by Anna Cleary
Some dark injustice he was doing her clawed inside his chest but he ignored it. He’d check them out of the hotel tomorrow, first thing. Take the first flight they could catch. Mirandi had seemed enchanted with Zurich, though anywhere, anywhere would do. He could explain to her that the conference was too…too…
Oh, bloody hell. The board. His shareholders.
He felt moisture on his hand and looked down in surprise. Somehow the glass had broken and blood mixed with whisky was dripping from his fingers onto the floor. He glanced around for the bathroom and strode for a wash cloth.
Lucky the cut was little more than a scratch. Wrapping his hand in the cloth, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and did a double take. His heart muscle suffered another slam. Was that him? He looked like a guy who’d seen a ghost.
Forcing himself to breathe, he acknowledged he had, in a manner of speaking. He was a million miles from the guy in that Zurich mirror early this morning. Anyone seeing him now would think he was falling apart.
His gut clenched. Mirandi would think it. Those green eyes saw too much.
He felt an urgent, almost irresistible yearning to go in there at once, talk to her, be with her, lose himself in her. Chat about ordinary things. Make sexy small talk. Tease her and enjoy the shock in her eyes when he said something wicked. Drown in her smiling gaze. Lay his head on her soft, forgiving breasts and sleep for a hundred years.
He was actually shaking. He recognised with disbelief that he was teetering on the verge of a loss of control. He needed to get a grip. Shock must have momentarily thrown him, that was all.
He took a deep breath and leaned both hands on the vanity to steady himself. Remember your forte, Sinclair, he commanded himself. Compartmentalise. Stuff all the horrors back into their appropriate boxes and batten down the lids.
He wasn’t a shell-shocked kid any more and if he could hold the past at bay then, he could more than do it now. Amelie Sinclair had no power to affect him. Amelie Sinclair…that little woman…
How small she’d seemed. Could she have shrunk?
He tried to calculate how old she’d be now. She was certainly showing her age. The lines beneath her eyes had deepened and multiplied. She’d looked—harmless.
Of course she was harmless, for God’s sake. She was merely…merely…
In a determined effort to relax, he loosened his shoulders and breathed out. Concentrate on the good things. A shower, shave, and—he flinched away from thinking about the cocktail function. The casino had to be faced, though, and, admit it, he had some curiosity about the place.
It was more than time he set foot inside a casino and tested his mettle, and why not this one? After all, it was where his father had first contracted his addiction. Surely if he hadn’t succumbed by now he never would. People couldn’t inherit all their parents’ genes.
He’d endure it as long as he could, then once that hurdle was past he could relax with Mirandi over dinner, and, if there truly was a God, hold her lusciousness in his arms all night and sink into blessed forgetfulness and release.
Though come to think of it, Mirandi had been astoundingly difficult all day long. Nothing had shocked or shamed her. Anyone would think she loved casinos. Of all the people in the world he’d thought he could rely on…
Shouldn’t she be trying to talk him out of it?
A man believed he knew a woman, understood her through to her bone marrow, knew where he was with her, knew exactly what to expect from her, then the minute he took his eyes from her for a year or so she morphed into another being altogether.
If only all bathtubs came with padded neck rests. Still, the water was as hot as she could bear it, and Mirandi sank into it by degrees and relaxed.
Ah-h-h. She lay back and closed her eyes, luxuriating, thinking of Joe, running the day’s conversations through her mind like a tape. It seemed to her that just about everything she’d said today had irritated him. She couldn’t remember ever seeing Joe in this cantankerous mood. The guy was spoiling for a fight.
She closed her eyes, but it was hard to hold onto thoughts with this tingling warmth permeating her bones all the way up to her chin. The sensual pleasantness lulled her into a dreamy state somewhere between a stupor and sleep until the water began to chill, then suddenly, from out of nowhere, a jarring thought pierced the mists.
Her eyes sprang open and she sat bolt upright.
