by Sarah Morgan
She took a deep breath, trying to dispel the lingering echoes of the strange sensation, trying to ignore the questions that remained unresolved in her mind. Who was that man? Why had he been watching her?
But someone else’s eyes were on her now, someone else was waiting for a response, and questions about the owner of one powerfully intense pair of eyes that had seemed able to pierce right through to her soul had to be shoved aside. Because tonight was all about the world-famous Dr Della-Bosca, and the foundation established in her name. Nothing should be allowed to distract her from that.
This time the smile she allowed herself was heartfelt.
‘The evening is a runaway success,’ Jade assured the older woman. ‘And you’re the star,’ she continued with more enthusiasm. ‘Funds from tonight will set up your Saving Faces Foundation for years.’
‘Yes,’ Grace finally acknowledged, with a smile echoed in one expertly shaped eyebrow as she cast her eyes around the celebrity-filled ballroom. ‘We must have done well.’
‘It’s a total credit to you, Grace,’ a gruff male voice cut in. ‘Our city could do with more corporate citizens like you.’
‘Mayor Goldfinch,’ Grace said with obvious delight as she was swept up into the distinguished-looking gentleman’s embrace. ‘And I thought our favourite foundation trustee wasn’t able to make it tonight.’
‘Knowing this night meant so much to you, how could I stay away? I pulled some strings and here I am.’
Jade allowed herself a smile as she made a tactical withdrawal, certain that neither would notice anyway. The widower Mayor had made no secret of the fact he was looking for a new wife, and with a fortune made from his property development business there was no shortage of candidates. But it was Grace who was most frequently pictured on his arm, and it was clear that whatever feelings he had for Grace were reciprocated.
And Grace worked so hard, Jade reflected, switching her champagne for a glass of mineral water from the tray of a passing waiter; she so deserved to find a partner. She deserved to be happy.
A swirl of red fabric across the room and a flash of firm cleavage caught her eye. Rachael Delaney, her mind registered instantly. Twenty-year-old Southern belle and regular client of the Della-Bosca Clinic, who’d spent the last two years taking the TV soap world by storm and was now making a play for fame and fortune in the big league. And, from the way her recently enhanced breasts were spilling out of the slashed-to-the-navel line of her gown in the direction of the producer she was courting, it was clear Rachael was hoping the results of her latest procedure might just get her the movie contract she hungered for tonight.
Good luck to her, Jade thought, as she sipped on her mineral water, given she’d invested so much money in making herself look good—from the curve of her plumped lips to the sparkle in her skilfully upturned eyes. Jade could tick off the changes the Della-Bosca Clinic had made like checking off inventory.
‘Not in the mood for celebrating?’
She didn’t have to turn. The heated rush of sensation that rolled down her spine and unfurled into her extremities was all the confirmation she needed. That deep voice had to be the perfect accompaniment to the pair of piercing dark eyes that had left their imprint stamped all too deeply on her senses.
And somehow she knew it was important not to give in to her desire to turn straight away. Somehow she knew she had to continue to focus on something, anything, if she was going to maintain a hold on reality—her reality.
‘What’s it to you?’ she responded, keeping her voice surprisingly light even as her back stiffened against his prickling proximity. She didn’t know who he was, but she was in no hurry to be pinned under that potent stare again.
Instead she kept her gaze locked on Rachael as if she was holding onto a lifeline. Rachael was her link to reality, her excuse not to turn, and her instinctive defence against this strange out-of-her-depth feeling that seemed to go hand in hand with this stranger’s presence.
But suddenly something blocked her view.
Not something.
Someone.
Him!
She sucked in a breath as broad shoulders filled her vision. And once again the man who’d been looking down from the mezzanine stared at her—except this time his piercing eyes were barely inches away. And, just as before, she felt the heat blasting from their penetrating brown depths in a confusing mixture of danger combined with a heart-stopping magnetism.
‘Have we met?’ she asked, kicking up her chin and knowing full well that she’d never seen the man before—in or out of the clinic. Having put the invitation list together, she knew he wasn’t on it. Which meant he had to be someone’s partner…
Lucky them.
The thought was so unwelcome she tried to quash it outright, but there was no chance of that—not when it was so true. Every part of this man seemed a perfect part of the whole—his slick dark hair, his chiselled bone structure, lips that were not too thin, not too full, and a body that promised to be every bit as well put together.
His lips turned into the barest smile. ‘Maybe it’s time we did.’
She waited for him to introduce himself, but he offered not a scrap of information more, failing to reveal who he was or why he was there, and impatience clicked logic back into gear, snapping her out of her frozen stance.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Whoever-you-are, but I have invited guests to look after. I really don’t have time to play games.’
She made to move away, but his velvet words stopped her in her tracks.
‘And if you had the time?’
She stopped and blinked, forcing her back ramrod-straight in defence. She looked over her shoulder at him. ‘Excuse me?’
‘If you had the time, would you be more inclined to play?’
Warm shivers assaulted her flesh. Was it the effect of his rich deep voice, or was it because she almost hoped he just might mean it? Something about the man was compelling. Damn, everything about the man was compelling. And something about her own body’s reaction impelled her to believe him.
