* * *
The heat of the day was OK and the light was fresh and clear. Her heels clicked pleasingly on the marble as she walked through the house. The vibe of the place was strange—she couldn’t quite tune in to it. There was happiness and love, but there was so much order, even with all the feminine touches that were so obvious—the flowers, the scents, the pretty soft furnishings and drapes. But among all of that was the maleness of the place—the presence of Michael. It was enough to suffocate the living daylights out of her.
She looked around. Heard voices. A voice. Followed the sound.
There it was again—just when she had filled her head with all the reasons why Michael Cruz was a flaw in the fabric of life she saw him, and life seemed to be a palette of beautiful colours.
Dark jeans literally hugged the best butt she could remember seeing on a man. Ever. The cut was fabulous and suited the length of his legs, easily thirty-four inches of hard muscle The simple white shirt didn’t fool her for a moment—exquisite collar and cuffs and perfectly tailored to show off those shoulders—those shoulderblades. Hands should mould them and slide over them to absorb the breadth of bone and muscle. Fingers should feel the bulge of bicep and tricep.
Flashes of those arms holding her hips as she rode him exploded in front of her and she felt her legs almost buckle. She reached out to the edge of a chaise as he turned to face her.
The missile of that brown-eyed gaze hit her hard. But she held it until he flashed a look all over her, still talking in fast, low Catalan, and finally acknowledged her with a nod. She touched her hand to her ponytail—ran the tip of it round her finger and moved into the room, as if it was her air to suck and her view to savour.
Phone call over. A pause. The tension arced.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’ She gave him a little grudging smile—all he deserved. ‘Business call? Did I interrupt?’
He made a face that told her nothing. ‘You get settled in OK?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
She moved through the corridor of space slowly, dragged the fingers of each hand across the veneer of a table, over the tips of tall cushions poking up from the back of a couch. Settled herself at the high, wide window, looking out for more life to absorb her than the all-consuming presence of this man.
‘You look lovely. Your dress is very flattering.’
What? A compliment? She curled her lip and waited, for the but…
‘You suit the colour too.’
She twirled her ponytail, looked out of the window. You couldn’t call this guy. Really. She was all set to deflect and fire back and then out of nowhere a curve ball. Was that a strategy guys like him used? To
double-disarm by being so unpredictable?
‘Do you like what you see?’
She turned. Did he know she’d been checking him out when she came in to the room? Or was this another of his little control games? Didn’t he know the rules? He criticised and she responded. Simple. Compliments? After their last little exchange that was just too weird. That smacked of mind games.
‘Look, Michael, I appreciate the compliment, but I for one am a bit puffed out with the whole split personality thing you’ve got going on here. I mean, was it a different Michael Cruz who basically warned me off coming here? Am I supposed to predict if you’re in a let’s party mood or a back-off mood? Am I? ’Cos I haven’t got the time to second-guess you. All I want to do is my job. And then get back to my world.’
She just couldn’t afford to let her head get messed up by him. It was hard enough keeping the sexual attraction she had for him in some dark corner of her mind. The last thing she needed was to let him get in any more of her headspace. That way led to disaster. She needed total concentration for her business. That was her lifeline, her safety net—whatever you wanted to call it. It was the reason, ever since she’d left home, that she hadn’t gone mad. So, yes, she had let herself go there with him—but she’d tried to set out clear rules. Mutual disrespect and a mutual, though waning, sexual attraction. Then back to business. End of. Surely he understood that?
‘That’s what we both want, Tara. I’m just being civilised about it. You’re here in my home and I’m extending you the same courtesy I would extend to any guest.’
His voice was low. It was calm. It was laced with something she didn’t understand.
‘Oh.’
‘Oh,’ he repeated.
He was so sure of himself.
‘So I should tell you that lunch is being served on the terrace.’
She cocked her head to look out there. Dishes were being set out and she did feel hungry.
‘Shall we?’
She plastered on her best glacial smile and moved towards him. ‘We shall.’
She passed him where he stood. She was so aware of him—the energy, the mind, the look of him. He watched her, and then all he did was put his hand out—touch the small of her back—and instantly a huge sexual high pulsed through her.
It was immense, the throb of pleasure unmistakable, and she paused for a moment, stifled a gasp. Stifled it for all she was worth because there was no way she was letting him see how he affected her.
She felt him at her back all the way through the house to the terrace. She moved like clockwork and kept her eye on the table like a homing device. Bowls of salad, meat, bread, olives—all the stuff she liked. Glasses. Thank goodness she could have a glass of white to take the edge off. She was feeling the edges right now—sharp and dangerous.
‘Are the others joining us?’
She needed the answer to be a yes. Because couldn’t he see that them being together, unsupervised, was going to lead them to the same place? Did he really want a repeat of what they’d started? She knew he wasn’t just chipping away at her willpower—he had taken a sledgehammer to it. To the extent that now she was as likely to make a move on him as he was on her. And this was so, so not good news. She needed clarity and control. She needed her rules to work!