If a man grew tired of a woman’s company, a man suffering the effects of jet-lag and in the grip of a terrible fascination, might it not be difficult for that man to conceal his boredom and irritation? Considering they’d been in close confinement now for more than forty-eight hours, wasn’t it almost inevitable that Joe should be fed up with her?
Was this simply a case of history repeating itself?
Now that he’d had her and achieved his victory, it wasn’t impossible he’d tired of her all over again. With a nasty stab she remembered only too clearly the suddenness of his turnaround in feeling the last time. Loved and desired one day, consigned to the deep freeze the next.
With increasing desperation she scrolled through the day’s events. This morning she’d been riding high, floating on a cloud of rose petals buoyed up by the warmth and intimacy of the night in his arms. Then as soon as they checked into this hotel…
Briefly she closed her eyes, then dragged herself out of the tub.
That peach and rose dress was lovely, but was lovely enough? Would that dress cut it? Maybe she needed hot, sexy and exciting.
Whatever it took, she’d glide like a goddess tonight if it killed her.
CHAPTER TEN
MIRANDI’S nerves were strung tight by the time Joe’s knock sounded on her door, but she’d done her best with her appearance. At least she’d go down fighting.
She’d twisted her hair into a chignon and hadn’t spared either the mascara, the eyeshadow or the ruby-red lipstick. The impossibly high stilettos from the boutique in Zurich lengthened her legs and made her appear tall and magically slender. She didn’t have any diamonds, but a pendant on a silver chain drew the eye to her plunging neckline.
If she looked like something of a femme fatale, the long, worldless glance Joe razed her to the floor with when she nervously opened the door to him put at least one of her fears to flight.
In truth, his eyes riveted to her in much the same way as they had the day before in the fitting room. Her other fears weren’t vanquished so quickly.
When she surveyed him looking ruggedly handsome in his beautiful dinner suit with the snowy evening shirt and black tie, she had to wonder if he was used to visiting casinos. He would fit in only too perfectly.
At the same instant she realised that despite feeling so troubled she was in deep herself, all over again. Right back where she’d been ten years ago, in the grip of an obsession with Joe Sinclair. Whatever he was, she wanted him. Madly. Absolutely. He smelled so delicious with that appealing tang of fresh, masculine shower essences. In spite of everything, drinking in the smooth kissability of his lean, tanned cheek, she could have eaten him alive on the spot.
As if he felt the current his hot gaze connected with hers, then he grabbed her right there in the doorway and dragged her up against him, searing her lips and every cell in her body in a hot, sexy kiss, tongues and all.
The clinch could have escalated to so much more if people hadn’t swished by outside at that exact moment, reminding them of where they were supposed to be going.
They broke apart, and she was left reeling and aroused.
‘At least that hasn’t changed,’ he said, his voice thick and gravelly. He touched a white handkerchief to his mouth. ‘You’d better fix your lipstick.’
‘Thanks,’ she panted quite hoarsely, knowing her pupils were probably as dilated as his. ‘I’ll do that. You know you—taste of whisky.’
‘Do I? You taste like nectar.’
Sensing a truce, she smiled and fluttered her lashes. ‘And you look like James Bond.’
Th
at might have been a bridge too far. He winced and she tensed, hoping he didn’t explode. But he merely continued to scour her with hot sensual appreciation, growling, ‘And you look amazing.’
On the bright side, whatever had rattled him about the Frenchwoman seemed to have smoothed away, though he carried an air of grim tension about him. His eyes were flint hard and he had a sort of coiled purpose.
As they paused in the queue before the grand entrance to the casino to search for their passes she felt him brace as for an ordeal. When it was their turn, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and glided in beside him.
Her first overwhelming impression, apart from the dazzling chandeliers, was the buzz of the place. Strains of an orchestra reached them and it was impossible not to be infected by a thrilling pulse of excitement in the air.
Cocktails were served in the atrium. ‘Oh, Joe,’ she exclaimed when they entered the magnificent marble hall. ‘Oh, look. It is a gilded palace. It really is.’
