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Dressed to Thrill
Bella Frances


You must have some ego to think that every girl who rides in the back of your car wants to kiss you.Fashion designer Tara Devine is the poster girl for behaving badly. It’s a total sham, but she’s always pulled it off… until Michael Cruz saunters into her life, threatening to upturn everything!It’s bad girl vs bad boy – and, if she’s honest, Michael puts her efforts to shame! But one wild night later Tara realises that Michael’s bed is the only place she hasn’t faked it in years and the battle lines are drawn! Because Michael might have got under her clothes, but anywhere near her heart… ? Not likely!









‘I bet we could find at least one thing we both enjoy.’


‘What did you have in mind?’

‘It’s way too early in the night for me to tie myself down to anything specific.’

‘You’ve got an answer for everything, Ms Devine. Sadly it’s too late in the night for me to stay on and find out what you’ll tie yourself down to. Or tie yourself up with. It’s been … interesting.’

He leant a hand on her shoulder and leaned down for the obligatory goodbye cheek-kiss. He smelled product—perfume, hairspray, cosmetics. He touched smooth skin. He let his lips linger for a second too long to be strictly platonic. He curled his other arm round her waist, drawing her closer into him. Her body was soft and nestled perfectly, and he moved his lips to her other cheek. But her lips were in the way, so he placed his kiss there. Just one.

She. Was. So. Hot.


Dear Reader (#ulink_5b1a543a-f747-5ca0-9735-13dc88e02a3d)

When Tara Devine first burst onto the page even I was taken aback by her sass! Every time she met a challenge she climbed right over it—in her highest, most inappropriate heels. Sometimes I had no idea how she badly she would behave, but one thing was for sure: when she met her match, the feral cat would turn into a kitten. Getting to that stage was never going to be easy, and only a very tough guy showing her very tough love would cut it.

Enter one super-sure, super-hot Michael Cruz. He’s seen more than enough of life to see right through Tara. But what he does see hooks him. And even though she pushes him to his very limits, and brings out every chest-thumping, testosterone-pumping part of him, he’s her guy and he’s prepared to hold on until all the champagne’s been drunk and the party’s over.

I truly loved these characters. I loved their hot sex and their love story. And I so admired Michael for the patience he was prepared to show. Falling in love with love is easy. But playing the long game and putting yourself second is what really counts.

I hope my very first Modern Tempted™ rocks you the way it rocked me. To be part of this wonderful world of writers and readers sharing the eternal quest for eternal love is the best feeling ever!

With my warmest wishes

Bella x




Dressed to Thrill

Bella Frances





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Unable to sit still without reading, BELLA FRANCES first found romantic fiction at the age of twelve, in between deadly dull knitting patterns and recipes in the pages of her grandmother’s magazines. An obsession was born! But it wasn’t until one long, hot summer, after completing her first degree in English Literature, that she fell upon the legends that are Mills & Boon


books. She has occasionally lifted her head out of them since to do a range of jobs, including barmaid, financial advisor and teacher, as well as to practise (but never perfect) the art of motherhood to two (almost grown-up) cherubs.

Her eclectic collection of wonderful friends have provided more than their fair share of inspiration for heroes, heroines and glamorous locations, and it was while waiting to board a flight home after a particularly lively holiday that the characters for her first competition success in So You Think You Can Write, were born.

Bella lives a very energetic life in the UK, but tries desperately to travel for pleasure at least once a month—strictly in the interests of research!

Catch up with her on her website at www.bellafrances.co.uk (http://www.bellafrances.co.uk)

DRESSED TO THRILL is Bella Frances’ debut book for Mills & Boon


Modern Tempted™ and is also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


DEDICATION (#ulink_44946a8a-5023-5f2d-9674-fefbc42a3ed6)

For Margaret Isabella Mustard, who loved literature and life. Governess, teacher, farmer’s wife, mother and grandmother. Thank you.


Contents

Cover (#u3f19208e-5550-5cd2-98de-8625dd92e091)

Introduction (#uaa3be640-7606-5d8b-87c5-75ddb5da4534)

Dear Reader (#u07fb5b96-1e8f-56aa-b61f-74d0289bb288)

Title Page (#u047187a0-afe8-53f3-aa4b-bdba5a046029)

About the Author (#u68d6e3b3-37b9-513c-a8af-ba7319d27138)

DEDICATION (#ueefa8a4b-dadf-51b5-8cf9-6ca7addad270)

ONE (#u9b2a8cba-5c3e-5f44-a7a7-b0ff40968784)

TWO (#ubd3d5366-a265-5a30-bbc0-39997511bcb4)

THREE (#uaf3968ca-c588-506c-981c-6c62a49e1ac8)

FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


ONE (#ulink_4d2410eb-c503-5da3-9272-25050dba9c9f)

Tara Marie Fitzpatrick Devine knew how to behave badly. Very badly. She made it her business to work hard, play hard and then read the hard online copy of her triumphs. It was quite simply the most delicious way to promote herself in the dog-eat-dog world of international fashion. And tonight—the culmination of a whole season of glamorous graft—tonight, her wild streak was shining like neon body paint in a nightclub-dark room.

‘But what am I going to do?’

Barely aware of the feet that drummed beside hers under the table in the shady booth, Tara dipped into her clutch and pulled out her compact. Another streak of siren-red over her pout while she was still sober enough to care.

‘You’ll be fine,’ she managed to say, looking at her reflection in the tiny mirror.

The thick slicks of liquid eyeliner were almost perfect—crazy that she had never rocked this look before—it was so, so burlesque!

‘But I’m sure he’ll be on his way here next! And if he catches me here…after I told him I was going straight home…’

Tara replaced the lipstick in its little case. Honestly, there was no getting through to this girl.

‘Fernanda.’

She swept a glance from the now resting silver platforms to the mouthwateringly beautiful face of Fernanda Cruz—the sexiest Spanish teenager to grace the runways and the tabloids in a decade. Her brown mane hung sexily over one eye and her fuchsia silk mini-dress rode high on endless thighs. The girl looked as if she had never even heard of the word carbohydrate.

‘What?’

Tara pointed her lipstick at her.

‘You need to stop this. First of all, you’re not even sure if he’ll definitely turn up. Secondly, if he does…and—let’s face it—it is quite likely, then you need to stand up to him. Tell him to get out of your life and stop acting like the overbearing, macho pain in the ass that he is.’ She flipped open the compact again and checked her slightly wonky teeth for lipstick, rubbing at them until they squeaked. ‘It’s not as if you’ve done anything wrong, Fernanda. It’s only an after-party! ‘

‘But you don’t understand. My brother Michael rules the family. If he is here, I’m…’ She mimed being garrotted.

‘And he has to realise that a life in fashion these days means you have to promote yourself—be seen, get papped, kiss Harry…’

‘But I’m his baby sister, Tara! And he hates it. Hates all of it. He wants me to study to be an accountant or something. He thinks models are airheads and designers are fakes.’

Tara’s snapped her clutch closed with a little more attitude than was necessary. She knew all about the über-dominant Michael Cruz, Fern’s brother and legendary King Machismo. Ten hours earlier, as Fernanda had sublimely showcased Tara’s funkiest spring/

summer dresses on the runway of her London show, her sickeningly handsome brother had sat in the front row, looking as bored as if he were watching paint dry—the dull shades.