He was still behind her—tucking her into her seat like an overly attentive waiter. She scraped her chair in and out as soon as he had left it—OK, it was childish, and maybe a bit passive-aggressive, but he would get the point that she could move her own damn chair.
‘Fernanda? No. She’s going back to school tomorrow, so she’s gone to the city and the library to get on with her assignments. Yes. Remarkably, it turns out she had work to do.’
‘And Angelica?’ She ignored his loaded comment and poured herself some sparkling water from a bottle with a spring-loaded cap. Waited for the reply he was forming as he did the same.
‘She’s popped over to Girona. Didn’t she see you before she left?’
He flashed her a look as water splashed near the rim of his glass. Expertly twisted his wrist to stop the flow.
‘No.’ So it was just the two of them. ‘When will she be back?’
He took a deliberately long time to answer—eased the cap back onto the bottle, placed it in the centre of the table, flicked out a linen napkin and sat back, glass in his hand, eyes on her face.
‘That I don’t know. She does her own thing.’
Tara struggled really hard not to get annoyed. ‘Was it an emergency?’ She could only assume that something important had taken her away without even so much as a see you later.
‘If you can call a lunch date with girlfriends an emergency. And some might, I suppose.’
He was helping himself to food from the different plates. Sunglasses were removed from his top pocket and put on his face. He looked hot as hell. Mysterious as the devil.
‘I’m finding that a bit odd.’
‘Don’t. Angelica is flighty. Someone will have sold her a line to get her over there—she’ll be thinking she’s on a mission of mercy. And she won’t be worried about you.’ He replaced a dish on t
he table, pushed it towards her in encouragement. ‘You’re in good hands.’
Which was exactly the problem.
She pulled dishes towards her. Scooped spoonfuls of salad and oily fish onto her plate. Kept her face down.
‘So, have you been to this part of Spain before?’
‘No.’ Where was the wine? Was there any wine? She looked about. ‘No, I haven’t. I hear you have vineyards, though. That true?’
He looked at her. His eyes creased and his mouth split into that brilliant rarely seen smile.
‘Wonderful vineyards, yes. I’m assuming that your interest in them means, in your very direct way, that you would like to have some wine? Which would you like to sample? Tinto, rosado or blanco?’
‘Honestly? The way I’m feeling right now? If it’s wet—it’ll do.’ She shook her head, pulled a face.
He laughed again. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad. You’re in a beautiful place, gorgeous food—and the wine… Hey. Let me get you something special.’
‘Special…ordinary. Wine is wine. You choose.’
He regarded her. ‘Quite the enigma.’
‘Yeah, you can explain that while I listen to the restful sound of a cork popping. C’mon, Michael—it’s been a long weekend. And I could really do with a glass of your best Chateau Less Stress.’
‘Wrong country, Tara. We’re in Spain. Catalonia. You’ll need to pay homage to the area before I can ease your tension.’
‘Ease my tension? You are my tension!’
He laughed again. Not a throw-your-head-back belly laugh, but a rich, warm, easy laugh that instantly had her mirroring.
‘I don’t think you mean that as a compliment.’
He didn’t know? He really didn’t know that with everybody else she spent her day lining up the guns and then firing them. With him around she wasn’t sure if she had even packed her ammo belt. Maybe he was oblivious? Maybe he thought she was this jaggy with everyone?
‘Take it any way you like.’
He had so many dimensions himself. He never failed to amaze. Right now—when she should be feeling annoyed at being left high and dry in a strange country, while her business was effectively hitting the skids and the money to pay not only the wages of her team but the ongoing costs of the next show was trickling out of a Dutch Ronnie-sized hole in her piggy bank—right now she was smiling at the man who had riled her, stoked her, fired her to a crazy sexual high and then riled her all over again.
And it was, just for this moment, in the late September sunshine, the best.
‘Tara, I don’t want to be or even add to your tension, so why don’t I just be your host for the afternoon, until Angelica gets back?’
‘Why don’t you be my host? Why do you even have to ask?’ She picked up the still empty wine glass, looked at it pointedly and then raised it to her lips, sucking noisily on the air it held. ‘Still empty. Come on, Michael, pour me a glass of wine and then let’s get on with hating each other. At least we know where we are then.’
Hands on the table, he shook his head, still chuckling. Stood up and went to an ice bucket that had been sitting there the whole time. Pulled out a slippery, chilled green bottle and wiped it with a linen cloth.
‘Hate is such a wasteful emotion, Tara. And it’s miles away from what you and I feel for each other.’
She nudged her glass across the table and held the stem steady while he poured. The lemony golden liquid sloshed and coated the sides of the glass, but instead of instantly lifting it to her lips and downing a large gulp she stilled her hand, and her mind, and wondered what he really, really thought of her. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a second thought, but her own mind went there.
‘I know I’m supposed to play coy at this point and say, Why, Michael, what is it you and I really feel for each other? But I’m quite sure I know what I feel for you. And at the end of the day—at the end of my day—that’s all that matters.’
‘Nobly delivered. But I couldn’t be the age I am and have seen the things I’ve seen and not know that people’s opinions are supremely important to someone like you, Tara.’