She spun around to gaze at the glorious ceilings, adorned with gold leaf and frescoed paintings high above a gallery supported by ionic columns. Off to one side of the salon an orchestra played.
Quite a large assembly of delegates to the conference had chosen to attend, and the salon was crowded with people in evening dress. After a short interval one of the conference hosts stepped up onto a dais at one end with a little speech of welcome, inviting them all to enjoy the drinks and the music, dance a little, dine in any of the restaurants and visit any of the public rooms.
In spite of her gnawing anxiety all at once she felt eager to see as much as she could of this jewel of the Belle Epoque.
Joe surveyed the beautiful salon with a serious gaze. ‘My father came here as a young man. He was in love with the architecture of the place.’ He made a grimace. ‘Unfortunately it wasn’t the architecture that stayed with him.’
Startled, she looked quickly at him. He’d rarely ever spoken of his father, never of his addiction, and she found this unexpected openness heartening.
A waiter materialised beside them with a tray of drinks. After a moment’s hesitation Mirandi accepted a tall flute of champagne. Accepting one himself, Joe turned a surprised gaze on her.
‘I’d thought you didn’t indulge.’
‘I do sometimes.’
‘But haven’t you made some sort of vow?’ He looked almost disapproving, frowning from her to her guilty glass, and she was aware of a tiny spurt of annoyance.
She smiled tightly. ‘Listen to you. You sound like Auntie Mim.’
‘I’m shocked, that’s all.’
He sipped his own wine, glancing absently about at the guests without apparently noticing his glaring double standard. Then he turned back to her.
‘You didn’t drink on the plane.’
She shrugged.
‘Or in Zurich.’
‘I don’t enjoy drinking on planes. I didn’t feel like wine in Zurich. I was high enough.’ She lifted her eyebrows. ‘Remember?’
‘But…’ His jaw hardened and, like a mastiff worrying a bone, he shook his head. ‘In the apartment the other afternoon you said…I’m sure you said…’
She stared at him in surprise. ‘What? That I don’t drink during working hours? For goodness’ sake, Joe, does it matter?’
‘No, no. It’s just that…I guess I’m surprised. I keep expecting you to be…’
‘What? Perfect?’ She rolled her eyes, then conscious she might have seemed to be overreacting a tad, pasted on a smile. ‘Sorry.’ She gave his arm a pat. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late. I broke my non-alcohol rule years ago. In your presence, if you remember.’
He shook his head. ‘Yeah, but…’
But. Always a but.
She laughed, though the truth was her neck was growing hot and she was beginning to feel irritated. So she’d broken her pledge. Millions did it. Face it, in her father’s eyes she was a sinner and hellfire awaited her. She had her moments of discomfort about that, but it was her problem. What was wrong with the man?
‘I’m sure you didn’t ever drink very much,’ he went on, warming to his theme. ‘You couldn’t take more than a glass, as I recall.’
‘Still can’t really. I hope you’re not too disappointed at how I’ve turned out.’ Like the loose woman she was, she gave her champagne a slurp then ran her tongue-tip provocatively over her top lip. ‘I’ll try to improve later and be the Miss Goody-Two-Shoes of your imagination.’
She was relieved then to see his eyes gleam with their usual one-track wickedness. He slipped his arm around her and brushed her ear with his lips. ‘Not too good, I hope. I like the way you’ve turned out.’
Oh, he smelled so fantastically male. Still, it took her a few minutes to quite lose that prickly feeling. She was starting to feel as if she had competition. The Mirandi Summers of ten years ago must have left quite an impression.
Perhaps affected by the dazzle of their legendary surroundings and assisted by French champagne, the dull bankers and business people of the conference had acquired some sparkle to match their pretty jewellery. As the waiters circulated among them with trays laden with drinks and hors d’oeuvres, the conversation rose to a hum and she and Joe found themselves drawn into a circle of bankers and billionaires and their partners.
As she might have expected here of all places, the conversation was mainly about the play. Some of the people were keen to share their experiences at the tables, while others remained silent and watchful.