And, though no one had dared tell Tara at the time, the press had been all over it. Photos of him in his immaculately tailored suit, with his perfectly masculine jaw and utterly uninterested expression had hit every online fashion site within moments. Thank heavens his other sister Angelica had shown enough enthusiasm for the whole row. And had been kind enough to drop that she was ‘considering’ commissioning Tara to design her wedding dress. That just about made up for the arrogance of the man!

‘Fern, honey, we’ve worked hard. Our careers are just taking off. For me, this party is as important as the show. And for you it’s what you’ve been looking forward to for the last month. And we’ve got it all to do again in two weeks’ time in Paris! Cha-ching! So if he is here we’ll tell him to…to go and count his own beans—and we’ll mingle and dance and see what column inches we can capture. Come on!’

She grasped Fern’s hand and pulled her to her feet. All six feet of her size zero frame only served to highlight Tara’s own whipped cream curves. Fattest woman in fashion. Overeater von Tease. Yep, she’d heard them all. And sometimes it hurt—of course it did. But she’d learned long ago that even if she ate air and drank dew she was only ever going to be voluptuous. So she’d put her voluptuousness to good use—she knew how to enhance a cleavage and minimise a belly better than any bra or pair of magic pants.

And, now that the fashion elite had begun to show interest, getting some mainstream press was her next mission. Hence the headline-grabbing dress from her show—she’d styled it The Seven-Year Bitch: Marilyn meets Madonna. Though maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to go this short when there was nothing surer than a cringe-worthy ‘getting into the limo badly’ photograph appearing in the morning’s news feed. More column inches, and even more reasons for Team Devine back home to decry her. Devine girls were supposed to put up and shut up—two of her weakest skills…

The DJ changed and the music turned darker. Tara saw Fern head onto the dance floor with some up-and-coming young cutie and wandered off herself into the throng, smiling and air-kissing the other bottom-of-the-food-chain celebrities. She snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray and moved back out to the foyer—keen to avoid having to chat with her Dutch financier, easily the most boring man on earth. But when her breath seemed to catch as a gulp of fizz hit the back of her throat, and the faces of the crowd all turned, she realised that someone very A-list had just arrived.

Everything in Tara Devine’s life happened at a million miles an hour. Her brain processed thoughts that her mouth duly delivered. Which sometimes led to problems. Like when she didn’t actually know what she’d just said or done until two seconds too late. But here—now—she felt as if she had slipped into slow-mo. She watched, transfixed, as the foyer seemed almost to fade and there, stalking along the red carpet, was the arrogant alpha himself. Michael Cruz. Incorporated.

As the camera flashes whited out the space he turned his head slightly, as if a mildly irritating noise had sounded. Now that she could see him clearly, she saw he was as tall as she had imagined, his physique as perfect. And, though she rarely dressed men, she just knew what lay under the cut of cloth on his back. The ripple of muscle over the perfect masculine ratio of shoulders to waist was flawless.

One hand was at his hip, pushing back his jacket, and the perfect illumination of a white silk-linen shirt gleamed. He turned, paced, and took something handed to him by one of his security team. He slipped it into his pocket, seemed to search out the faces closest to him, and then…

And then a flash of intensely dark eyes landed on her. He scanned her, and her heart raced the moment his gaze probed and zoned over her. His eyes narrowed as they landed on her chest and she instinctively lifted her arms to shield herself. He turned full body to face her as he continued to stare, his eyes sliding down, over and up her legs.

The cameras whirred and flashed, people were talking, calling out to him, capturing his appraisal of her. And then, with what seemed infuriatingly like a condescending smirk, he turned away, dismissing her.

Tara felt colour rush up her chest and burn her cheeks—the stab of childhood sensitivities all over again. It had been a long time since anyone had pierced her armour. And that made her even angrier—how dared he? She made to step forward, to tell him what she thought of him—him and his dull, dark, bespoke suit. He was here in the hub of one of the most creative cities in the world, at one of the most exciting times—when the eyes of the fashion media were trained upon young talent—and he was being openly dismissive of anything other than twenty-four-carat conservatives just like himself.

She had checked him out—the media darling, yet another poacher turned gamekeeper whose definition of art was as narrow as his totally on-trend, no-risk tie. There was no way anyone other than the beautiful people would get a foothold in his world. Old money and limb length spoke more than any genuine talent. As far as she could see.

As if to prove her point, a little posse of coltish runway girls circled him, giggling and preening and flashing their thigh-gaps like currency. He brightened and slung arms round two who snuck right under his

‘Daddy’s home’ embrace. Their coquettish display was vile. Sometimes the sisterhood let itself down so badly.

‘Tara, querida! How lovely to see you again.’

Tara turned to see the third member of Club Cruz glide her way towards her. The outrageously elegant Angelica: dream customer and media-savvy goddess of style. Oh, yes. Let the Lord be thanked for the double X chromosomes in the procreation of generation Cruz.

‘Angelica!’

Air-kiss, air-kiss and smug glare right over to the arrogant alpha himself. He caught her look and made no effort to hide his calm assessment of the scene. Stood with his adoring troupe, relaxed and controlled. And who could blame him—the way they were practically licking the air around him?

‘Angelica, you look beautiful—as ever. Let me see.’ Tara stepped back to scan the perfect ensemble, ‘You wear couture so well. It’s a shame your brother is rocking the boring businessman look, though.’

Angelica laughed lightly and preened politely, linking her arm in Tara’s and stepping into the party. ‘Michael is putting up with this for me. He doesn’t really like the scene any more. But he does enjoy some of the benefits.’

She flicked her eyes to where he stood, acknowledging his current difficulties with amused acceptance.

‘This is the third party we’ve been to and his ego must be bigger than the bar bills. All these beautiful young girls and so few men for them to flirt with. Well, men who like women, that is.’

Tara scanned her fellow partygoers, nodding her agreement. There was more oestrogen in the room than you could shake a fluffy pink wand at. The legions of gay best friends didn’t quite boost the already depleted testosterone levels. Even the men in the celebrity underclass were over-preened, with their shaped, tinted brows and oily orange complexions. Really, really not a turn-on.

Tara’s men were edgy, dark, beta. And invariably in her past. The last real relationship she’d had, with a sensitive, eyeliner-wearing musician, had been during college. The relationships she had now were with champagne and investors. Oh, and the media. Her biggest flirt of all.

‘I was wondering if you had seen Fernanda, actually.’

Angelica’s tone still had its feather-lightness but Tara could sense a little edge of concern.

‘I thought she was staying home, but maybe she has come here with you?’

Tara looked around. Fern hadn’t been with her for quite some time now. ‘She is here—she went to dance. But if she knows Michael’s here she’ll be hiding out in the toilets. She had a major meltdown earlier. He must have some hold over her.’

Angelica steered them through to the dance floor, smiling as she passed the partygoers and securing them two glasses of champagne from a conveniently placed table.

‘He means well—just worries about her because he is responsible for her. It was never easy for him, being guardian to two orphaned girls.’

She patted her arm as Tara vaguely recalled their back story. Something about him halting his own highly successful model/actor/presenter career when his mum and stepdad were killed in a car crash. Overnight he’d gone from number one Euro party boy to serious, silent and sober. What was it her Irish granny used to say? ‘A young tart an old nun makes.’ Or something like that. Yes, there was no doubt that his condescending aura was just reformist hot air.

‘He thinks everyone in fashion is self-serving and nasty or stupid—because he had such a bad experience when he was younger. You should meet him. Help him put his mind at rest. Oh, and we must have that chat about my dress.’

