Billionaire's Mediterranean Proposal

by Julia James

  No man had ever impacted on her as powerfully—as instantly. Talk about tall, dark and devastating! Sable-hair, cut short, a hard, tough-looking face with a blade of a nose, a strong jaw, a mouth set in a tight line. And eyes that could strip paint.

  Or that could rest on her with a look in them that told her that he liked what he was seeing...

  She felt a kind of electricity flicker through her and her expression darkened abruptly. The complete opposite emotion was scything through her head, cutting off the electricity.

  Liked it so much he just saw fit to click his fingers and summon me over so he could inspect me!

  She fought for reason. OK, so he hadn’t actually clicked his fingers—but that imperious beckoning of his had been just as bad! Just as bad as the way he’d so blatantly looked her over...

  And it wasn’t the damn gown he was interested in.

  That opposite emotion, with a jacking up of its voltage, shot through her again. As if she was once again feeling the impact of that dark, assessing inspection...

  She threw the switch once more. No—stop this, right now! she told herself. So what if he’d put her back up? Why should she care? That over-made-up blonde he’d been with had treated her just as offhandedly, waving her away. So why get uptight about the man doing so?

  And so what, she added for good measure, that she’d had that ridiculously OTT reaction to the man’s physical impact on her? He and Blondie came from a world she wasn’t part of and only ever saw from the outside—like at this private fashion show. Speaking of which...

  She gave herself a mental shake, opened her eyes and continued with her blank-faced perambulations, showing off a gown she could never in all her life afford herself. She was here to work, to earn money, and she’d better get on with it.

  Oh, and if she could to stay on this far side of the room... Well away from the source of those emotions in her head.

  * * *

  ‘Marc, cherie, now, this one is ideal! Don’t you think?’

  Celine’s voice was a purr, but it grated on Marc like nails on a blackboard. However, at last, it seemed, Hans’s wife had found a gown she liked and was stroking the gold satin material lovingly, not even looking at the model wearing it. This model was smiling hopefully at Marc, but he ignored her. He was not the slightest bit interested.

  Not like that other one.

  He cut his inappropriate thoughts off. Focussed on the problem at hand. How to divest himself of Hans’s wife at last.

  ‘Perfect!’ he agreed, with relief in his voice. Could they finally get out of here?

  His relief proved short-lived. Celine’s scarlet-tipped fingers curled possessively around his arm.

  ‘I’ve seen all I want here. I’ll arrange a fitting for that gold dress while Hans and I are in London. But right now...’ she smiled winningly at Marc ‘...do be an angel and take me to dinner! We could go to a club afterwards!’

  Marc cut short her attempts to commandeer him for the rest of the evening. Never one to suffer irritation gladly, he knew his temper had been on a shortening fuse all evening. It was galling to see his father’s old friend in the clutches of this appalling woman. How on earth could Hans not have seen through her?

  But then dark memory came, though he wished it would not. Hadn’t he been similarly blinded once himself?

  Oh, he could tell himself he’d been young, and naïve, and far too trusting, but he’d been made a fool of all the same! Marianne had strung him along, playing on his youthful adoration of her, carefully cultivating his devotion to her—a devotion that had exploded in an instant.

  Walking into that restaurant in Lyons, Marianne thinking I was still in Paris, seeing her there—

  With another man. Older than Marc’s barely two and twenty. Older and far wealthier.

  Marc’s father had still been alive then, and Marc only the prospective heir to the Derenz fortune. The man Marianne had been all over, cooing at, had been in his forties, and richer even than Marc’s father. Marc had stared, the blood draining from his face, and had felt something dying inside him.

  Then Marianne had seen him, and instead of trying to make any apology to him she had simply lifted her glass of champagne, tilted it mockingly at Marc, so the light would catch the huge diamond on her finger.

  Shortly afterwards she had become the third wife of the man she’d been dining with. And Marc had learnt a lesson he had never, never forgotten.

