Читать книгу The Tycoon's Shock Heir - Bella Frances - Страница 12

SO, THE LOVE RAT wasn’t so much of a rat after all.

He could have gone to town on her for messing up with the notes, but he’d let her off the hook and he’d actually been quite kind when she’d almost started blubbing like a baby.

He wasn’t just a boring banker. He was smart. And handsome. Even with a broken nose and a flattened ear he was built like a man should be built.

She glanced down at his thighs and his biceps, pushing out the fabric of his tux as they waited in the back of a limousine to take their journey along the red carpet. He was prepped and primed to play the role of patron, and all the doubts she’d felt that he was just a surly shadow of his mother were gone. He could dial up the charm as easily as she could.

Or down. He was no pussycat either. He’d grilled her when he’d first met her, and that had been no party, but she could see why. He was only trying to protect his mother, and who could blame him for that? In his place she’d have been exactly the same—though of course that was never going to happen. The last person that would need any defending was her mother...except from herself.

The car door was opened. It was time to go. Matteo turned to her, gave her a wink and a smile and stepped out, walking off towards the entrance with lithe grace, light-footed.

It was just like stepping on stage without the dance steps, she thought. Her stomach flipped. She took a breath and popped her smile into place. Then she followed him past the flashing cameras, pausing beside him as he chatted in the foyer, breathing in and out and beaming for all she was worth.

With moments left until curtain up they went on into the auditorium, where the air above the velvet rows bubbled with excitement. Heads turned everywhere as they stepped out into the royal box. Ruby stared straight ahead, the interest of so many people feeling like hives on her skin.

She moved to sit down in the row behind his, but he indicated with a smile and a gracious gesture that she should sit beside him.

He leaned close as the lights dimmed.

‘You’re sure this is going to be as good as you say?’

‘If it isn’t you can always ask for your money back.’

The music struck up. A penetratingly beautiful note was sung in the unmistakable voice of an Indian woman, cutting through the atmosphere of the theatre like a sabre through silk. The audience gasped.

Matteo’s eyes held hers. A shiver ran down her spine.

‘Or I can take recompense another way,’ he said.

Slowly his eyes swept over her bare shoulders and décolleté, down to her mouth and then back to her eyes. She felt it in every tiny pore, every nerve, every fibre of her body. His mouth curled into a smile...some promise of what he would take. With each second she felt the charge of attraction flare between them. Her whole body reacted as easily as if he’d flipped a switch. She wasn’t imagining it.

She sat back in her seat, blind to the emergence of the principal dancers onto the stage. Some part of her knew that they were dancing—striking buoyant and beautiful poses, their costumes flowing and extending the elegance of each step, the hauntingly beautiful song telling the story of the stirrings of early passion between the dancers—and some part of her watched. But most of her was alive to this totally new sensation.

‘Having fun?’ he whispered.

Yes, she wanted to gasp out loud. For the first time in months she felt she was actually living. The dance, the theatre, the interested crowd and, despite knowing the dangers, the magnetic draw of this man.

‘I’d rather be on stage with them,’ she said, for the first time in her life doubting it was actually true.

‘I’d love to see you dance.’

He leaned further into her space. His voice, close to her ear, was thrilling. It was that even more than the dance that set her nerves on edge, dancing their own feverish path across her skin.

‘I imagine you’d be amazing. Maybe one day...’

For a moment she thought he was going to touch her—his hand hovered and then landed again on his own leg. She stared at it, and then risked a glance to the side, where his profile was outlined in a sleek silver line from the stage lights. He stared straight ahead, rapt, but she could feel something between them, a strange energy that made her suddenly aware of her bare flesh, her braless breasts under the bodice of the dress, her thighs as she crossed and uncrossed her legs, her feet in tiny straps and pointed heels.

Her body was what she used to express herself. It was her language, her vocabulary. She could read and sense others through their wordless actions too. How they held themselves. She could see how nervous or confident they were in the tilt of their head or the curl of their shoulders. And the language he was speaking now was as sensual as any lovers’ pas de deux. She was aroused by it. She was aroused by him.

She strained forward, facing the stage as the dancers drew pictures of their anguished love, their bodies twisting and writhing with pleasure and pain. And in every move she felt the exquisite pleasure of physical love. And she saw herself with him as the hero lifted his lover and then let her slide down his body, his hands skimming her waist, her ribs, her breasts, before clutching her face and holding it close against his.

She had danced and felt hands on her body—all dancers had—but she had never, ever felt the way she was feeling right now, simply sitting, watching. Waiting.

It was electrifying. And he had to be feeling it too?

‘What do you think?’ she whispered in a voice not even her own.

‘I think I’m hooked—I think I might just have found my newest passion.’

His expressionless face told her nothing, but the effect of his words sent another searing flash of heat to her core. She watched the final scene in the dreamy haze, felt his hand brushing hers, his foot touching hers—tiny little accidental movements that made her skittish.

