Читать книгу For Revenge...Or Pleasure? - Trish Morey - Страница 9

HE’D eliminated the distance between them, had reached out and taken hold of her hand before she could react. She gasped at his warmth, at the sculpted perfection of his hand and at his gentle touch, while fully aware of the latent strength lurking beneath.

Without taking his eyes from hers he carried her hand to his mouth. She’d expected just a brief kiss, and was vaguely aware of how old-fashioned this gesture was, but already she was imagining the graze of his lips on her skin, was anticipating the brush of his warm breath. But at the last moment he flipped her hand over so that his mouth pressed open and hot against her wrist.

Her pulse thundered into life under his molten kiss, her blood super-heated, melting her bones and stirring her dark, tender places into life. And as his liquid lips worked their magic on her skin and his tongue joined into the fray, ratcheting up the sensations another notch, she was certain that if he hadn’t been holding on to her hand she might well have dissolved into a puddle on the floor.

She tasted as good as she looked. Better. This was going to be far more enjoyable than he would ever have anticipated.

And he had her. There was no question. The passion flaring into life in her eyes told him that she would be more than responsive, more than accommodating. The way her lips were softly parted told him she was eager for more of what his mouth could do for her, and the way her nipples pressed all too obviously against the tight fabric of her gown told him that even tonight would not be too soon.

She would soon be his. And then she would tell him everything she knew to save his sister.

And he would destroy Dr Della-Bosca and pull apart the clinic, even if he had to do it brick by brick!

He clamped down on the aching response of his own body as slowly, reluctantly, he drew his lips away.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, her words less a demand this time, more a breathy supplication.

He smiled and dipped his head fractionally, still with a hold on her hand. ‘Loukas Demakis,’ he said. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Dr Ferraro.’

Her eyes narrowed and sparked, and he could see she was building connections as if suddenly understanding. Had the pieces fallen into place already? Had she realised the recently married Olympia was his sister? Did she have any idea at all why he was here?

‘Demakis?’ she repeated. ‘As in the Senator currently making a run for the White House?’

‘My father,’ he replied, rapidly reassessing his quarry’s intelligence. ‘You’ve heard of him?’

Her eyes regarded him frostily as she tugged her hand out of his, using it to support her glass. ‘Would that be such a surprise? I do try to keep informed of what’s going on in the world around us. Did you assume that just because I spend my days working with beautiful people that I must be a complete airhead?’

‘Not at all,’ he countered. Not any more. ‘I’d be a fool to make a mistake like that—obviously.’

She smiled a little then, a sweet smile of victory that didn’t make it anywhere near her eyes. ‘Obviously,’ she mimicked, as if she knew damned well he’d underestimated her and been caught out.

His back teeth ground together. He certainly wouldn’t do that again. There was much too much at stake to be outsmarted by any of Della-Bosca’s cronies.

And that was all she was, he thought, forcing himself to remember, forcing himself to disregard the perfect skin and the womanly curves poured so skilfully into that dress. One of Della-Bosca’s cronies. Regardless of the fact he still burned to possess her. Regardless of the fact he could already anticipate the feel of her honey-fleshed limbs around him.

And that last thought brought with it a smile as he flicked his gaze over her again. She would be good in bed—his own body’s reaction told him that. There was no chance he’d misjudged her on that score.

He inhaled a steadying breath, finding it infused with her fragrance. Fresh. Spicy. Tempting.

‘I’m sure my father will be gratified to hear his reputation extends so far.’

‘Then be sure to tell him,’ she replied. ‘I’d actually like to see him make it all the way to the White House.’

He suppressed a snarl. Now what was she trying to prove? His father didn’t need the support of people like her—people who did what she did, preying on the insecurity of others—and he certainly didn’t want it.

‘And you really care if he makes it?’

Her eyes narrowed and he felt their glacial challenge again.

‘Is that so hard to believe?’ she quipped, confirming his thoughts. ‘I would have thought you’d be happy to find someone who supported your father’s policy stance. Perhaps not. But, for what it’s worth, I think there would be a kind of poetic justice in having someone like your father in the White House, don’t you?’

