy. Wealthy, obviously, if he lived in a place like this. She scanned the room for any more clues. Nothing. Tasteful but bland artwork on the walls. One photo on the bedside table of an older woman who might be his mother.

  He didn’t know any more about her than she did about him. He hadn’t asked, either. Maybe he did this sort of thing with a different woman every night and never bothered to find out their names. Theresa smiled to herself. Her mother would be appalled. The sort of men whom Melanie considered suitable husbands for her daughter definitely didn’t have one-night stands with strangers. But then, Melanie didn’t think her daughter had one-night stands with strangers. And to be fair, Theresa didn’t usually. She had brief, pleasant dalliances with men she’d got to know first and who were clear about the ground rules. Drinks first, dinner at least twice, and if they made it that far, they got the chance to stay the night. A few weeks of fun, maybe a couple of months, and then a mutual decision to move on. No harm, no foul. No tears. And, sure as hell, no wedding bells to make her mother happy.

  Not that marriage necessarily meant the rest of her life. Theresa had almost as many friends who were divorced as still married. And if it wasn’t forever—if it was only for twelve months—it didn’t much matter who she married. Any husband would do, just to get her mother off her back for a bit.

  She grinned, imagining what Melanie would say to the disheveled Frenchman as a potential son-in-law. The long hair and the unshaven jaw would be more than enough to move him into the ‘unsuitable’ category, even if her mother never saw the tattoos. It would be glorious, but it was never going to happen. You couldn’t get married to someone just to wind your mother up.

  “Are you always this happy when you wake up?” His head shifted to the side and his eyes opened a fraction to watch her.

  “What’s your name?”

  He sat up and frowned at her. “You don’t know?”

  She shrugged. “You didn’t tell me. I’m Theresa, by the way.”

  “Thérèse.” It sounded infinitely sexier in his French accent. “I like it.”

  “Thanks. And you are?”

  He gave her another look, as if checking something. Then he sighed. “Emile Renaud.”

  It was vaguely familiar. “Okay.”

  “You have no idea who I am, do you?” His eyes crinkled in amusement.

  “Not really, sorry. Should I?”

  “No.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “I play football.”

  That would explain the muscles. “Are you any good?”

  His lips curved. “I’m okay.”

  “Who do you play for?”

  “Woolwich.”

  “Oh. I’ve heard of them.”

  He laughed. “Well done.”

  A footballer? Her mother would really hate that, especially if there was scandal. “Are you the kind of footballer who gets on the gossip pages?”

  He pulled away. “Kiss and tell? God, I hate this country sometimes.”

  She sat up. “No. I mean, I know people do that, but no. I wouldn’t.”

  “Then why ask?” The suspicion was still deeply embedded in his voice.

  “It’s a bit complicated to explain.” And utterly ridiculous. It was absurd to think she could persuade a French, footballing sex god to even joke about marrying her. But perhaps that was what made it so brilliant.

  In the other room, a phone rang. “Damn, I have to get that. Don’t run away. We’re not done yet.”

  She watched him go, all naked muscles and tattooed skin, with an air of confidence bordering on arrogance. He could be just the unsuitable guy to scare the wits out of her mother, if she could find a way to convince him to do it.


  …

  “Your girlfriend?”

  Emile flipped his phone shut and looked up. Theresa was leaning against the doorframe, wearing his shirt. Merde, she hadn’t even bothered to button it up. As he watched, she ran a hand through her hair, straightening it with an efficient gesture. The shirt lifted, showing off those delectable breasts and the curve of her stomach. He walked towards her, needing to get her back into bed already.

  She put out a hand to stop him. “Not if you’re involved with someone else.” She glanced pointedly down at his phone.

  “I’m not.” He sighed. “Though Prada is slow to get the message. We ended it a month ago and she still calls most days.”

  “Prada? That can’t be her real name. Why don’t you just block her number, anyway?”

  “How?”

  Theresa took his phone and looked at it in some disbelief. “By getting an upgrade to the twenty-first century?”

  He shrugged and slipped it back in his pocket. “It makes calls.”

  “So, why did you end it with her?”

  “Why do you assume I ended it?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Because she’s the one still calling you a month later.”

  He acknowledged the point by raising his hand. “She wanted to settle down.”

  “Marriage?”

  His lips twisted. “And free access to my bank account.” Prada could barely remember his birthday, but she never had any difficulty working out exactly what he earned each season, or how many Louboutin shoes and Louis Vuitton handbags that corresponded to.

  “Ouch.”

  He shrugged. “I’m glad to be rid of her. I’m enjoying playing the field.”

  “So am I.” She gazed up at him, hazel eyes full of challenge and invitation. “I enjoyed playing it last night.”

  “Last night was just a pre-season friendly.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Uh huh. The real fun starts here, chérie.”

  He leaned in to kiss the dimple at the corner of her collarbone. His damned phone started ringing again.