by Julia James
I tried—I tried to stop this happening. Tried to deny it, tried to prevent it. But I can’t—I can’t deny this any longer. I can’t.
It was all she could manage. Then, as she sank into the low, plush seat of the powerful, sleek car, she felt herself give in entirely, completely, to what was happening. Succumbing to the temptation that was the darkly devastating man closing the door on her, lowering himself in beside her, reaching to the ignition to fire the powerful engine and moving off into the night with her at his side.
Taking her where he wanted to take her.
Where she wanted to go.
She stole a sideways look at him. Their gazes clashed. She looked away again, out over the pavements and the buildings along the roadway. She knew what she was doing—and why. Knew with every pulse of blood in her veins and in the jittering of her nerves, which were humming as if electricity were pouring through her—a charge that was coming out of the very atmosphere itself.
Enclosed as she was, only a few inches away from the long, lean body of the man next to her, she felt the low, throaty vibration of the ultra-powerful engine of the car—was aware of the sleek, luxurious interior, of the whole seductive ambience of sitting beside him.
She knew that her body was outlined by her stage dress, that her image was that of a woman in the full glamour of her beauty. And that the man beside her, clad in his hand-made tuxedo, with the glint of gold of his watch, the cufflinks in his pristine cuffs, the heady, spiced scent of his aromatic aftershave, had contrived to make the situation headily seductive.
She gave herself to it. It was too late now for anything else. Far too late.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked. Her voice was low-pitched and she could not quite look at him. Could not quite believe that she was doing what she was doing.
He glanced at her, with half a smile curving his sensual lips. ‘I attempted once before to take you to Le Tombleur—perhaps this time you will acquiesce?’
Had there been a huskiness discernible in his voice as he’d said the word ‘acquiesce’? She couldn’t be sure—could only be sure that there was some kind of voltage charging her body right now, one she had never experienced before. Somewhere inside her, disappearing fast, there was a voice of protest—but it was getting feebler with every moment she was here with Bastiaan, burningly conscious of his powerful masculine presence, of the effect he had on her that she could not subdue.
Beyond the confines of the car the world was passing by. But it was far, far away from her now. Everything was far, far away.
It did not take long to get to the restaurant, set in the foothills of the Alpes-Maritimes above the crowded coastline of the Riviera. She was helped from the car, ushered inside by the tall, commanding man at her side. The maître d’ was hurrying forward, all attention, to show them to a table out on the terrace, looking down on where the lights of the Riviera glittered like a necklace of jewels.
She eased into her seat, ultra-aware of the tightness of her gown, the voluptuousness of her figure. Her eyes went yet again to the man sitting opposite her, studying his menu. What was it about him that he could affect her the way he did? Why was she so overwhelmed by him? Why had she been so fatally tempted to succumb to what she knew she should not be doing? To dine here with him à deux...
And what would happen afterwards...?
Her mind skittered away. She did not think—did not dare think. Dared only to go on sitting there, occupying herself by opening the menu, glancing blindly down at the complex listings. Was she hungry? She could not tell. Could tell only that her heart rate was raised, that her skin was flushed with heat...that her eyes wanted only to go on resting on the man opposite her.
‘So, what would you like to eat?’
Bastiaan’s voice interrupted her hopeless thoughts and she was glad. She made herself give a slight smile. ‘Something light,’ she said. ‘In this dress anything else is impossible!’
It had been a mistake to make such a remark, however lightly it had been said. It drew a wash of scrutiny from the dark, long-lashed eyes. She felt her colour heighten and had to fight it down by studying the menu again. She found a dish that seemed to fit the bill—scallops in a saffron sauce—and relayed it to Bastiaan. He too chose fish, but a more robust grilled monkfish, and then there followed the business of selecting wine to go with it.
Choices made, he sat back, his eyes resting on her at his leisure. Satisfaction soared through him. Her yielding had not surprised him in the least, but it had gratified him. Now, at last, he had her to himself.
His sensation of satisfaction, of the rightness of it all, increased. Yes, seducing her would, as he had always planned, achieve his goal of quashing any ambitions she might have had concerning his cousin, but as they sat there on the secluded terrace, with the night all around them, somehow his young cousin seemed very...irrelevant.
‘So,’ he began, ‘tell me about yourself, Sabine?’ It was an innocuous question—and a predictable one—but he could see a veil flicker over her eyes.
‘Myself?’ she echoed. ‘What is there to tell that is not evident? I am a singer—what else?’ She sounded flippant, unconcerned. Studiedly so.
‘What part of France do you come from?’ Another innocuous polite enquiry—nothing more than that. Yet once again he saw that flicker.
‘Normandy,’ she answered. ‘A little place not far from Rouen.’ Her mother’s birthplace, it was the part of France she knew best, and therefore it seemed the safest answer to give.
‘And have you always wanted to be a singer?’
The lift of a shoulder came again. ‘One uses the talents one is given,’ she replied. It was as unrevealing an answer as she could think to give.
Bastiaan’s eyes narrowed minutely.
Sarah saw the narrowing. Could he tell she was being as evasive as she could? She was glad that the sommelier arrived at that moment, diverting Bastiaan. But as the man departed, and Bastiaan lifted his wine glass, she felt his dark eyes upon her again.