Joe was one of the silent ones, listening and absorbing, and Mirandi felt her unease increase. This wasn’t a good place for Joe, among these people. Too many skeletons were present. Too many seductive influences.
She wished she could just relax, and that she and Joe could be like all those other couples who were here on a night out. Laughing, dining and dancing, then going home and making love without any anxieties and undercurrents.
She glanced at him, so darkly handsome in his dinner suit, and her entire being clenched with yearning. Why was it that the more barriers she sensed between them, the more she wanted him?
Dancing was under way. A few couples at first, then more as the tempo of the party gathered pace. At one stage she saw Louis from Chicago pushing a statuesque blonde around the dance floor.
‘How about it?’ she suggested brightly, tilting her head towards the dancers.
Joe made a grimace. ‘I’m not really in the mood. Later, maybe?’
Fine. She wasn’t desperate to be held in anyone’s arms. Other people began to drift towards the salons where the games were under way, so she and Joe followed, strolling from room to room, gazing at the magnificent decor and artwork in each unique space. She couldn’t really enjoy it. After the dancing rejection her confidence had started to slip, and she was too burningly aware of the groups riveted by the action at the tables. In some of those grand salons the air fairly crackled with suspense.
If she was so aware of the allure of those tables, how must Joe feel?
They paused at a roulette table and remained there for minutes, mesmerised. The croupier called for a halt to the bids and, as one, the gamblers hunched, poised over the wheel with avid eyes, their adrenaline almost palpable in the air. When the wheel stopped spinning and the ball rolled to its final resting place, all but one set of shoulders slumped a little. A pile of chips was raked towards the flushed, radiant young guy who was the winner, while others at the table watched with hooded gazes, then prepared to place more bids, hunger in their eyes.
She couldn’t deny the hypnotic pull of the game and began to feel almost hypersensitive to the tension she’d sensed in Joe ever since their descent into Monte Carlo. Was the fever in this room infecting his blood?
He turned towards her and she could feel him watching her, assessing her reactions. Though he appeared so smooth and controlled, she sensed some subterranean current churning in him, despite his genial responses. She felt a sudden, almost desperate impulse to drag him to some non-threatening p
lace where they could just be natural and open with each other and pretend the past had never happened.
She made an attempt to draw him away, tugging at his sleeve. ‘Why don’t we…? How about we have dinner somewhere in the city? There were some interesting restaurants on the other side of the hotel.’
His eyes glinted. ‘Why not here?’ Her heart sank as she read the almost sardonic amusement in his gaze. ‘Not enough action for you, or too much?’ His sudden piercing glance penetrated her suspicious soul like a laser beam. ‘Are you feeling uncomfortable here, Mirandi?’
She flushed. ‘No, not at all. I’m sure here would be fantastic, though without having booked a table…’ She swallowed as she heard the lameness of the excuse. ‘Do you think we’d have much chance?’ His quizzical brows lifted higher and she hastened to add, ‘I mean it would be terrific if we could. Heavens—it’s so sophisticated. I’m sure every restaurant here must be—wonderful. Everything’s—so—so—elegant. The chefs probably have Michelin stars coming out of their ears. I’m sure they’re probably booked out every night of the week. People from all over must come here…’
When she finally ran out of assurances he said gently, ‘Let’s put it to the test, shall we?’
Great. She’d talked him into the very thing she wanted to avoid. And just her luck, a smooth and efficient maître d’hotel found them a table at once in Le Train Bleu, a restaurant atmospherically decorated to resemble a gracious wagon-lit of the thirties.
The food might have been superb, but she failed to do hers justice. Green risotto with chanterelle mushrooms was certainly delicious, whether or not real snails had been sacrificed to create it, but it required a woman with a calm and confident stomach to dig in with gusto, and hers was anything but.
Instead she drank more wine, perhaps a little defiantly. She kept glancing at Joe when she sipped to see how her indulgence in the stuff was affecting him, but though he looked at her from time to time his expression remained impassive.