His brow pulled tight. ‘What do you mean?’

She arched an eyebrow and her blue eyes sparkled with confidence in a way that rankled. ‘Given that ancient Greece was the cradle of democracy, I think there’s a happy kind of irony there—democracy going full circle, if you like.’ She paused, her wide mouth curling into a teasing smile that disappeared all too quickly.

‘Besides, I’ve read about your father’s background—how his grandparents arrived in the nineteen-twenties with nothing and yet built up a boat-building empire; it’s a very impressive story. You must be very proud of your family’s achievements.’

Was he? He hadn’t thought about it or the business lately—he’d had more pressing things to think about, like his half-sister marrying an American reality TV programme loser, her love affair with celebrity, running with the brat-pack and screwing up her life, and a father who wanted her stopped before she screwed up his political aspirations or got herself killed—or both.

And he was going to make damned sure that didn’t happen.

He looked down at her, his need to avenge the past and protect his sister setting his already heated blood to simmer point.

‘Is that what you’ve got planned for yourself—your own rags to riches story?’

Her jaw worked from side to side as her eyes sparked cold flame.

‘Excuse me, Mr Demakis. I’d really like to say it’s been a pleasure…’

She turned to leave, a liquid ripple of blue disappearing into the crowd.

‘So what’s it like for an Australian in Beverly Hills?’ he called after her through the babble and laughter of the crowded room.

She stopped dead, her back stiff, and then for a second it looked as if she was going to keep moving.

‘What’s it like to be so far from home?’

She swivelled this time, her expression perplexed. ‘You picked up on my accent?’ she said, moving closer. ‘Most people don’t.’

‘It’s there,’ he lied, knowing that his knowledge of her country of birth had a great deal more to do with his research into her place in the Della-Bosca hierarchy than with any residual twang of an Australian accent.

She’d come to work at the clinic three years ago, obviously chasing the money and the high life it could provide her with. She’d hit pay-dirt right off, setting up with Della-Bosca and being swept along in her rise to celebrity and fortune. And now she was the successor to the throne. Nature’s handmaiden in a world where beauty was paramount. Where fakery was king and no cost was too great.

‘Why try to lose such a distinctive accent?’ he asked, although he already knew the answer.

She shook her head, as if searching for a reason. ‘It was too distinctive. It was easier to be accepted into society here without always answering questions about where I came from.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all.’

Fake, he thought. Just like the rest of her.

She looked up at him.

‘Mr Demakis—’ she began.

‘Loukas,’ he corrected, setting his voice to satin-smooth again. He’d wasted too much time, and he’d almost lost her once. It was time to take charge of the conversation again. ‘Call me Loukas.’

She paused over that for a second, her top teeth gently raking over one glossy lower lip, almost as if the idea was strangely uncomfortable and needed to be come to terms with.

‘Okay…Loukas,’ she said finally, with a subtle nod of assent. ‘What is it that brings you to the Saving Faces Foundation Gala? I can’t remember your name on the guest list. Did you accompany someone here?’

He allowed himself a smile as he registered her continued interest. He hadn’t lost her after all. She was still curious, still wanting to know more about him, still feeling the same physical tug of attraction that he felt too, and that would make his job that much easier. ‘No. I came alone.’

Her head tilted fractionally. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘Just one reason,’ he said, taking advantage of a passing waiter to rid her of her neglected glass. Then he took her right hand, lifting it until it was at her shoulder level between them before holding his palm flat against hers, interlacing their fingers together. He watched her widening eyes flit to their joined hands before finding his once more. ‘But it’s a very, very good one.’

‘Oh?’ she said, her voice a husky whisper, her blue eyes wary yet intrigued, her breathing but a shadow. ‘And what might that be?’

Her faintly spicy feminine scent stirred his senses as his fingers curled between hers, and he drank in the woman before him. Blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a tendril of honey-coloured hair trailing loose from its sleek coil, kissing her neck wherever it touched in soft teasing waves.

His hunger built. That would soon be him, kissing the skin of her throat, kissing her slick, sweet lips, kissing every last inch of her until she cried out for release. And it would be no hardship to give it to her.

