by Maya Blake
‘Gael! Amico! You’re here. Now my night is complete.’ His gaze swung to Goldie, looked her over, and his grin dimmed a touch. ‘Okay, this is...interesting. My friend, do you care to tell me why your plus one is in this state? I trust you implicitly, of course, and I’m sure in a fight you’d come out the winner, but I’m not averse to attempting to kick your butt if you had something to do with the lady’s um...state...’
‘“The lady” is standing right in front of you,’ Goldie offered with a saccharine smile. ‘And trust me, she’s quite capable of answering for and defending herself.’
The man’s concerned look dissolved, to be replaced by the wide smile again. ‘Of course. Tell me your tale, sweet one, and allow me to vanquish those that need vanquishing.’
Goldie felt a reluctant smile tug at her lips. ‘I’m fine. Really. And it wasn’t...your friend’s fault.’
‘So he was your rescuer?’ the Italian asked hopefully.
‘I wouldn’t stretch it that far.’ She looked at the man in question to see mockery and a tight little smile playing at his lips.
‘Sí, Pietro, we’re still trying to work out the finer details of our...association. But perhaps if you would be so kind as to point out the bathroom Goldie can clean up?’
Pietro nodded. ‘Of course, of course. Come with me.’
He led them through the double doors and immediately turned into a bright hallway. Goldie got an impression of grey and gold decor, loud but not intrusive music, and lots of laughter coming from the living room before Gael Aguilar’s presence beside her grabbed her focus. He really was imposing. And taller than she’d thought in the alley. As for those broad shoulders—
‘Here you are.’ Pietro turned a door handle and nudged it open to reveal a large bedroom. ‘The bathroom is through there. You should have everything you need. If not, please let me know.’
Goldie found another small smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘Prego.’ Pietro returned her smile, then with a nod at Gael walked away.
Gael remained, his eyes on her. Her senses began to jump and dip in that alarming way again.
‘I’m fine to take it from here,’ she said, when he made no move to leave.
He made an impatient sound. ‘I think we’ve established that I’m not going to attack you, Miss Beckett. Accepting my help won’t dislodge your feminine independence. Besides, trying to see to your wound with your non-dominant hand is going to eat into my twenty minutes. Unless you want to restart the clock?’
Goldie pressed her lips together, wanting to be annoyed with him for the way he made her feel a touch ridiculous. But, short of telling him she tended to refuse help from men like him on principle alone, thus probably seeming even more ridiculous despite her beliefs, she couldn’t think of how to counter his assertion.
‘Okay, thanks.’ The words came out far too easily. Her brain knew it and her accelerating heartbeat acknowledged it as he stepped into the room and shrugged off his jacket.
His navy shirt clung to thick, sleek muscle as he flung the jacket away and moved towards the bathroom. She followed slowly, trying to hold at bay the sensation of orbiting close to a ravenous vortex.
She arrived in the spacious bathroom to find him setting out first aid materials on the double-width vanity unit. When he had finished he started to fold back his shirtsleeves.
Goldie tried to look away from strong, brawny forearms feathered with dark wispy hair as they were revealed. But the urge was hard to resist.
Her breath caught lightly as he glanced behind him and cocked his head at her.
‘Come to the sink. We’ll wash your wound properly before I apply some antiseptic.’
She joined him at the sink, taking care not to stand too close when his presence registered so insistently next to her. Gael Aguilar was dominating. His body seemed to vibrate with a force field that mercilessly drew every living thing into its orbit.
He turned on the taps, tested the temperature, then held out his hand. Recalling the tingling when he’d touched her in the car, Goldie wanted to refuse. But this silly dance had gone on long enough. She needed to get this over with and go back to her life. Her mother.
Thoughts of Gloria spurred her on.
She gave him her hand and once again he cupped it in his. And once again the tingling started. Only this time the sensation was twice as intense. Whether it was to do with the bright lights of the bathroom, which cast their skin to skin contact in a vivid tableau, or with the fact that he was much closer to her than he’d been in the car, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that touching Gael, having his thumbs move across her palm as he rinsed the angry gash, was like nothing else she’d ever felt.
When her breath felt strangled the sound was audible in a silence marred only by their mingled breathing. Like in the car, his movements were gentle. But the fire he created with his fingers was not. Growing alarmingly short of breath, Goldie wanted to snatch her hand from his. But then he made a sound. And she looked up. Their eyes met in the mirror. She forgot to breathe all together.
Gael’s eyes had grown darker, stoked with a dark fire that made her belly clench tight. Recognising the feeling as her first ever genuine sexual attraction, Goldie gasped. His gaze dropped to her parted mouth. Stayed riveted until the almost visceral stare made her lips twitch with a need that bordered on alien.
Beneath the running tap his hands continued to caress hers. But neither of them moved their gazes except to drift them over each other’s faces, returning over and over again to their mouths.
She wanted to kiss him. Be kissed by him. Now.
Her lips parted.
Gael made a sound beneath his breath. A guttural, primitive sound. And he broke his gaze from hers.
Released from the power of that rabid scrutiny, Goldie gulped greedily on the air flowing back into her lungs. Along with even more alarm at what had just happened. The thoughts she’d entertained, the want coursing through her...