The very words Tara had been longing to hear. She swallowed her gushing mouthful of thank-yous and smiled coolly. ‘Of course. Any time you like. I won’t be heading to Paris for a week.’

‘Lovely…’ Angelica sounded distracted. She unlinked her arm and squeezed her hand. ‘I think we should go and find Michael. Maybe you can convince him to stay on here while I take Fernanda home. Discreetly.’

She nodded to where Fern, locking lips with her cutie, was swaying in time to some bassy, carnal music. The fact that she didn’t seem to care who saw her grind her hips and lose herself in his mouth kind of screamed that she had kissed goodbye her inhibitions along with several glasses of booze.

Angelica rolled her eyes ever so slightly. ‘He won’t like it if she’s been drinking. He’s so protective of her, and it would save a load of heartache if he never had to know.’

Actually, Tara thought that a hell of a lot more heartache would be saved by telling him where to get off—but each to their own.

She squeezed Angelica’s hand back. ‘I’m on it.’

Helping her friend and getting more into Angelica’s good books made a whole lot of sense, too. The only downside was that it was going to mean actually communicating with the grade A-is-for-ass, macho man. What on earth did they have in common? Spain’s one-time boy idol, all grown-up and gone cerebral. Who only spoke in words of five syllables in the language of the super-successful.

Maybe it would be simpler if she dropped her clutch and twerked for him. It was rumoured that he still spoke that particular language, and maybe then she’d be able to hold his attention long enough for his sisters to get out and away from his overbearing presence.

She had. She’d escaped—or rather, she’d plotted and executed her plan. Walked away when the time was right. And if she could do it any woman could. It was the best thing that had happened to her. Ever. Honestly. When she ruled the world she’d arrange for all the arrogant bullies to be herded together and thrown in a pit. And Michael Cruz would be the perfect trophy for the top.

She stomped along, in the wake of Angelica’s smooth glide, back to where Michael and his guardette of honour were still lending their eye-blinding beauty to the club photographer. She watched a couple of the better-known runway girls strike poses and got the feeling he wasn’t really keen to play any more. But his smile, when he used it, was as dazzling as his sisters’—and, heaven help her, for a moment she could only stare at the masculine beauty of it all.

And then he turned it on Angelica, and warmth crept over his face. So he had a heart?

He eased himself away from one photo op right into another as he greeted his sister. Then he distanced himself from all the white noise as he guided her—only her—with a proprietorial hand on the small of her back, to the bar. Was he being a deliberate jerk or did he truly not know that Tara was behind them?

She could really take it or leave it. This whole, keeping up with the Cruzes, thing. It was taking her well away from where she wanted to be. There were some very interesting new faces and Mr Arrogant had diss’d her twice already—three times if you counted the show today.

She was just about to let them all get on with it when she saw him turn round. Not fully round, but grudgingly, and then, as if he was giving alms to the poor, he gestured that she should catch up with them.

If there was a DEFCON higher than one she might just have reached it. Who the hell did he think he was? Did every female he met just fall at his feet, or—worse—into line? Not this one. He might look like the man of everyone else’s dreams, but he was her personal idea of a nightmare come to life.

‘Tara. I don’t think we’ve properly met.’

He didn’t think they’d properly met? Really?

She could just see Angelica’s dazzling smile through the haze of red that had fallen around her. Play it cool, play it cool. Don’t give him the control. Don’t make a fool of yourself.

She lifted the glass she was almost crushing in her hand and took a long sip.

He gave a little indulgent, half-cocked smile and then walked towards her slowly, hand extended. ‘I’m Michael—Angelica’s brother. And Fernanda’s. Pleased to meet you.’

Oh, he was good. But she was better. She paused, set her drink with very deliberate care on little elbow-height table closest to her, and turned back to face him.

‘Yes, I’m sure you are. You were at my show today.’ Just in case he thought he would try to gloss over his rudeness. ‘You didn’t really seem to get it. Fashion not your thing?’

Well, he probably didn’t have a lot of women launching conversations with insults, so that might explain his slight double-take. But he covered it well and took her hand. A very warm, very appropriate handshake. No crushing, just firm and male. Very, very male.

His eyes bored right into hers. Combative. He let go of her hand. ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’ve sat through quite a number of runway shows this week. Wouldn’t say it’s been the best use of my time, but…it filled a few hours.’

‘And created a few million for our economy,’ Tara added, sweet as the pie she’d like to throw in his face.

And it was such a yawningly attractive face. Some might even get swept up in the masculine brilliance of the angled cheekbones and defined jaw. Eyes that were slightly almond-shaped and as fathomless as his mood. Lips that were full and dark red, but too hard to be feminine. Lips that she suddenly imagined could give a whole load of pleasure.

Dangerous. Oh. Yes.

She swallowed and forced her thoughts back on track. ‘I often think some people forget just how much is involved in the creation of one dress.’ She fingered the skirt of her own, unintentionally inviting his appraisal.

Damn, but he didn’t think twice about giving it. Was there no end to the gall of the man?

‘We were both thrilled to be at your show, Tara. Your designs really are beautiful. And you have the perfect body to show them off.’

Angelica’s sparkling tones cut through the heavy air that was swirling between them. ‘You are so wonderfully hourglass. You know, I was reading the other day that we are all turning into rectangles. Can you imagine? Straight up and down. No waists to speak of. No wonder you are the toast of the week, sweetie. All us skinnies want to look as feminine as you. Isn’t she just adorable, Michael? Oh, look, there’s the photographer. We must give him a snap. Michael—you there, arm round Tara. Perfect.’

Angelica buzzed and fluttered and placed herself on Tara’s other side as the cameras flashed. And even though she was still fizzing at the easy way he was glossing over his arrogance Tara knew that now wasn’t the time to challenge.

Because now he was moving right into her space, extending his arm. Even as her eyes fell on the mouth that twisted into that slight smirk she had just seen. Even if this time the smirk was eclipsed by the pure male sensuality of his lips. And, though she hated that predictable shadowy stubble, defined jaw look, her eyes widened as the up close and personal space of Michael Cruz became shared with her.

She felt his arm circle her waist and draw her to his right side. Firmly. He held her firmly—as if he had every right to wrap his big arm around her and pose her in the camera glare. As if it was totally fine for him to pull her so close to his body and cause fireworks in her nerve-endings. Could everybody see what she was feeling? How embarrassing! Since when was Tara Devine reduced to a puppet by anybody?

She really didn’t want to run with that particular thought…

His grip on her waist was tight and unequivocal. She was just a full-fat version of the calorie-free hors d’oeuvres he’d sampled five minutes earlier. And she hate, hate, hated that he could do that to her.

* * *

Michael felt sure the muscles in his face would spasm any moment now. After the day he’d had, these brutal after-parties were the last thing he needed. But what the hell? He saw Angelica so little that he could stomach hanging out here, since it seemed to be such a big deal to her. Though he hadn’t figured on winding up next to this pocket Miss Whiplash: Tara Devine, wildest little firecracker in the box, renowned for her partying, her comic book curves and her utter lack of self-control.

But more to the point—he scanned the room—thankfully Fernanda had been smart enough to leave all this well enough alone. At least she’d been as good as her word and stayed home. And, despite begging him to let her model this week, she seemed to have retained some of the self-control he’d spent the last sixteen years drilling into her. She was young, she was naïve. And she was allying herself to the vacuous people in this awful industry.