  Now, his tone terse, he spoke bluntly. ‘Celine, I already have a dinner engagement tonight.’

  Hans’s wife was undeterred. ‘Oh, if it’s business I’ll be good as gold,’ she assured him airily, not relinquishing her hold on his arm. ‘I sit through enough of Hans’s deadly dull dinner meetings to know how!’ she added waspishly. ‘And we could still go clubbing afterwards...’

  Marc shook his head. Time to stop Celine in her tracks. ‘No, it’s not business,’ he told her, making the implication clear.

  Celine’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not seeing anyone at the moment. I know that,’ she began, ‘because I’d have heard about it otherwise.’

  ‘And I’m sure you will,’ Marc replied, jaw set.

  He did not want a debate over this. He just wanted to get Celine off his hands before his temper reached snapping point.

  ‘Well, who is it?’ Celine demanded.

  Marc felt his already short fuse shortening even more. He wanted to get out of here—now—and get shot of Celine. Any way he could. The fastest way he could.

  He said the first thing that came into his head in this infuriating and wretched situation. ‘One of the models here,’ he answered tersely.

  ‘Models?’

  She said the word as if he’d said waitresses or cleaners. In Celine’s eyes women who weren’t rich—or weren’t married to rich men—simply didn’t exist. Let alone women who might possibly interest the likes of Marc Derenz.

  Her eyes flashed petulantly. ‘Well, which one, then?’ she demanded. She was thwarted, and she was challenging him.

  It was a challenge he could not help but meet—and he called her bluff with the first words that came into his head. ‘The one in the dress you didn’t like—’

  ‘Her? But she looked right through you!’ Celine exclaimed.

  ‘She’s not supposed to fraternise while she’s working.’

  Even as he spoke he was cursing himself. Why the hell had he said it was that model? The one who had stiffened up like a poker?

  But he knew why. Because he was still trying to put her out of his head, that was why—trying and failing. He’d been conscious of his eyes sifting through the crowded room even as Celine was cooing over the gown she was selecting, idly searching for the model again. Irritated both that he was doing so and that he could not see her.

  She was keeping to the far side of the room. Not coming anywhere near his eyeline again.

  Because she is avoiding me?

  The thought was in his head, bringing with it emotions that were at war with each other. He shouldn’t damn well be interested in her in the first place! For all the reasons he always stuck to in his life. But he could remind himself of those reasons all he liked—he still wanted to catch another glimpse of her.

  More than a glimpse.

  Another thought flickered. Was it because she hadn’t immediately—eagerly!—returned his clear look of interest in her that she was occupying his thoughts like this? Had that intrigued him as well as surprised him?

  He didn’t have time to think further, for Celine was counter-calling his bluff.

  ‘Well, do introduce me, cherie!’ she challenged.

  It was clear she didn’t believe him, and Marc’s mouth tightened. He was not about to be outmanoeuvred by Hans’s scheming wife. Nor was he going to spend a minute longer in her company.

  With a smile that strained his jaw, he murmured
, ‘Of course! One moment.’ And he strode away across the room with one purpose only, his mood grimmer than ever. Whatever it took to shed the clinging Celine, he’d do it!

  His eyes sliced through the throng, incisively seeking his target. And there she was. He felt the same kick go through him as had when he’d first summoned her across to him. That racehorse grace, that perfect profile—and those blue-green eyes which now, as he accosted her, were suddenly on him. And immediately, instantly blank.

  And not in the least friendly.

  Marc didn’t give a damn—not now. His temper was at snapping point after what he’d put up with all evening.

  He stood in front of her, blocking Celine’s view of her from the other side of the room. Without preamble, he cut to the chase. Whether this was a moment of insanely stupid impulse, or the way out of a hole, he just did not care.

  ‘How would you like,’ he said to the model who was now staring at him with a closed, stony look on her stunningly beautiful face, ‘to make five hundred pounds tonight?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  TARA HEARD THE WORDS, but they took a moment to register. She knew only that they’d been spoken with the slightest trace of an accent that she hadn’t noticed in his curt instruction to her before.