‘Can’t you tell?’ he said as his free arm circled around her and he spun her with him onto the dance floor. ‘I came here to meet you.’

It was the wrong answer.

His answer should have been couched in terms of wanting to support the foundation, of wanting to help children with shattered faces and fractured spirits to rebuild their lives and make them whole again. He should have been here to applaud the work of a great doctor and a worthy cause.

It was definitely not the answer she’d expected from a man who seemed dangerously threatening, at times resentful, and more often than not antagonistic. It wasn’t the answer she’d wanted. He was hiding something behind those hard brown eyes, so shiny and impenetrable they might have been French polished. What was his real purpose? Why was he really here?

And yet, as he steered her expertly around the dance floor, his firm body an aching whisker from hers, somehow his words fed into her soul, fed those dark secret places until they pulsed into life. While her brain screamed to her that this was mad, that this was unwise, her body played a different tune.

Her body liked his words.

Her senses welcomed his message.

And her flesh wanted him closer still.

With each step he took her further away from the life she knew. With each whirl she felt inexorably, utterly, spun further away from her clinical—practical—medical background. In his arms she felt reckless, a little wild; she felt good.

He didn’t speak, and she didn’t mind. She doubted she could string two words together right now. Besides, she was too busy enjoying the unfamiliar sensations of being held by the best-looking man in the room.

His breath glided past her ear, soft and luxuriant, and she felt him draw her even closer. Her heart seemed to stop as their bodies met, the splayed hand at her waist forcing them into contact from chest to thigh, their movements on the dance floor setting up a sensual friction between them, his musky cologne like an invitation, beckoning her to nestle closer.

The music, the charged atmosphere, his body against hers—it was all so intoxicating. His lips nuzzled at her ear and she tilted her head into his caress, unashamedly seeking more of the warm, tingling contact he was offering.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he murmured softly, and the warm shimmer of sensation bloomed into a wave of heated sensuality that rolled over her and left her breathless.

She knew he was attracted to her, had sensed he was. His eyes contained secrets and mysteries, but his desire had broken through with a raw intensity that couldn’t be ignored. And yet it was still such a powerful aphrodisiac to hear him say the words.

Everyone was beautiful here. There wasn’t a woman there tonight whose looks didn’t dazzle, whose bodies weren’t centrefold-worthy, whose smiles weren’t toothpaste-commercial-perfect. And yet, of all the women in the room, he’d said those words to her!

The hand at her waist stroked higher, breaching the low backline of her gown and startling her with its heated touch. He traced his fingers across her exposed skin, setting fires that burned with lightning bolt impact deep within her flesh and started spot fires low down inside.

The only part of logic that remained in her mind told her she was being seduced, that this was seduction at its most potent, and that this man was a master of the art. But, beyond that recognition, logic was no help to her now—not when she was being held captive by the spell he’d woven around her. Not when she was being swept off her feet.

‘I want to make love to you.’

She gasped. His directness shocked at the same time as it delighted, sending coiled messages through her nerve-endings to prepare herself for coupling even before she’d had a chance to assimilate his offer.

What should she do? She could hardly take offence. Not when her own body hungered for the same outcome, was even now preparing itself, tingling with expectation.

His lips brushed over her earlobe and she raised her chin to give him better access. He took it, his mouth gliding over her throat, turning her nipples achingly tight.

Vaguely she was aware of the music drifting to a conclusion, of couples around them moving apart.

‘Well?’ he whispered in her ear, his deep voice another layer of seduction, another caress. ‘Make love with me, Jade. Make love with me now—tonight.’

Something about the way he said her name wove its way deep into her senses, trailing a promise of things to come like a silken ribbon tugging insistently and irresistibly around her heated core.

He wanted to make love to her. To hear his words had sent her into a heady spin. Just the very thought of making love with this man was intoxicating. Because she knew what her body wanted. It wanted her to answer in the affirmative.

Was it wrong to want to? Was it wrong to want to give in to the desires that were besetting her? Wrong to give in to the forces of passion that were swirling around her—through her?