He’d be damned if the sense and intelligence she was blessed with would be wasted on all of this. The place was awash with drugs and drink—these parties always were. He’d had more than his fair share back in the day. And he’d be a fool to think there wouldn’t be predators trying to get his sister hooked up in it.

He glanced down at the mini sex bomb tucked beneath his arm. She seemed to have burst onto this scene overnight—and wasn’t it just typical that his two sisters found her so ‘engaging’. This woman had her own look, all right—strawberry blonde hair with strange streaks of platinum and gold, combed and pinned in a kind of soft beehive—not his thing at all. He could see the curve of her throat as it met the creamiest, most flawless skin of her décolletage. The swathe of ivory satin that skimmed the most talked-about society breasts just enhanced them even further, and he dropped his eyes to take them in again.

What the hell? He was a man.

Angelica was right. Tara’s waist, now that his hand had relaxed and splayed out against her hip, was actually much smaller than he’d thought when he’d ever thought about it—which was never. And her hips in that skirt—what little there was of it—were soft and round. The whole look reminded him of someone. Someone very feminine. Very sexy. She’d turned, was looking up at him, and her eyes were so blue, outlined in thick black make-up that she just didn’t need. Her lips… The reddest, fullest most swollen pout of a mouth he could remember seeing. She was saying something.

‘Yes, Fernanda is an amazing model. She has potential to be world-class—a real supermodel. I’ve booked her for another week. For Paris.’

The fog in his head suddenly cleared. If Fernanda thought he was letting her loose into this circus again she was out of her mind. He’d indulged her notions this once—let her get it out of her system. But no way was she making a career out of this—not when she had the potential to do something worthwhile with her life.

Time for a little distance.

He leaned in to whisper in Tara Devine’s ear. ‘You’d better unbook her, then. No way will my sister be working for you, next week or any other.’ He smiled as he spoke his words right into her ear, felt her stiffen. He lingered a little longer, and could have sworn she shivered. ‘I don’t know what she told you, but she has more important things to do than walk up and down wearing a bunch of crazy clothes.’

‘Wow, you really are a control freak!’ Tara hissed at him out of the corner of her mouth, even while she pouted and posed.

She was playing her coy little games for the snappers. The men in the room—the men who weren’t caught up in this fashion nonsense—were all posturing, their eyes trained right at her and her frankly ridiculous curves.

She smiled at them, turned in his grasp and cupped his cheek. ‘What are you so afraid of? That she’ll actually enjoy herself?’

She leaned right into his ear as she spoke and he felt her lips brush his skin and the press of her breast on his arm. So she wanted to play? He could live with another minute of her company if it taught her a lesson.

He caught her wrist, brought her insolent hand down sharply behind her, so that her back arched into him and the spill of those creamy breasts was even more obvious. She let out a little gasp and he trailed his eyes super-slowly right over her smooth silky skin. The bodice of her satin dress was so low and his view was so good. And damn it if the slow smirk he was feeling didn’t warm him all the way to his groin before he could turn back to the cameras.

He could feel the air in the room shift. He could feel the interest in the scene sharpen.

Your move, honey.

And, boy, did she move. Just as a TV crew arrived. Brilliant.

‘Well, guys, I think it’s safe to say that Señor Cruz has just shown us, in the most obvious way imaginable, that he’s a big fan of Devine Design. You all know that I had the best of times this week—my clothes are for real women, with real bodies. I design beautiful, feminine clothes for beautiful, feminine women. And, hey, sometimes even a super-smooth dude like Mickey here can forget his manners, but we forgive him. He can’t help it.’

She linked her arms through his and through Angelica’s. Angelica was smiling as if her face would split, and for all the world he thought Ms Devine was going to take a bow. He couldn’t help but chuckle at her little speech. He’d obviously upset her ego. Always the same—the brash types were the mushiest inside. So he’d give her this one, but he’d also make sure they moved well out of the range of any more cameras or reporters, just in case she got brave again.

‘Angelica, I’m having the time of my life trying to keep up with all the highbrow conversation in the room. The car will be here in about five minutes. Does that give you enough time to do whatever it is you’re hell-bent on doing?’

Angelica had stopped giggling with her little friend and was scanning the room.

‘Yes, Michael. Of course.’ She suddenly seemed a little tense. ‘I’ll just get you and Tara another drink—wait here.’

Another drink? With Whiplash? He moved to cut that right out of the plan but his sister was off, and it struck him, as it suddenly did at times, just how much she was like their mother in the line of her cheek and the fall of her hair down her back. Such regal quality and such ambassadorial skill. She smoothed and shushed where he bulldozed, and they both knew it. And it worked.

So what angle was she working now? Something was up.

‘Where’s Fern?’

He turned to Tara. She glared at him with those huge blue-black eyes. And then shrugged her shoulders.

‘No idea.’

She lifted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and knocked back a large gulp. Not quite the lady­like sips he was used to seeing in the women he dated.

‘Thirsty?’

‘Bored.’ She pointedly looked away, then knocked back another mouthful.

‘You should get out more.’

She turned to face him. Set a scowl across her face and pursed her plump, pouty lips into an even more furious moue. ‘If it wasn’t for the company I’d be having a wonderful time.’

‘You would?’ She was so easy to snare. He smiled as her scowl deepened. ‘What’s wrong with the company, then?’

‘Isn’t it obvious? I can’t be the first person to call you on your appalling manners, surely?’

‘Actually, my manners are the least of your problems.’

It wasn’t like him to be anything other than courteous to women. His mother had been pretty lax about most things, but charm came cheap—the problem was this one got under his skin like a heat rash, and he didn’t want to stop scratching.

‘Meaning…?’

‘You really have to ask?’

She swilled what was left of the golden liquid in the narrow flute, and then tossed it back in one mouthful. He watched her throat constrict as she swallowed, half expecting her to wipe the back of her hand across her mouth like a saloon whore from a fifties Western. Ms Devine was anything but ladylike. And she was getting all fired up—maybe this was going to turn into an interesting party after all.

‘The only problem I can see is that you and your ego are still here. I can’t be the only one who’d much rather you and your dull suit and boots got yourselves the hell out of here.’

Just as she hissed her little putdown another bunch of lovelies fluttered over. ‘Actually, I’m not so sure everyone sees it that way…’

Far too young and, honestly, too far gone, but it was easy to let the charm drip as he kissed and complimented them. Tara stood to the side, pointedly looking away, then whipped out her phone. He watched her face change as her fingers scrolled the screen. She tucked it back in her little cube of a bag and seemed to brace herself. Interesting.

She walked over to him. Slowly. Almost dragging her heels.

‘I’m going to get another drink—would you like one?’

He cocked an eyebrow. He hadn’t been expecting that.

‘What happened there? Did you get a text alert to be more pleasant?’

She smiled the fakest smile, but even though he knew she was forcing it, it was still a great smile. Her perfect mouth split to showcase white teeth that were perfect bar the front two, which sat at an offset angle to one another. Quirky. Cute.

‘No, I just thought we should grab a drink to loosen up while we wait. But if you’re too busy I quite understand.’ She nodded to the girls.

‘I’m loose enough, thanks—but don’t let me stop you. I’m going to chase up my sister. Time we left the party to those who still feel the need.’

‘Oh, come on. Just a little one? I’m sure Angelica will only be another minute.’

‘I’m sure she will too. But I think I’ve indulged her long enough.’

‘You see this as indulgence? People sharing some fun together?’ She swung out her arm, indicating the groups of people chatting, laughing, drinking, dancing.