‘I don’t play games.’ She arched an eyebrow in his direction for effect.
‘Pity,’ he said. ‘Such a waste.’
‘Not really,’ she replied, raising her chin with the certainty that she was about to have the final word. ‘Because when I play, I play for keeps.’
She turned away, allowing herself a smile, feeling she’d won some kind of moral victory at least. Besides, the encounter had left her tingling with excitement. He might have thrown her completely at the start, but she’d enjoyed the attention from someone who appeared way more three-dimensional than the usual Beverly Hills society, with their egocentric conversation and their rapid-fire evaluation of who you were and how you might be of any use to them.
But she hadn’t taken more than two steps before his rich laughter snagged into her consciousness, drawing her around as easily as a gentle finger press.
Except the way he looked at her and the set of his large, strong body, like the king of the jungle about to pounce and devour its prey, wiped out her feeling of superiority in an instant.
‘In that case,’ he said, his dark eyes crinkling at the sides, yet still filled with intensity that took her breath away, ‘let the games begin.’
CHAPTER TWO
HE’D eliminated the distance between them, had reached out and taken hold of her hand before she could react. She gasped at his warmth, at the sculpted perfection of his hand and at his gentle touch, while fully aware of the latent strength lurking beneath.
Without taking his eyes from hers he carried her hand to his mouth. She’d expected just a brief kiss, and was vaguely aware of how old-fashioned this gesture was, but already she was imagining the graze of his lips on her skin, was anticipating the brush of his warm breath. But at the last moment he flipped her hand over so that his mouth pressed open and hot against her wrist.
Her pulse thundered into life under his molten kiss, her blood super-heated, melting her bones
and stirring her dark, tender places into life. And as his liquid lips worked their magic on her skin and his tongue joined into the fray, ratcheting up the sensations another notch, she was certain that if he hadn’t been holding on to her hand she might well have dissolved into a puddle on the floor.
She tasted as good as she looked. Better. This was going to be far more enjoyable than he would ever have anticipated.
And he had her. There was no question. The passion flaring into life in her eyes told him that she would be more than responsive, more than accommodating. The way her lips were softly parted told him she was eager for more of what his mouth could do for her, and the way her nipples pressed all too obviously against the tight fabric of her gown told him that even tonight would not be too soon.
She would soon be his. And then she would tell him everything she knew to save his sister.
And he would destroy Dr Della-Bosca and pull apart the clinic, even if he had to do it brick by brick!
He clamped down on the aching response of his own body as slowly, reluctantly, he drew his lips away.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, her words less a demand this time, more a breathy supplication.
He smiled and dipped his head fractionally, still with a hold on her hand. ‘Loukas Demakis,’ he said. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Dr Ferraro.’
Her eyes narrowed and sparked, and he could see she was building connections as if suddenly understanding. Had the pieces fallen into place already? Had she realised the recently married Olympia was his sister? Did she have any idea at all why he was here?
‘Demakis?’ she repeated. ‘As in the Senator currently making a run for the White House?’
‘My father,’ he replied, rapidly reassessing his quarry’s intelligence. ‘You’ve heard of him?’
Her eyes regarded him frostily as she tugged her hand out of his, using it to support her glass. ‘Would that be such a surprise? I do try to keep informed of what’s going on in the world around us. Did you assume that just because I spend my days working with beautiful people that I must be a complete airhead?’
‘Not at all,’ he countered. Not any more. ‘I’d be a fool to make a mistake like that—obviously.’
She smiled a little then, a sweet smile of victory that didn’t make it anywhere near her eyes. ‘Obviously,’ she mimicked, as if she knew damned well he’d underestimated her and been caught out.
His back teeth ground together. He certainly wouldn’t do that again. There was much too much at stake to be outsmarted by any of Della-Bosca’s cronies.
And that was all she was, he thought, forcing himself to remember, forcing himself to disregard the perfect skin and the womanly curves poured so skilfully into that dress. One of Della-Bosca’s cronies. Regardless of the fact he still burned to possess her. Regardless of the fact he could already anticipate the feel of her honey-fleshed limbs around him.
And that last thought brought with it a smile as he flicked his gaze over her again. She would be good in bed—his own body’s reaction told him that. There was no chance he’d misjudged her on that score.
He inhaled a steadying breath, finding it infused with her fragrance. Fresh. Spicy. Tempting.
‘I’m sure my father will be gratified to hear his reputation extends so far.’
‘Then be sure to tell him,’ she replied. ‘I’d actually like to see him make it all the way to the White House.’
He suppressed a snarl. Now what was she trying to prove? His father didn’t need the support of people like her—people who did what she did, preying on the insecurity of others—and he certainly didn’t want it.
‘And you really care if he makes it?’
Her eyes narrowed and he felt their glacial challenge again.
‘Is that so hard to believe?’ she quipped, confirming his thoughts. ‘I would have thought you’d be happy to find someone who supported your father’s policy stance. Perhaps not. But, for what it’s worth, I think there would be a kind of poetic justice in having someone like your father in the White House, don’t you?’