  She had still been trying to quench her reaction to the man who had just appeared out of nowhere in front of her. Blocking her. Demanding her attention. Just as he’d demanded she walk across to him and Blondie and twirl at his command.

  OK, so that was her job here tonight, but it was the way he’d done it that had put her back up!

  As now he was doing all over again—and worse. Because she did not want to feel that kick of high voltage again, that unwelcome quickening of her pulse as her eyes focussed, however determinedly she tried to resist, on that planed hard face and the dark eyes that were like cut obsidian.

  The sense of what he’d just said belatedly reached her brain, as insulting as it was offensive.

  She started to open her mouth, to skewer him with her reply—no way was she going to tolerate such an approach, whoever the hell this man was!—but he was speaking again. An irritated expression flashed across his face.

  ‘Do not,’ she heard him say, and there was a distinct tinge of boredom in his voice, as well as curt irritation, ‘jump to the tediously predictable assumption you are clearly about to make. All I require is this. That you accompany myself and my guest back to her hotel, where—’ he held up a silencing hand as Tara’s mind raced ahead to envisage unspeakable debaucheries ‘—she will get out and you will stay in the car with me and then return here.’

  The words were clipped from him, and then his eyes were going past her towards one of the fashion designer’s hovering aides. He summoned him over with the same imperious gesture he’d used to draw her over to show off the gown she was wearing.

  The man came scuttling forward. ‘Monsieur Derenz, is there anything you require?’ he asked eagerly.

  Tara heard the obsequiousness in the man’s voice and deplored it. The last thing rich guys like this one needed—let alone those with the kind of tough-looking face that he had, who expected everyone to jump at their bidding—was anyone kow-towing to them. It only encouraged them.

  ‘Yes,’ came the curt reply. ‘I’d like to borrow your model for a very temporary engagement. I require a chaperone for my guest, Mrs Neuberger, as I escort her to her hotel. Your model will be away for no more than half an hour. Obviously I’ll pay you for her time and take full financial liability for her gown. I take it there’ll be no problem?’

  The last was not a question—it was a statement. The aide nodded immediately. ‘Of course, Monsieur Derenz.’ His eyes snapped to Tara. ‘Well? Don’t just stand there! Monsieur Derenz is waiting!’

  And that was that.

  Fulminating, Tara knew she didn’t have a choice. She needed the money. If she kicked off and refused then her agency would be told, and as this particular fashion designer was highly influential, there would be no hope that her objection to being shanghaied in this manner would be upheld.

  All the same, she glared at the man shanghaiing her as the aide scuttled off again. ‘What is this?’ she demanded.

  The man—this Monsieur Derenz, whoever he was, she thought tautly—looked at her impatiently. She’d never heard of him, and all the name did was confirm that he was not British—a deduction that went not just with his name and slight accent, but also with the air of Continental style that added something to his stance, and to the way he wore the clearly hand-made tuxedo that moulded his powerful frame in ways she knew she must not pay any attention to...

  ‘You heard me—my guest needs a chaperone. And so do I!’

  Tara could see his irritation deepen as he spoke.

  ‘I want you to behave as if you know me. As if—’ his mouth set ‘—we are having an affair.’

  This time Tara did explode. ‘What?’

  That dark flash of impatient irritation seared across his face again. ‘Cool it,’ he said tersely. ‘I merely need my guest to be...disabused...of any expectations she may have of me.’

  ‘She’d be welcome to you!’ Tara muttered, hardly bothering to be inaudible.

  How had she managed to get inveigled into this? Then something pinged back into her mind.

  ‘Did you say five hundred pounds?’ she demanded. No way was she going to come out of this empty-handed—not for putting up with this man commandeering her like this.

  ‘Yes,’ came the indifferent reply. ‘Providing you don’t waste any more of my time than this is already taking.’