He’d seen so many similar scenes in so many corners of the globe. At one time in his life this was his life. But party fatigue had set in some years ago and the whole scene now left him cold.

‘It’s all relative. Fun for you and fun for me? Not compatible.’

‘You think? I bet we could find at least one thing we both enjoy.’

He turned back from the throbbing crowd to face her. Let his eyes drag slowly over that intriguing face. Was she coming on to him—after being so hostile? Did she have a short-term memory problem or a personality disorder to add to the mix?

‘What did you have in mind?’

On anyone else the slight colour that crept over her skin would have suggested a flush of shame, but on her it was lost in the assault to the senses of hair, make-up, outfit and attitude. She was like a caricature. But she had something. He couldn’t put his finger on it—yet. Maybe it was just attitude, or energy. Or overt sensuality. But he’d met a lot of women, for sure, and she did not fit neatly into any of his boxes. That didn’t mean that he wanted to hang out with her at this or any other party, but it might explain why Angelica had decided to add her to her Pandora’s box of friends.

‘What do I have in mind? It’s way too early in the night for me to tie myself down to anything specific.’

He grinned at her. Couldn’t help it. ‘You’ve got an answer for everything, Ms Devine.’

She grinned back, and this time it was natural. Like the sun coming out. Like there might be a natural beauty under all that make-up. That he’d like to see. But he was not going there. Yep, he was single, and until Fern was sorted—probably after Fern was sorted—single he’d stay. He could see no reason not to be. The only thing to be gained from adding emotion to sex was that it helped women to loosen up.

Even when they knew in triplicate that he’d had elective emotional bypass surgery, they still thought that they’d be The One to reverse the procedure. Shame they couldn’t tune in to the notion that he liked himself better that way. No lies. No doubt. No guilt. Just sex. As and when he wanted. But not tonight. There was something about this one that lit up the warning signs in his head. And he was not in the business of ignoring warning signs. Not since he was sixteen.

‘Sadly it’s too late in the night for me to stay on and find out what you’ll tie yourself down to. Or tie yourself up with. I’m going to get the car, and Angelica, and leave you to your fun.’

Though where his sister had got to was another problem. And one that was beginning to annoy him.

‘Anyway, I’m sure Angelica will catch up with you later. It’s been…interesting.’

He leant a hand on her shoulder and leaned down for the obligatory goodbye cheek-kiss. He could smell product—perfume, hairspray, cosmetics. He touched smooth skin. He felt the swell of her fabulous rack press against him. He let his lips linger for a second too long to be strictly platonic. His fingers closed more tightly over her shoulder and he curled his other arm round her waist, drawing her closer into him. He felt a strong urge to grab her by the bottom and scoop her against him. Her body was soft and nestled perfectly, and he moved his lips to her other cheek. But her lips were in the way, so he placed his kiss there. Just one.

She. Was. So. Hot.

Her eyes, when he stepped back, flew open. They were searching. Almost innocent. And again he got the feeling that she was a better actress than she got credit for. Still, it wasn’t his business to stay and find out.

‘Yes, it was…lovely to meet you.’ She seemed out of breath and hitched back on her heels in a stumble.

He steadied her elbow.

‘Don’t you think we should wait here? I’m sure she won’t be long.’

‘No. Much as I’m tempted, I’m beginning to think there’s something up. So—as I said—have fun, take care.’

He whipped out his phone and called for the car. Disappeared into the crowd, eyes on the alert. This night had tested his patience long enough.


TWO (#ulink_353720fc-b606-56f2-a103-5fbccc7e5e6a)

In a few seconds the party would begin to reconfigure itself. Blaring noise, pulsing lights, skin, smiles and wild-eyed stares.

What on earth had just happened there?

Tara reached out and gripped the table, her fingers closing round the sticky mess of spilt drinks. Michael’s back was just disappearing into the crowd and she needed to go after him. But she was still reeling from that kiss—it hadn’t even been a proper kiss, just a lip-press. But man alive, he’d aced it!

‘Hey, Tara—you wan’ a drink?’

Definitely—but she had work to do first. She needed to lasso Mr Wonderful and keep him occupied until she got the all-clear.

‘Be back later, Jonny,’ she murmured to her DJ friend, who had just packed up his vinyl. The same friend she had been texting like fury to make sure he hung around after his set—he was the best party animal she knew, but she was going to have to put him on ice for just a little while longer.

She checked her phone as she started the sticky trail through the club. Her foot connected with a shot glass and sent it spinning onto the dance floor—exactly what she should be doing.

Her phone buzzed. Another message.



Michael’s waiting for you at the car. I’ve told him I’m on my way separately with a couple of friends. I’ll drop Fern at mine first, then meet you at his place. Thanks so much for keeping my brother occupied. Hugs, Angelica.



Hugs? Who needed hugs? Fizz! Party! That was what she really wanted. But they were such nice women and—what the hell?—it wouldn’t kill her to miss an hour or so. Actually, it might kill her—walking right into the lion’s den without a stun gun. Guys who looked like that, kissed like that and, even worse, acted like that, were not part of her daily grind. She would need two layers of Kevlar at least.

The car would be out front. She’d have to pass another load of snappers—if they were bothering to stay up. She quickened her pace out onto the stairwell and tottered down carefully. The last thing she wanted was a jpeg of her landing in a heap at his feet.

But it was the slap of the pre-dawn grey-blue light and fresh air that hit her skin. That and the now familiar sight of a super-fit guy in a perfectly cut suit, lolling—yes, actually lolling—against a car that was…large and low and sleek. And he was killing the whole look—she had to hand it to him.

Michael looked at her. He raised one eyebrow. Opened the door and gestured her in. Now, that just riled her all over again. What was wrong with a few manners? She wasn’t asking for anything more than a hello, or a please and thank you. He just couldn’t seem to treat women as anything other than little pets to train and reward. But he was way off if he thought she would roll over like a puppy. After witnessing years of fear and subservience she had honed her bark and her bite to perfection.

‘I’m not stalking you. I said I would come along to catch up with Angelica for a little while. OK?’

‘You’re invited. Happy to escort you.’

He was looking over her head—checking out who was watching.

‘Embarrassed to be seen with me?’

He did a perfect mock gasp through his perfect teeth. Smirked. ‘Now who’s defensive?’

‘Not defensive…’ she said, bending into the car and knocking the top of her damn hair on the doorframe.

He slung himself inside after her and she scooted further along the seat. The backs of her thighs felt the cool of the leather, but the heat from his left leg where it sat open, relaxed and rock-hard, seeped right across the inch or so of space between them. She couldn’t keep her eyes off it.

‘Just perceptive.’

He cocked her a look, his arm stretched across the back of the seat and his hand just lying on his other thigh. The car started up and she noted other taxis and cars for a moment. Coming and going. And she was going further away from the club—her home away from home.

‘You’re perceiving too much, then. There’s no subtext—I’m out tonight to spend time with my sister. We don’t see a lot of each other at the moment—she’s mainly in London and I’m mainly in Barcelona, for Fern’s school and business. So…’

He looked at her for a long moment and she nearly had to look away—his gaze was that intense.

‘I’m here for them. Always.’ Finally he drew his eyes from her and stared out of the window. ‘But Angelica has her London circle, so it’s all cool. She’ll catch us up.’

He turned back round, actually shifted his leg up a bit on the seat until it was pressing against hers. She moved back, crossed her legs, stared straight ahead. He had turned that intense look back on her.

‘No, I’m definitely not embarrassed to be seen with you.’