His brow pulled tight. ‘What do you mean?’
She arched an eyebrow and her blue eyes sparkled with confidence in a way that rankled. ‘Given that ancient Greece was the cradle of democracy, I think there’s a happy kind of irony there—democracy going full circle, if you like.’ She paused, her wide mouth curling into a teasing smile that disappeared all too quickly.
‘Besides, I’ve read about your father’s background—how his grandparents arrived in the nineteen-twenties with nothing and yet built up a boatbuilding empire; it’s a very impressive story. You must be very proud of your family’s achievements.’
Was he? He hadn’t thought about it or the business lately—he’d had more pressing things to think about, like his half-sister marrying an American reality TV programme loser, her love affair with celebrity, running with the brat-pack and screwing up her life, and a father who wanted her stopped before she screwed up his political aspirations or got herself killed—or both.
And he was going to make damned sure that didn’t happen.
He looked down at her, his need to avenge the past and protect his sister setting his already heated blood to simmer point.
‘Is that what you’ve got planned for yourself—your own rags to riches story?’
Her jaw worked from side to side as her eyes sparked cold flame.
‘Excuse me, Mr Demakis. I’d really like to say it’s been a pleasure…’
She turned to leave, a liquid ripple of blue disappearing into the crowd.
‘So what’s it like for an Australian in Beverly Hills?’ he called after her through the babble and laughter of the crowded room.
She stopped dead, her back stiff, and then for a second it looked as if she was going to keep moving.
‘What’s it like to be so far from home?’
She swivelled this time, her expression perplexed. ‘You picked up on my accent?’ she said, moving closer. ‘Most people don’t.’
‘It’s there,’ he lied, knowing that his knowledge of her country of birth had a great deal more to do with his research into her place in the Della-Bosca hierarchy than with any residual twang of an Australian accent.
She’d come to work at the clinic three years ago, obviously chasing the money and the high life it could provide her with. She’d hit pay-dirt right off, setting up with Della-Bosca and being swept along in her rise to celebrity and fortune. And now she was the successor to the throne. Nature’s handmaiden in a world where beauty was paramount. Where fakery was king and no cost was too great.
‘Why try to lose such a distinctive accent?’ he asked, although he already knew the answer.
She shook her head, as if searching for a reason. ‘It was too distinctive. It was easier to be accepted into society here without always answering questions about where I came from.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all.’
Fake, he thought. Just like the rest of her.
She looked up at him.
‘Mr Demakis—’ she began.
‘Loukas,’ he corrected, setting his voice to satin-smooth again. He’d wasted too much time, and he’d almost lost her once. It was time to take charge of the conversation again. ‘Call me Loukas.’
She paused over that for a second, her top teeth gently raking over one glossy lower lip, almost as if the idea was strangely uncomfortable and needed to be come to terms with.
‘Okay…Loukas,’ she said finally, with a subtle nod of assent. ‘What is it that brings you to the Saving Faces Foundation Gala? I can’t remember your name on the guest list. Did you accompany someone here?’
He allowed himself a smile as he registered her continued interest. He hadn’t lost her after all. She was still curious, still wanting to know more about him, still feeling the same physical tug of attraction that he felt too, and that would make his job that much easier. ‘No. I came alone.’
Her head tilted fractionally. ‘Then why are you here?’
‘Just one reason,’ he said, taking advantage of a passing waiter to rid her of her neglected glass. Then he took her right hand, lifting it until it was at her shoulder level between them before holding his palm flat against hers, interlacing their fingers together. He watched her widening eyes flit to their joined hands before finding his once more. ‘But it’s a very, very good one.’
‘Oh?’ she said, her voice a husky whisper, her blue eyes wary yet intrigued, her breathing but a shadow. ‘And what might that be?’
Her faintly spicy feminine scent stirred his senses as his fingers curled between hers, and he drank in the woman before him. Blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a tendril of honey-coloured hair trailing loose from its sleek coil, kissing her neck wherever it touched in soft teasing waves.
His hunger built. That would soon be him, kissing the skin of her throat, kissing her slick, sweet lips, kissing every last inch of her until she cried out for release. And it would be no hardship to give it to her.
‘Can’t you tell?’ he said as his free arm circled around her and he spun her with him onto the dance floor. ‘I came here to meet you.’
It was the wrong answer.
His answer should have been couched in terms of wanting to support the foundation, of wanting to help children with shattered faces and fractured spirits to rebuild their lives and make them whole again. He should have been here to applaud the work of a great doctor and a worthy cause.
It was definitely not the answer she’d expected from a man who seemed dangerously threatening, at times resentful, and more often than not antagonistic. It wasn’t the answer she’d wanted. He was hiding something behind those hard brown eyes, so shiny and impenetrable they might have been French polished. What was his real purpose? Why was he really here?
And yet, as he steered her expertly around the dance floor, his firm body an aching whisker from hers, somehow his words fed into her soul, fed those dark secret places until they pulsed into life. While her brain screamed to her that this was mad, that this was unwise, her body played a different tune.