‘To our time together,’ he said, and smiled.
She made herself lift her own glass and meet his eyes. It was like drowning in dark velvet. She felt her blood quicken, her breath catch. A sense of unreality overwhelmed her—and yet this was real...vividly, pulsingly real. She was sitting here, so close to the man who could set her senses on fire with a single glance.
Oh, this was ridiculous. To be so...so overcome by this man. She had to claw back her composure. If she were going to take refuge in being Sabine then she must be as poised and cool as that protection provided. With an inner breath she set down her glass and then let her glance sweep out across the glittering vista far below.
‘If the food is as exceptional as the location, I can understand why this place has such a reputation,’ she murmured. It seemed a safe thing to say—and safe things were what she was clutching at.
‘I hope both please you,’ he replied.
His lashes dipped over his eyes. It was clear to him that she did not wish to talk about herself, but her very evasiveness told him what he wanted to know—that she was, indeed, a woman who presented to the world what she chose to present. For himself, he did not care. Sabine Sablon would not, after all, be staying long in his life.
‘Does this have a Michelin star yet?’ Sarah asked, bringing her gaze back to him. Another safe thing to ask.
‘One. But a second is being targeted,’ he answered.
‘What makes the difference, I wonder?’ Sarah asked. Safe again...
He lifted his wine glass. Talking about Michelin stars was perfectly acceptable as a topic. It lasted them until their food arrived, and then they moved on to the subject of the Côte d’Azur itself—how it had changed and developed, what its charms and attractions were.
It was Bastiaan who talked most, and he soon became aware that Sabine was adept at asking questions of him, keeping the conversation flowing.
And all the time, like a deep, powerful current in a river on whose surface
aimless ripples were circling, another conversation was taking place. One that was wordless, silent, yet gaining strength with every politely interested smile, every nod, every lift of a fork, of a glass, every glance, every low laugh, every gesture of the hand, every shift in body position...every breath taken.
It was a conversation that could lead to only one end...take them to only one destination.
The place he had determined she should go. The place she could no longer resist him taking her to.
* * *
Sarah climbed back into the car and Bastiaan lowered his tall frame into the driving seat beside her. Immediately the space confining them shrank. Her mind was in a daze. Wine hummed in her veins—softening her body so that it seemed to mould to the contours of the leather seat. She heard the throaty growl of the engine and the powerful car moved forward, pressing her further into her seat. She could feel the low throb of her beating heart, the flush of heat in her skin.
But it was in Sabine’s breast that her heart was beating. It was Sabine whose senses were dominated by the presence of this magnetic, compelling man beside her. Sabine who was free to do what she was doing now—ignoring everything in the world except this man, this night...
Sabine, alluring, sensual and sophisticated, could yield to the overpowering temptation that was Bastiaan Karavalas and all that he promised. Sabine had led her to this place, this time, this moment—a moment that Sabine would wish to come...would choose to be in...
This is going to happen. It is going to happen and I am not going to stop it. I want it to happen.
She did. It might be rash, it might be foolish, it might be the thing she had least expected would happen during this summer, but she was going to go with Bastiaan Karavalas.
This night.
And as for tomorrow...
She would deal with that then. Not now.
Now there was only her, and him, and being taken to where he was taking her. Wordless. Voiceless. Irreversible.
He took her to his apartment in Monte Carlo.
It was as unlike the villa on Cap Pierre as she could imagine. In a modern high-rise block, its decor sleek and contemporary. She stood by the huge-paned glass windows, gazing out over the marina far below, seeing the glittering lights of the city scintillating like diamonds, feeling the rich sensuality of her body, the tremor in her limbs.
Waiting...
Waiting for the man standing behind her, his presence, his scent overpowering her. Waiting for him to make his move...to take her into his arms...his embrace...his bed.
She heard him murmur something, felt the warmth of his breath on the nape of her neck, the drift of his hands around her shoulders, so light, feather-light, and yet with a silken power that made her breath catch, her lips part as the tremor in her limbs intensified. She felt the powerful touch of his palms glide down her bare arms, fasten on her wrists, and with a movement as subtle as it was irresistible, she felt him turn her towards him.
She lifted her face to him, lips parted, eyes deep and lustrous. She was so close she could feel the strength and heat of his body, feel the dark intensity of his gaze, of those eyes holding hers, conveying to her all that she knew was in her own eyes as well.
He smiled. A slow pull of his mouth. As if he knew what she was feeling, as if he were colluding with the strange, strong, heavy pulse of the blood in her veins. His eyes worked over her face leisurely, taking in every contour, every curve of her features.
‘You are so beautiful...’ It was a husky statement. ‘So very beautiful...’
For one long, timeless moment his eyes poured into hers as they stood there, face to face, and then his hands closed around her slender, pliant waist and drew her to him slowly, very slowly, as if each increase in the pressure of his hands drawing her to him was almost against his will and yet as impossible for him to resist as it was for her to resist.
Nor did she want to—she wanted only to feel his mouth making its slow descent to hers, wanted him to fuse his lips to hers, to take her mouth, possess it, mould it to his, open it to his...