She flicked her eyes and couldn’t help but twist him a little smile. She should know better, but he was a work of art. Maybe not her type—but undeniably attractive, and undeniably good at working women. Thank goodness she wasn’t stupid enough to fall for him.

‘That’s such a relief.’

He laughed. ‘You don’t look relieved. You look uptight and anxious.’

She felt that—and worse. She’d had—what? Three glasses of champagne over three hours? At the party of the season? And now she was in what might as well have been a hearse, heading to a party for two that neither of them wanted to attend.

‘I’ll cope.’

‘Sure you will. You’re hard as nails. You can cope with anything.’

She spun round to see him watching her. Baiting her.

‘Anything you could throw at me, that’s for sure.’

His eyes lit up. His smile tilted and as the car sped along and the lights from outside brightened, then dimmed, then brightened, she saw his wicked, wicked mouth mock her. She saw it and she felt it. That same heavy tension she’d sensed twice around him now. She had to get a grip—it was beginning to feel as if her comfort zone was somewhere about two miles back. Where her immunity to men was second nature—normally.

‘You’re a very interesting person, Tara.’

It felt as if he had put his hand on her jaw, turned her to face him, but his hands were in plain view and it was some deep, feminine instinct that had her moulding herself to his will. Thankfully she was ruled by her head and not by her gut. Fortunately she could remember how to deal with very persuasive men…

She turned away, saw the back of the driver’s head. Noted his eyes flick to hers in the mirror. He probably saw scenes like this every night of his life. What a shame she wasn’t going to oblige this evening.

‘So I’m told.’

‘But I get the feeling you don’t really know yourself yet.’

She felt her jaw tighten and her teeth clench. How arrogant.

‘That patronising comment doesn’t even deserve an answer.’

‘But I’m pretty sure you’d like to give me one anyway.’

She shifted right round on her seat. He was watching her, smiling softly.

‘What would you know about me at all?’

His eyes never left hers. Dark and demanding. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t, and that swell of fog or emotion or awareness bloomed around them again. She felt as if she was breathing in his air. As if something of herself was seeping into his space.

‘Just what I say. You’re a very interesting person but you don’t fully know yourself yet…or you wouldn’t be battling the attraction that clearly exists between us.’

‘You must have some ego to think that every girl who rides in the back of your car wants to kiss you.’

He shrugged. ‘I think you do.’

Still he stared, and still she stared back.

‘Because you dropped one on me as you were leaving and I didn’t slap your face? That doesn’t mean I want to repeat it.’

‘You don’t want to repeat it?’

A low, quiet probe.

The car had stopped. She didn’t know if they were at lights or at their destination. But nothing could drag her eyes away from his to check. A shadow was cast across his face, lighting only the mocking twist of his mouth. But his eyes flashed like polished coals in the darkness.

She swallowed. ‘Not a chance.’

He was utterly still, completely and intensely present. She knew he could read her, but the chance of her admitting that? Zero. Even as she thought it the urge to feel his lips and taste his mouth swept over her. A shocking pleasure pulse throbbed between her legs. The air swirled thicker. She was definitely not in her comfort zone any more.

‘Better get the party started, then.’

He broke it. Moved fluidly to the door handle. Stepped outside and held out a hand for her. She ignored it and gripped the doorframe instead. Stepped out and straightened in the lemony light of early dawn. The most sober, most disconcerted she had been at this time of day since…since she’d started realising that hedonism and ambition could be neatly packaged together. Since she’d purposely and deliberately burned every bridge that led her back to small-town, small-minded Ireland.

So what if her family looked down on her? She knew the truth. She knew she had a cast-iron marketing campaign that made her unpalatable to them and delicious to others.

She smoothed down her dress and touched her hand to the back of her hair. She dreaded to think what her face was like—lipstick probably smudged all over her mouth and the panda eyes slipping south. Who knew? That might be her best form of defence.

He was watching, waiting. Chivalrous, she supposed. A doorman stood sentry and a plush carpet swept ahead. The car behind them moved off and she had a sudden image of walking into this nineteenth-century apartment block with him, black suit, and her, white dress, as if she had done it a thousand times before.

Boy, she needed a drink.

She couldn’t even look at him in the elevator. Didn’t make small talk and didn’t let the intense air-sharing affect her in any way. No way.

When the lift slowed to a stop she watched as the doors eased open and she stepped out and waited. He indicated left and she walked at his side as if he was showing her to a vault. He unlocked the door with a keypad and held it open for her. She took one step inside the room. Not as expected. No cherry floors, leather and chrome. There was smooth carpet, richly coloured rugs and silk-covered chaises.

She turned to comment and then she felt his presence behind her, heard the door click softly.

She bolted into the space as if branded, suddenly realising that her whole safety in numbers default was not going to be much cop here. How long were they likely to be here, alone, before Angelica showed up, with or without her little posse? This whole keep him occupied plan was all well and good in a nightclub. But claustrophobic empty spaces, even ones as grand as this, suddenly seemed to suck up her bravado.

‘Champagne? Or would you like something stronger?’

He was moving into the open-plan lounge, jacket tossed onto the back of a posture-correcting couch. Even the furniture looked down on her. Devine girls sat on sofas with their dinner on trays and their eyes on the television. She could make out a dining alcove, with a huge dining table and artfully mismatched Deco chairs, complete with seat-pads in jewelled satins.

She definitely needed something stronger.

‘What have you got?’

He swallowed his knowing chuckle and moved to a bar area. ‘I’m sure I’ll have what you want.’

‘Mount Gay?’ Suck on that, smarty, she thought, dredging up the name of the most inaccessible rum she could think of.

He produced it. Of course he did.

‘With…?’

‘Awww…’ She breathed out with a slice of defeat. ‘Just give me it on the rocks. I’ll be gulping it anyway.’

He laughed then. ‘You’re surely not nervous?’

She laughed back, despite herself. ‘What? You think a dragged-up fashion-head like me can’t cut it in Luxe Land? With European aristocracy like you and les belles Cruzes? You’d think I feel any self-doubt? No chance. I’ll have what you’re having, baby. Every time.’

‘Every time?’

He snared her gaze. Held it. Again. Walked towards her with the glass of rum, ice clinking gently off the sides. Soft smile so sexy on that mouth, so sinful.

‘Cut it out.’

He held the glass as he passed it to her, still smiling, cocked an eyebrow in question. ‘What?’

‘You know what.’

He stood almost in her space, with a matching drink, a roguish look.

‘Do I?’

‘You’re freaking me out. You’re just freaking me right out!’

He laughed properly then—no artifice or charm. Just a belly laugh. And suddenly she felt relaxed.

‘No one could accuse you of not speaking your mind, Tara. It’s refreshing, I have to say.’

She nudged her glass against his. ‘You too. I suppose.’ She took a long drink with the cubes bashing off her teeth and shook her head in wonder at her own self and this crazy situation. She could have happily strangled this man a few hours earlier, but now it seemed…it seemed he was maybe human after all.

‘You got any music?’

‘Sure. Come and choose what you’d like.’

She wandered behind him, watching his fluid, masculine movements. There was a man who worked out. No doubt. His ass was absolutely perfect. If she’d been in the club she might even have grabbed it, given it a little squeeze. She’d done worse!

He passed her his laptop and she flipped through a few lists. Taste was OK. Could do with a little education, but passable. She selected something mainstream, safe, stood back and felt the bass tones fill the space. That was better…

Michael. She turned. He was frowning at his phone. Then he placed it down on the bar and caught her up in another of those stares. What the hell was going on? Demanding dark eyes drilled straight into hers and made her feel exposed, on fire, exhilarated, choked.

