Читать книгу Dressed to Thrill - Bella Frances - Страница 9
ОглавлениеIn 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.