She felt the thin column of glass rotate between her fingers. She still didn’t lift it to her lips.
‘Maybe. But when I know the answer to the question what’s the point in pretending I don’t?’
She raised her eyes to him then. Challenge.
He sat opposite her again. Well back in his seat in that open-legged, confident way. Those probing dark eyes were trained on her in a way that made her want to lift up a shield. Or a spear.
‘It’s just a matter of time. As you move through life you’ll find you care less and less about the opinions of those people who really don’t matter.’
‘And yours does?’
‘With regard to our relationship? Sure.’
‘Relationship? We don’t have a relationship!’
He gave her an indulgent, absent-minded half-smile. Like an old uncle watching a toddler stumble over their first steps. Patronising, actually.
‘Tara, any two people who have any interaction have a relationship. Of sorts. And we most definitely have had an interaction. A very memorable interaction.’
The shimmer of heat transferred from his words to her memory. A memory that was being etched more firmly with each passing moment. She refused to look up at him.
‘The sex was OK. I hope the wine’s better.’
She lifted her glass finally and took a long inhale, a gulp, and then swirled it round her mouth. It burst on her tongue with flavours that she couldn’t name and slid down her throat. But if he thought she was going to pay him a compliment after the way he’d treated her and spoken to her…
‘Well? Is it?’
She put the glass down and lifted her lashes. He sat there like a king on his throne looking at an amusing subject about to subjugate herself. A self-assured smile played on his mouth as he lifted his own glass to his lips, waiting for her reply.
‘It’s passable. So, yes, better than the sex. Much.’
This time he did throw his head back and laugh. And she crashed out a laugh too. Swine.
‘You should come with a health warning—an emotional health warning. Heaven help any man who doesn’t have intact self-confidence taking you on. You’d annihilate him.’
There was something in that, she supposed. Maybe it came from her gene pool—though it would have had to skip a generation. Maybe it came from years of realising that it was easier to show strength than weakness? On any front. Attack—the best form of defence. Wasn’t that what she’d learned that final time? Too many times hiding… So that when that moment had tipped, when she’d reared up and answered back—she would never forget how it had felt. Never forget that when bullies were actually confronted…the shock, the retreat…the world reconfigured.
‘Yeah.’
‘But I’m pretty secure, so I know you’re lying through your cute little offset teeth.’
‘That a fact?’
‘You know it is. You know that we scaled the heights. And even before then—when we met in the club, in the car, in my lounge. Right here on this terrace. You can feel what I can feel. And I can see it all over you, even though you refuse to look up at me.’
She smiled into her wine glass. Too right. All of it. Every word he said. And then some. There was no mistaking the thrum of arousal in the air. Good to know he was feeling it too.
‘Would there be any point?’
‘In looking at me? Or in acknowledging it?’
She hazarded a very direct stare right at him. ‘You don’t hold any fear for me, Cruz.’
‘That’s interesting.’
She mentally raised her shield higher as he lengthened the look, seared her eyes.
‘Though I’m not sure you’re ri
ght there.’
She allowed him a smile for that. What did he know? What did he care?
‘Whatever, Michael. Though, if we’re on the subject of being honest with ourselves, maybe you could shed a little self-searching light on the fact that you seem to find me an “enigma” in private and a royal pain in the butt in public? Is that because I hold some kind of fear for you? Hmm? Worried that I’ll act the way you seem to like me acting in private when your adoring public or, worse, your adoring sisters are around?’
Self-satisfaction. Not her usual tone, but he definitely deserved it. And he didn’t like it. His brows knitted and his jaw tightened—which, if anything, made him look even more handsome, accentuated the square masculinity of his face.
‘You deliver that as if it’s a newsflash. Tara, but it’s obvious. You’re… Of course I find you attractive. I also find you intriguing—genuinely intriguing. But the truth remains that what I find intriguing and what Fernanda needs to find in her life right now are two separate things.’
‘I’m trying really hard to keep my wine in this glass and not throw it all over you. That’s the second time you’ve insulted me like that. Do you really think I matter so little that you can assassinate my character because I’m here in your house on a commission? You think I’m so beholden to you that you can say what you like? Is this how you treat all your guests?’
‘What I like is honesty. No games, no artifice or pretence. And I’m surprised that you are continuing to take offence instead of seeing things from Fernanda’s point of view.’
She shouldn’t be letting him push her buttons like this—she knew that—but she couldn’t seem to stop herself while he sat there like the Commander in Chief, sipping his wine, chewing his olives. Just one more overbearing man, making all the rules. And wasn’t that just the thing? The way they could twist it round to make you feel like the guilty party!
‘Fernanda’s point of view? You can’t be trying to pretend that you care? What do you think her point of view would be if she found out that you were more than happy to have sex with me as long as no one found out about it? Maybe you should think about the level of hypocrisy you’re exposing her to—never mind the fact that she might actually have found a job that excites her rather than a job counting your beans and boring herself to death!’
Dressed to Thrill Page 6