‘Everything OK?’

He nodded as he walked towards her. ‘Fine. Just no word yet from Angelica.’ He tipped his glass. ‘Refill?’

‘Peachy.’

She followed him to the bar. Stood watching. Jiggled her hips in time to the Balearic beats. Felt sort of good. House parties had never been her thing, really. Especially tiny house parties. Big crowds, big music, big hangovers. Absolutely. But there was something sweet and soothing about watching him move about his home, pouring drinks and looking so hot.

‘You here a lot?’

He shook his head as he screwed the top back on the rum bottle. ‘Once, maybe twice a month. But that’s only temporary. I plan to move back once Fern gets a place at university here.’

Tara opened her mouth. Closed it. Things were quiet and calm and maybe, just for once in her life, she should keep her opinion to herself. Not her business after all.

‘Cheers,’ he said, and tipped his glass against hers.

She tipped hers right back, avoided looking up at him. But it was as if he knew. How weird was that? He laughed.

‘I’m not giving you my eyes again, mister. You do strange things with them.’

He laughed again. Put his glass down. Stepped a little closer to her. The atmosphere felt heavy.

He reached for her glass. She held it—held onto the cool, the solid, the known quantity.

‘What things?’

‘Things…’

Her voice trailed off, quietly. He closed his fingers round hers on the glass. Fire round ice. And then she limply let him put hers down too.

His hand cupped her cheek. His fingers trailed across her skin. She closed her eyes and quivered as if she had been holding back a tide. And then she gave in. The moment when she could have stopped it had passed.

He slipped his hand to the back of her neck and hauled her up to his body. She pushed her hands to his chest and felt the muscle she had imagined. His mouth found hers and she moaned deeply as he took her, moulding her lips and tasting. Taking his fill.

He stepped her backwards with him, his mouth still fixed on hers. The hand that had cupped her head now touched and traced a path across her collarbone.

‘Your skin taunts me.’

It was all he said before he resumed his assault on her mouth. He trailed down her bare arm, slow, warm and necessary. She made her own trail up—neck to jaw. A scrape of stubble rubbed at her hands and the scent of woody citrus filled her head. His tongue probed and licked and she fought to keep up. His hands were now on her waist, feeling and learning her shape. She knew he was going to cup her heavy breasts and she longed for it.

‘Touch me, please…’ she said, his mouth swallowing her plea.

And he did. He filled his hands with the heavy weight of each breast and he gently massaged. His thumbs brushed over her nipples through the satin material of her dress, and then he rolled them into points of utter agony and pleasure.

He didn’t ask her what she wanted. He just gave her what she needed.

He scooped her up and strode with her into—it had to be his bedroom. Dropped her to her feet and spun her round.

‘Dress. Off.’

He was worse than rude but she sucked it up like nectar and began to push silk-covered buttons through loops, to unzip and shimmy her dress over her hips. Nothing in the world would stop her getting her fill of him—of those warm strong hands smoothing their way over her skin. Even as she stepped out of it he was working magic with his touch—leaving hot trails in the wake of his fingers.

‘You are so damn hot.’

All he said as he took his hands and mouth from her for a moment. She grabbed at his shirt, fingers useless on the buttons. But he stilled her. Stepped back from her. Looked at her standing in a pool of cream silk satin, her nipples straining hard through the gauze of her bra and her knickers shielding the last of her secrets. She felt as if his look was licking the flames of hell across her skin.

It was a party she’d never been invited to before. And she wanted some.

Her eyes drank him in now. Nothing but pure, firm, wide muscle across his chest. She ran her fingers; then her mouth across it, inhaling and tasting and licking. He pulled off his trousers and her mouth opened in wonder. His thick, long erection jutted out and she couldn’t stop herself from dropping to her knees, wrapping her hand and then her mouth around him.

But he heaved her up by the arms and lifted her to the bed. Placed her down and pushed her back. Then his hands wrapped around her panties and he tugged them down and tossed them aside. She sat back on her elbows and watched his face. He took her ankles and opened her legs, then dipped his head and licked the hottest trail of fire up and over her.

She jerked up and he put his arm across her chest. His head shook.

‘Not yet.’

He dipped his head again and lapped and suckled her mercilessly until she began to feel the fire inside her building and spreading. Burning and blooming through her lower body. She looked down, loving the sight of his dark head nestled between her thighs. His mouth tortured and the spasms built until she lost her mind and her orgasm rolled and crashed. She screamed with the release and then lay still, aftershocks jerking suddenly, gently, quietly.

But his mouth, laced with the taste of her, came down swiftly on her lips, kissing and tonguing and building the fire all over again. He grabbed at her wrists and tugged her up the bed. She followed, unhooked her bra and watched, fascinated, as he sheathed himself with a condom. She longed to feel him inside her—just longed for it.

He wasn’t going fast enough and she moved to sit up.

‘Just lie back, Tara. On your back.’

And she fell back to the bed to watch him. And his eyes held hers again as she felt him nudge her open and then slide deep, deep inside. She whimpered—like a puppy—and then moved with his rhythm. All the time his dark eyes sparked and held hers.

What had she been doing those other times? With men who’d needed a road map?

He loomed above her, wide strong shoulders and caramel skin melding with the warm waves of pleasure that were rolling with every hard thrust.

‘This feel good, Tara?’

Those eyes drilled and held and the intensity built.

‘Hmm, honey? Do you feel it now—the attraction?’

She didn’t give a damn that he was proving his point. He could prove it to hell and back if it made her feel like this.

And she grabbed his head down to hers and kissed him quiet. He leaned forward and flipped her round so that she rode him. She tilted her hips and shifted her weight and still she stared into those eyes. Something else was building—something huge and powerful in her chest—and she felt a moment of fear or wonder.

Then he reached up and touched her mouth. And rocked her even as she rode him. And she knew nothing could be this good ever again with anyone else. Her next orgasm surged and rolled through her as he jerked and exploded deep inside. And all the time his eyes held hers and she felt the burning squeeze in her chest return. Too intense. Too strong.

She closed her eyes. Hung her head and calmed.

A moment passed—two at most—then he threw his arms back and blew out a breath. That would be the sign to hop off, then. She braced her arms on the bed and slid slowly off. He still felt big and thick inside her, and it felt so damn good. But reality was beginning to dawn along with the early autumn sunrise. They had just had sex. He hadn’t looked at her, touched her or soothed her. He hadn’t said a single word. She was just a lay.

Silence.

The window she passed was undressed and looked out onto all her favourite London landmarks. She paused for a moment, imprinting the view on her mind—all the shapes and colours of skyscape and roofline—bridges, towers, clocks and wheels. All with the flush of dawn behind.

He blew out another long breath. ‘You’d better get dressed.’

‘I am.’ She cast a look round to where he was still lying. Michael Cruz—beautiful, arrogant, not her type at all.

‘Don’t sound sore. I only mean that Angelica and her friends are bound to be here in minute, and it would best if we were ready to welcome her to a party rather than a love-in.’

‘I know what you meant. I said I’m going to get dressed. You don’t mind if I have a little clean-up first, though, do you?’

She knew her tone was bitchy, but he was such a swine. That had to be the worst post-coital talk she’d ever experienced. And she’d walked right into it. What was she even doing here? A favour? To a girl she barely knew and her extremely cosmopolitan sister? And, OK, she felt a solidarity with them, was happy to help them get one over on yet another controlling man.