  Without waiting, he helped himself to her arm and started to walk back with her across the room, to where Tara could see the blonde woman who, apparently, had the idiotic idea that this man being tall, dark, handsome—and presumably, judging by how obsequious the aide had been, very rich—in any way compensated for his high-handed behaviour and peremptory manner.

  As he walked her towards the unwanted blonde he bent his head to her. ‘We have been together only a short while...you are reluctant to leave your work early, being highly conscientious—and if you pull away from me like that one more time your money is halved. Do you understand me?’

  There was a grim note in his voice that put Tara’s back up even more. But he was still talking.

  ‘Now, tell me your name.’

  It was another of those orders he clearly liked giving.

  ‘Tara,’ she said tightly. ‘Tara Mackenzie. And I need to get my bag and coat first—’

  ‘Unnecessary.’ He cut her off. ‘You’ll be back here soon enough.’

  They had reached the blonde, who was looking, Tara could see, like curdled milk at their approach.

  ‘Ah, Celine—this is Tara. Tara—Frau Neuberger.’

  His voice was more fulsome, and there might well be relief in it, Tara thought.

  ‘Tara’s been given the all-clear to leave early, so we can drop you off at your hotel. Alors, allons-y.’

  He cupped a hand around Celine’s elbow and drew them both forward simultaneously, his guiding grip allowing no delay. Moments later they were on the pavement outside the hotel, and Tara found herself stepping into a swish chauffeured limo. She settled herself carefully, mindful of her horrendously expensive gown, arranging the skirts so they did not crush.

  The man she was supposed to be giving the impression that she was having an affair with—however absurd!—sat himself down heavily between her and the blonde—who, Tara was acidly amused to see, was faffing about with her seatbelt in order to get the man she wanted to make some form of body contact and fasten it for her. Sadly for her, it seemed he did not return the desire.

  ‘Marc, cherie, thank you!’ Tara heard the woman gush.

  OK, Tara connected, Marc Derenz. She still had no idea who he might be, but then so many of the richest of the rich were completely unkn
own to the wider world. To the plebs in it like herself. Well, what did it matter who he was? Nor did it matter that he seemed to possess the kind of physical appeal that was so annoyingly able to compete with her resistance to his peremptory and quite frankly dislikeable personality.

  She glanced at him now, as the car moved off into the London evening traffic. His profile was just as tough-looking as his face—and the clear set of his jaw indicated that his mood had not improved in the slightest. She heard him make some terse reply in German to the blonde at his side, and then suddenly he was turning to Tara.

  Something flickered in his eyes. Something that made Tara’s insides go gulp even though she didn’t want them to. Suddenly, out of nowhere, she felt the close physical proximity of this man—felt, of all things, that it wasn’t Blondie who needed a chaperone, it was her...

  That flicker in those dark, dark eyes came again. And this time it was more than just a flicker. It was a glint. A glint that went with the set of that tough jawline.

  ‘Tara, mon ange—your seatbelt...’

  His voice was a low murmur, nothing like as brusque as it had been when he’d spoken to Blondie, and there was only one word for its tone.

  Intimate...

  Out of nowhere, Tara felt herself catch her breath. She heard her thoughts scramble in her brain. Oh, dear God, don’t look at me like that! Don’t speak to me like that! Because if you do...

  But there was something that was even more of an ordeal for her than the husky, intimate tone of his accented voice that was doing things to her that she did not want them to do—because the only reason she was here in this plush limo was to provide fleeting cover in a situation that was none of her making and that would be over and done with inside half an hour, tops...

  Only it seemed that Marc Derenz was utterly oblivious to what she didn’t want him to do to her—to the effect he was having on her that she must not let him see! Because her reaction to him was totally irrelevant! Totally and absolutely nothing to do with her real life. And totally at odds with the way she should think of him—as nothing but a rich man moving other people around for his own convenience and not even bothering to be polite about it!