Finally it ended. There was uproar from the audience, people yelling ‘Bravo!’ and stamping, up on their feet. She sat there, stunned, beside him. Although she faced forward all her vision was from the corner of her eye—his thigh, his hands clapping in front of his chest, his secret smile as he turned to her.

‘So now, I take it, I have to meet the dancers?’ he said. ‘And then...’

He speared her with a dark look that thrilled her to her core.

She turned back to face the stage, clapping her hands, trusting herself only to stare at the line of dancers taking their bows. He stood beside her as the dancers looked to the royal box. He beamed down at them, waving a salute and applauding once more.

Ruby stood up too. Her legs shook. The theatre lights came up and the crowds began to move. Security appeared, opening the doors and leading them out. She followed Matteo’s back, his sure stride, out and down through the theatre to the back of the stage, people parting like waves before them.

Post-performance adrenaline was pulsing through the air as they walked the line-up. Glittering eyes shone through smudged make-up and gleaming, sore bodies. She felt almost as exhilarated as the soloists and principals as she introduced them.

She could see their raised eyebrows and wide-mouthed smiles. She knew they were watching her closely, would be gossiping excitedly. Ruby the weirdo, who never put a foot out of line, was flirting with the patron.

Let them. It didn’t mean she was going to let herself or anyone else down. She had her head screwed on.

Round the room stood tables laden with drinks and food. She felt a hand on her back, guiding her towards them, and her body tensed and melted. Matteo.

He raised his eyes and smiled indulgently, as if to say, More delay, and she had no thirst for the champagne that was thrust into her hand. She could barely concentrate as she tried to resist being buffeted by the waves of her physical attraction to Matteo as close-eyed scrutiny lapped like the tide where she stood.

When he leaned his ear over his right shoulder—a sign that he wanted more information about someone or something—she happily stood on tiptoe, letting the moments when she whispered names take longer. She lingered there, enjoying the sensation. He placed his hand on her waist, splayed his fingers, tugged her close, and she let her lips brush the side of his cheek.

His skin was soft, but grazed with stubble, and his scent was incredibly subtle. But his aroma, his essence, was magnetic, irresistible male.

‘Say that again,’ he demanded as she delivered him someone’s name. As she tried to pull back a waiter came into view with a wide tray of canapés lifted high on his shoulder. Matteo sidestepped to let him pass and tugged her close to his body. She stood without moving, her breast and hip completely against him, pressed flush. Desire curled—hot and heavy and low in her body.

She knew she should move but she couldn’t seem to do anything other than stand with her body against his, loving the mixture of sure, solid sensation and the sweet yearning to feel closer. Blood was rushing all around her, and she was feeling lightheaded as the noise of the party bubbled higher.

People bustled past, but what did she care...?

The waiter passed again and finally they stepped away.

‘Who is the blonde woman in green, walking towards us with your director?’

Ruby flicked her eyes away and looked down quickly as a wave of guilt washed over her. Her director had trusted her to show Matteo around. She was the one who had her head screwed on. She couldn’t bear it if she disappointed him.

‘Dame Cicely Bartlett,’ she said, focussing. ‘The actress turned politician. She’s going to make a political point about under-funding for the arts...’

‘I’m impressed. You really do know everything about your world. With or without your notes.’ He stepped closer to her again. ‘Are you all right? You look pale all of a sudden.’

He took her hand in his, rubbed his fingers over the back of her wrist, and words died in her throat. She fought to keep her head from rolling back. She was sick with desire, weaker with every passing moment. She had to stop this before it got out of hand.

‘If you don’t mind, I think I need to sit down. I’ve had a bit too much champagne.’

He manoeuvred her into a chair.

‘I’m so sorry. What was I thinking? As soon as I’ve finished with Dame Cicely we can go to supper.’

Supper? He didn’t really mean that, did he? He meant sex.

The thought sent her stomach flipping through her ribs. She couldn’t go through with this. Who was she trying to kid? She would end up back at his place and then the kissing would start. And then the touching. And then she’d realise that she’d changed her mind. She’d want to get away, then he’d look baffled and wonder what was going on. She’d call a cab and go. It was the way it always ended.

And that would usually be fine because she’d never see them again. But Matteo Rossini was their patron, and she couldn’t make a fool of herself with someone like him.

‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

‘What’s wrong?’ he said, stepping close enough for her to see the tiny indentations of his chest hair through the silk of his shirt, the hollow of his strong throat above the collar, the curl of those lips that had grazed her cheek, her jaw, her ear, that she so desperately wanted to feel against her mouth. He stood there and she felt the might and allure of his body pounding down her flimsy defences.

Maybe this time would be different? It felt different...

‘Ruby, it’s a very good idea,’ he said softly.