A controlling man with a legendary sexual reputation that she couldn’t even begin to conjure up any immunity to.

Why had she let herself in for this? What had made her think that she had the emotional wherewithal to pull it off? She needed rules and boundaries. She couldn’t dabble like this! She could flirt. She could most definitely tease. But she knew herself well enough to understand that she invested too much when she took it any further. She couldn’t help it that the heart she wore on her sleeve was just really well covered up. And the camouflage of her comments would be all that he would know.

‘Go right ahead. There’s a bathroom—there.’

He flicked his hand and stood up and she tried hard not to be impressed by that body again, but the man was beyond fit. What a shame his personality was so rank.

She felt around on the cool tiles for the light, but he came up behind her, stretched in and flicked it on. ‘Thanks,’ she said, aiming to shut him out.

But he stepped inside and reached out for her. Her skin was rapidly cooling, and she craved the warmth of his body, but she held herself rigid in his arms. He draped a heavy golden arm across her chest and the contrast was striking. Her milky Celtic skin was the perfect foil to his smooth caramel body. And even with her full breasts and hips she still fitted neatly within his outline.

In some perverse way it pleased her—but in the way that counted it annoyed her that she had gone and done what every other idiotic woman with a pulse seemed also to want to do with him.

Her eyes fell to her treasured necklace. Her grandmother’s ring strung on an old gold chain. The little bit of love she fingered every day. Her little bit of sanctuary and strength. She touched it now, waiting for him to leave her.

‘Look, I need privacy if that’s OK.’

He took the thick, snaky strands of her hair that had worked free and tucked them behind her ear. Trailed his finger under her chain questioningly. She said nothing.

‘Sure,’ he said, but he spun her round and cradled her face. Kissed her. Slow and sweet. ‘Whatever you want.’ He gave her one more kiss and then pulled back. Trailed his finger down her shoulder and her arm. ‘Beautiful.’

She watched the door close behind him and made a face. They were all beautiful—every one of the ten thousand women he must have slept with. And she was number ten thousand and one. What kind of fool was she that she couldn’t even resist him?

She looked at the mess that stared back from the mirror—everything wiped off or smudged. She looked like her mother—weak and worried. And she felt sick at that.

* * *

Michael must have used another shower, because he looked like an aftershave advert when she finally got herself out of the bathroom and along to where coffee seemed to be brewing.

‘Still no sign?’ she said, thinking that surely Angelica would be making an appearance soon.

He shook his head and sipped at the coffee. ‘No. Change of plan, apparently. Coffee?’

She shook her head. Who drank caffeine at this time in the morning? She had already filed this night in the ‘delete’ folder and was going to ditch the party at

Jonny’s and head right back to her bed.

‘So what was the change?’

He had his back to her and again she felt her eyes drawn to examine the way he moved, the slide of his muscle under fabric.

‘Seems like everybody had enough of a good time at the club and by the time she got to her apartment she just decided to stay there. I don’t have any missed calls—do you?’

Tara’s mind whirred. What the hell was the right thing to say here? Surely something had happened so that Angelica had never made it over? Something with Fern, perhaps?

‘Dunno. I’ll check in a minute. So…’

‘So you can have coffee, but the car’s waiting when you’re ready.’

He was sitting on a bar stool, the morning paper flicked out and open on the honey wood work surface. He raised the irritatingly small espresso cup to his mouth and she had the overwhelming urge to smack it right out of his self-satisfied hand.

‘For the record, Michael, I reckon I misjudged you. I thought you were merely arrogant. But now I see that I was way off. You managed to single-handedly spoil a night that I’d been looking forward to for weeks. You’re beyond arrogant. You know that?’

‘Interesting. I spoiled your night.’ He spoke to his newspaper. ‘So you’ll be ready to go? I’ll phone down to let the driver know you’re on your way.’

Tara scooped up her bag. And what was left of her pride. Could not get out of there fast enough.

Her heels sank into and caught on the thick pile of the carpet as she made her way to the door. Hot sharp tears pushed against her eyes. How could she have let herself down so badly? What on earth had she been thinking, having sex with a guy like that? No amount of pleasure was worth being made to feel like a hooker—an unwelcome hooker at that. He had totally wiped out every post-orgasm happy hormone and nuked her self-esteem. And, worst of all, she had let him. She should have acted breezy—even if she didn’t feel it. Should have climbed off and swung her bra over her head in celebration. She really shouldn’t be allowing his dismissal of her to hurt her like this. She was Tara Devine. She didn’t give a damn.

Except she did. She so did. And it was so, so sore.

But every day was a school day. After what she’d been through it had to be. And this was small stuff compared to some of her other life lessons. She just wished she’d been better prepared. That she could wear her heart anywhere other than her sleeve.


THREE (#ulink_6cf0c4f5-6a15-5771-a4df-a8622f866626)

‘I’m not buying it, Angelica. Where is she?’

Michael strode through the hallway of Angelica’s chi-chi apartment, his scowl black and irritation bubbling.

‘Good morning, Michael. So we’re in one of those moods? What happened last night? I hope you weren’t this rude to Tara—were you?’

Michael tracked Angelica with his eyes as she glided through the perfectly furnished space. And that wasn’t a question he was prepared to answer either—no one’s business but his.

He looked for evidence of…anything, but the place was immaculate. Though Angelica did look drawn, which was a pretty unusual occurrence. She busied herself in the kitchen.

‘Don’t put coffee on for me—I’ve had too much already.’ He’d thrown it down his neck as he’d tried to force out flashbacks of Tara’s shock at his comments to her.

It had been the night from hell and he knew he’d been manipulated—he just didn’t know why. But one thing was certain: the idea of losing control to a woman did not sit well with him. And he’d come very close to that last night. Hadn’t been able to stop himself from taking her. When was the last time he had shown such complete contempt for his own values? He hated that out of control feeling—it was too fresh in his mind, even though it was over twenty years now since he’d truly been in a tailspin.

‘Where is our sister?’

‘Oh, Michael—for heaven’s sake, she’s in her bed! She’s been working all week and she’s only young. Try to remember what it was like and give her a little rope. Hmmm?’ Angelica flicked on the coffee-maker and swept about, producing crockery and cream.

The trouble was he remembered only too clearly what it was like to be young. Not the details, but enough to know that night was day, uppers balanced downers and sex was available everywhere. Enough to realise that it was a carefully choreographed disaster, directed by his management and enjoyed by his fans. And had he not had the cold shower of his mother’s death it might have ended up for him the way it had for too many others.

So when Angelica suggested ‘a little rope’ he would be using it to tie Fernanda down until she was mature enough to cope with it. Different story if she’d been like Angelica—but she was too volatile still. And this interest in the fashion scene was a worry. One that had to be carefully watched. Starting now.

‘Breakfast? Have you eaten?’

‘No, thanks—nothing.’

He walked on into the apartment and up to the spare bedroom, knocked swiftly on the door, cocked an ear and entered. The smell of booze hit him square in the face. He walked to the sleeping mound and stood over her. She was zoned out. Totally. So she had hit a wall last night.

He moved to the window and pulled open the curtains. Then back to the bed.

‘Morning, Fernanda.’

‘She needs to sleep, Michael—leave her be.’

Angelica had come in and was fussing about, lifting clothes and folding them. The room looked like a thrift shop. There was a huge glass of water at the side of the bed and jewellery and clothes trailed everywhere.




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