Dear God... What’s wrong with me?
After that sordid, grossly insulting proposition the casting director had flung her way this afternoon, sex should be the last thing on her mind. It should be buried even deeper than normal, beneath the tight, rigid focus of her ambition and her need to make something of herself. Her need not to end up like her mother—a slave to her sexual needs and emotional wellbeing, dependent on others for her happiness.
And yet here she was, letting this man touch her, trail his long fingers over her skin as if he were caressing a lover. And she...she liked it.
She withdrew her hand abruptly, almost knocking it against the side of the sink in her haste to dislodge the electricity his touch created.
‘I... Thanks. Can we get on with it now, please?’ she said, avoiding another look into those burnished gold eyes.
He muttered something beneath his breath in Spanish. But he snagged a hand towel and wrapped it around her hand before he drew her to the vanity unit.
‘Sit down.’
The order was firm enough to put her back up, but she wasn’t in the mood to argue any longer so she sat down where he indicated and held out her now slightly less throbbing hand.
The antiseptic stung, made her wince.
‘Are you okay?’ he enquired, in a deep, low voice.
Goldie wanted to look up, felt almost compelled to look into those eyes again, but she forced her gaze to remain on the clinical movements of his medical attention.
‘Yes, thank you.’
He completed the cleansing, then applied a light bandage over her palm. Her hand felt a million times better by the time he was finished.
‘Now for your head.’
‘What?’
He held up another cotton bud. It was then that Goldie registered the slight throb at her temples. Something like relief poured through her.
Then she silently grimaced at being glad of the minor head injury. The small gash which Gael was now cleaning didn’t really explain her temporary lapse of control or the low hum through her veins. But she clung to it as the cause just the same.
Once he was done he stepped back. His gaze dropped to the hand she still had on the wide tear in her sweater. A hand growing numb from holding the torn garment in place.
‘What are we going to do about this?’ he enquired.
She bit her lip, recognising that she couldn’t very well go out into the party with a rip in her sweater. The ripped tights she could take care of by removing and disposing of them. But the tattered sweater would stand out—and not in a good way.
‘I... I couldn’t impose on you to find me a sewing kit, could I?’ she ventured.
His eyes widened a touch, dark gold lightening to its natural hazel colour as mockery returned. ‘I sincerely doubt Pietro would have something so domestic lying about. But I will do my best.’
He balled the hand towel he’d used and threw it into the laundry bin before he left the bathroom.
His departure infused the room with a lot more oxygen and a lot more clarity.
Goldie jumped off the vanity unit and stared at herself in the mirror. Besides the notable evidence of her tussle with the mugger, she didn’t look as horrid as she felt. But she had lost her phone, the little money she had and, more importantly, all the details of the casting directors and agents she’d planned to contact in the hope of landing a job.
Her last paying job had been an infomercial three weeks ago, which had paid enough to sustain her and her mother’s bills for another month. Her mother’s part-time job as a waitress paid very little. Things were getting more than a little tight.
She’d gone into today’s audition with more hope than expectation. When it had gone well she’d allowed herself to hope even harder. Until her hopes been dashed by the slimy words rolling off the director’s tongue.
‘My hotel room. Nine p.m. Perform well between the sheets and I’ll make your dreams come true.’
Goldie had barely managed to stop herself from being sick before she ran out of the auditorium and into the bathroom. Locking herself in a stall, she’d been ashamed of the tears she’d allowed to fall. But she was proud that she had picked herself up and returned to the music room to practise her singing. She wouldn’t give up because of one casting director who gave his profession a bad name. She couldn’t afford to.
Taking a deep breath, she tugged off her boots and cleaned them with tissues, then finished tidying herself up as best she could. Spotting a dressing gown hanging behind the door, she quickly took off her clothes, disposed of the ripped tights and shrugged on the gown. She was securing the belt around her waist when Gael knocked.
Self-consciousness assailed her, even though the gown draped her from shoulder to ankle. Sucking in a deep breath, she opened the door.
What Gael Aguilar held out to her was most definitely not a sewing kit. ‘My assumption was correct, it seems. This will have to do instead. Courtesy of Pietro’s absent niece.’
Goldie eyed the scrap of material in his hand. The black cloth had probably started life in a designer’s imagination as what a dress looked like. But even without examining it too closely she could tell it would be too small. On some level she knew Gael was probably trying to help. But the man’s presence aggravated her on such a raw, subliminal level that she shook her head firmly in refusal. ‘No, I don’t think this will work.’
His mouth firmed. ‘Go against your wish to fight me on every front, Miss Beckett, and just try it on. You might be surprised. Unless you wish to join the party in that dressing gown?’
Since that was out of the question, she bit back a grimace and took the dress. Eyeing the garment, she fingered the label, her breath catching slightly when she caught sight of the exclusive designer name. ‘Okay, I’ll wear it.’
She’d expected her acquiescence to draw another mocking response from him. Instead a hard look settled in his eyes.
‘I’m glad you find something agreeable. Try not to keep me waiting too long, sí?’ he drawled.