There should be one thousand reasons why not. There should be reasons clamouring for attention, pounding on her brain for supremacy. But right now none of them could be found, and rational thought was so heavily weighted with pure physical need that it threw up arguments instead about why she should make love with him. Arguments like, how could it possibly be wrong when it felt so damned right?

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes, felt the passion and the need, and knew that she couldn’t bring herself to lie. She couldn’t say no. And yet neither was she able to release herself totally from the constraints of her own upbringing. She’d never been the sort of person who did this sort of thing—meeting up with strangers and agreeing to make love with them.

And yet here she was…

‘You’re a very magnetic man,’ she said, understating the facts by a factor of ten. ‘And I admit I’m attracted…’

‘But?’ he urged.

‘But I’m not protected,’ she heard herself say—the most honest thing she could think of under the circumstances.

Something flared into life in his eyes, something that told her he wasn’t disappointed at the naïveté of her confession, that his need was barely contained, let alone extinguished.

He let his arm peel slowly from around her back, instead winding it through hers and taking her hand as he led her from the floor. ‘Allow me to take care of that.’

Despite the rush of cool air as they’d pulled apart, moist heat pooled heavy and insistent between her quivering thighs. Her heart thumping, she forced her legs to keep walking to the beat of the pounding in her veins, forced her melting spine to hold her erect. He was leading her somewhere private. He was leading her somewhere to make love to her.

Her breath tripped in her throat. Had she meant to do that? Had her non-committal answer been designed to give him the chance to take the decision out of her hands? So that she would get what she wanted by default?

Somehow he negotiated her through the room. The strain of knowing she’d landed herself in this position was threatening to shatter the plastic smile masking her face; the anticipation of what was to come was urging her to move even faster. The crowd was thinning out, people were spilling out into the terraces, and by now there would no doubt be a pool full of skimpily clad young women offering their wares, ready to take on all comers.

Guests had drifted off into sheltered corners of the garden, or even not so sheltered ones, for their assignations. She’d never been comfortable with this side of celebrity life here in Beverly Hills—and yet wasn’t that what she was now doing herself? Searching for privacy, seeking out what amounted to a love-nest with someone little more than a stranger? Did she really want to be doing this?

Whether he sensed her reluctance or was merely giving in to the relative quiet and darkness of a sheltered doorway some distance away, she found herself spun back against panelled wood as his mouth crashed down on hers.

His lips were warm, his mouth was hot, and what he did to her senses sent her temperature rocketing off the scale and forced any returning logic to flee. She’d never before been bombarded with sensations such as these, never before been subjected to the overwhelming drive of passion. And never before could have imagined herself giving in to it. But then, she’d had no idea…

His hands cupped her behind and she was pulled, full-length, up against his body, the clear evidence of his need pressing into her between them. She gasped into his mouth as she realised his evident size, felt his inherent power. Soon that power would be unleashed within her. She was melting down from the feel of his hands on her, from the touch of his lips, from the anticipation of what was to come.

He drew his head back the merest fraction, his breathing as ragged and choppy as hers. ‘What’s behind that door?’ he said, his voice husky with desire, his words laced with need.

‘The library,’ she whispered back. ‘But it should be locked.’

One hand left her for the moment it took to test the handle. It gave with the barest snick. Even in the gloom she could see the spark of his eyes gleaming down on her, as if he was closer to achieving some prize. Her heart fluttered as the realisation hit her. She was the prize. He wanted her and soon he would have her.

Instead of fear, her expectation cranked up another notch. This feeling was mutual. Because he wasn’t the only one who was going to get something out of tonight.

Tonight she would have him too.

His lips came down to meet hers again, this time in a softer caress, his lips massaging hers, his tongue a brief graze across her teeth, and she let herself slide into his delicious touch. The man was good enough to eat, and she planned to relish every taste.

Loukas turned her then, and silently they slipped into the void opening up behind them. Gently he pressed her back against the wall. Softly he pushed the door closed alongside her. Another tiny snick, but another huge moment. Because that door closing meant that there was no changing her mind.

It meant there was no going back.