And when he did her eyes could only close, her throat could only sigh with a low sound of absolute pleasure, as with skill and sensual slowness his mouth found hers to take it and taste it. Somewhere inside her, very dimly, she could feel heat pooling. Her heart seemed to cease its beating as she felt the rich, sensual glide of his lips on hers, his mouth opening hers to him, his kiss deepening.
His hold on her waist tightened, strengthened, as the shift of his stance changed so that she was being cradled against him, and with a little shimmer of shocked response she felt how aroused he was.
His arousal fired hers so that her blood surged, her breath caught, the melding of her mouth to his quickened and deepened. Her hands lifted, closing around the strong breadth of his back, splaying against the smooth fabric of his dinner jacket. She felt her breasts crush against the wall of his chest. She heard his low growl, felt his palms pull her tighter against him.
Excitement flared through her. Every cell in her body was alive, sensitive, eager for more of what she was already experiencing. And then, as if on a jerking impulse, he swept her body into his arms, as if she were nothing more than a feather. He was striding away with her, his mouth still fastened upon hers, and the world beyond whirled as he deposited her heavily upon the cold satin surface of a wide, soft bed and came down beside her.
His mouth continued devouring hers, and one thigh was thrown over her as a kind of glory filled her. Desire, open and searing, flooded her. She felt her breasts tighten and tingle and threw back her head to lift them more. Another low growl broke from him, and then her arms were being lifted over her head and pinioned with one hand while his palm closed possessively over the sweet, straining mound of her breast. She gasped with pleasure, groaning, her head moving restlessly from side to side, her mouth, freed from his, abandoned and questing.
Was this her? Could it be her? Lying like this, flaming with a desire that was consuming her, possessing her, shameless and wanton?
His heavy thigh lay between hers and she felt her hips writhe against it, wanting more and yet more of the sensations that were being loosened within her. Did she speak? And if she did, what did she say? She did not know—knew only that she must implore him to bestow upon her what she was craving, yearning for, more and more and more...
Never had she felt like this, so deeply, wildly aroused. As if she were burning with a flame that she had never known.
He smiled down at her. ‘I think it is time, cherie, that we discarded these unnecessary clothes...’
He jack-knifed to his feet, making good on his words. She could not move—could only gaze at him in the dim light as he swiftly, carelessly, disposed of what he was wearing. And then his hard, lean body was lowering down beside her, his weight indenting the mattress. She felt his nakedness like a brand, and suddenly, out of nowhere, her cheeks were flaring, her eyelids veiling him from her sight.
He gave a low, amused laugh. ‘Shy?’ he murmured. ‘At this point?’
She couldn’t answer him—could only let her eyes flutter open. And for an instant—just an instant—she thought she saw in the dim light a question suddenly forming in his...
But then it was gone. In its place a look of deep, sensual appreciation.
‘You are beautiful indeed, cherie, as you are...but I want to see your beauty au naturel.’
A hand lifted to her shoulders, easing the straps away first on one side, then the other. With a kind of sensual delicacy he peeled her gown down her body to her waist, letting his gaze wander over her in that lazy, leisurely fashion that made the heat pool in her body. Then he tugged it further still, over her hips, taking with it her panties, easing the material down her thighs to free her legs. Now only her stockings remained, and with a sense of shock she realised what it was he was seeing of her...
‘Shall I make love to you like this?’ he asked, and there was still that lazy, sensual amusement in his voice.
&nb
sp; She answered him. No, she would not be arrayed like that for him.
With swift decision she sat up, peeling her stockings from her body, tossing them aside with the belt that fastened them. Her hair was tumbling now, free and lush over her breasts, as she sat looking at him where he lay back on the coverlet, blatant in his own nakedness. She gazed down at him, pushing back her hair with one hand. He was waiting—assured, aroused, confident—conspiring with her to make the next move, and she was glad to do so.
Draping her long hair around one shoulder, she leant forward. Her breasts almost grazed his bared chest as she planted her hands either side of him.
‘Where shall I start?’ she heard herself murmur, with the same warm, aroused amusement in her voice as his had held.
An answering amusement glittered in his dark eyes. ‘Take me,’ he said, and the amusement was there in his deep voice too. ‘I am yours.’
She gave a low, brief laugh, and then her mouth was gliding, skimming over the steel-hard contours of his chest. Lightly...arousingly.
For interminable moments he endured it, his arousal mounting unbearably, as she deliberately teased and tempted him. And then, with an explosive edge, he knew he could take it no longer. He hauled her down on him—fully on him—and the satisfaction he knew as he heard her gasp was all he needed to hear. He rolled her over beneath him, and with a thrust of his thigh parted her.
His mouth found hers—claiming and clinging, feasting and tasting. Urgency filled him. He wanted her now.
Almost he succumbed to the overwhelming urge to possess her as she was. But that would be madness—insanity. With a groan of self-control he freed himself, flung out an arm sideways and reached into the bedside drawer.
She was seeking to draw him back, folding her hands around him, murmuring, and he could hear the breathless moans in her throat as she sought him.
‘Wait—a moment only...’