Goldie shut the door without responding. She suspected dealing with a man like Gael Aguilar would be trying enough at the best of times. Add the circumstances of their meeting, and the fierce awareness that showed no signs of abating whenever they were in close proximity... She admitted that her spinning senses weren’t up to dealing further with the torrent of emotions he elicited.
Returning the gown to its hook, she stepped into the dress and tugged the inch-wide straps onto her shoulders. One look in the mirror drew a gasp. The material was luxuriously elastic enough to accommodate her curves but still give her room to breathe. Reluctantly fingering the hem that ended at mid-thigh, she admitted it looked spectacular, and it felt like heaven next to her skin. But the back...
Goldie eyed the exposure of her skin from nape to waist and swallowed deeply. No way could she carry off wearing her bra with this dress. Heat rushed into her cheeks as she took a deep breath and unclipped her bra. Stuffing it into the vanity unit drawer, she grabbed her boots and tugged them on. Their familiarity brought a touch of balance and, after combing her hands through her hair again, she turned and opened the door.
He was standing at the far side of the bedroom, his surprisingly brooding gaze focused out of the French windows onto the New York night skyline.
Goldie walked in and drew to a halt in the middle of the room, her gaze once again homing in with almost helpless intent on the man who leaned with such loose-limbed indolence against the wall.
His head turned and his gaze hooked on hers before his scrutiny dropped. His sharp inhalation echoed through the room as he took her in, the hands in his pockets visibly bunching as he straightened abruptly.
And stared.
Sexual awareness, now recognised as the potent substance it was, was unstoppable as it lanced her. Intensified just from the look in his eyes.
Beneath the expensive silk and elastic blend heat suffused her, rushing through her body in a maddening dash she had no hope of stopping. But she tried. Heaven help her, she had to. Or she’d lose her mind.
Slicking her tongue desperately over her lower lip, she cleared her throat. ‘I’m ready to hear your proposition now, Mr Aguilar.’
CHAPTER FOUR
THE HEATED LOOK didn’t abate in his eyes. But her words, like so many others tonight, seemed to trigger a response within him.
A negative one this time.
After a few charged seconds his expression grew shuttered, and his aura when he approached her vibrated with repressed emotions she couldn’t place her finger on.
‘Gael,’ he clipped out as he passed her and headed for the door.
‘Excuse me?’
‘My name is Gael. I prefer it to Mr Aguilar. Use it.’
‘That sounds curiously like an order,’ she replied.
He stopped abruptly, turned to face her. A deep sustaining breath lifted his chest before he speared her with his incisive gaze. ‘We’ve both had a trying day, Goldie. Can we attempt to make it slightly less trying before we part ways?’
She was sure it was the use of her name, spoken so smoothly, so sizzlingly, that drew the fight from her, made her lift one shoulder in a feeble shrug. ‘Sure, I can try.’
‘Gracias,’ he intoned. Then added, ‘Thank you.’
‘Um...no problem.’
A tinge of amusement lit his eyes before he shook his head. ‘“No problem” aren’t words I associate with you.’ He abruptly held up one hand. ‘Not that I want to test the theory right now. Come, we shall get a drink and find a place to hold our discussion, yes?’
At her nod he resumed his exit, slowing his long stride to accommodate hers.
They entered a large, rectangular living r
oom, decorated with a severely modern and minimalist hand. The centrepiece of the room was the futuristic-looking light fixture that seemed to take up almost a quarter of the ceiling space. Beneath this gleaming white and silver masterpiece Pietro’s guests laughed and mingled. The man himself was the centre of attention, surrounded by a coolly elegant circle of females.
His grin widened when he spotted them approaching, and he beckoned them with open arms.
‘Ah, there you are. Confirmation of our adventures in the Andes is needed, my friend. Sadly, I don’t think these fine ladies here believe a word I’m saying!’ he said to Gael.
Gael’s gaze drifted over the ladies in question, who sparkled and preened even harder under his attention. Although he smiled, Goldie noticed the mirth didn’t touch his eyes. Not that the action didn’t have the desired devastating effect. Almost without exception every woman in the group strained towards him, their gazes rabidly checking him out.
‘That particular pleasure will have to wait, my friend. I have more important things to attend to right now.’ He turned to the waiter who had appeared next to him and snagged two glasses of champagne.
Goldie dragged her attention from the nearest fawning woman to shake her head as he offered her one of the glasses. ‘No, thank you. I don’t drink.’
She caught more than one woman sniggering.
Pietro frowned, his features almost comical with alarm. ‘You don’t drink? You’re not underage, are you?’
‘No, I’m old enough to drink, but I choose not to,’ she repeated.
Her mother’s dependency on alcohol to get her through tough times and the depressing consequences when that crutch failed to work had taught Goldie at a very early age never to go near the stuff.
His eyes turning speculative, Gael returned both drinks to the tray and steered her outside towards a bar set up on the terrace. After taking her order for an apple spritzer and getting mineral water for himself, he led her to a quiet part of the hardwood floored space. Between two tree-sized ferns a white sofa had been set up beneath a heated lamp, which threw a lovely warm glow over the area.
