Dressed to Thrill

by Bella Frances

  Maybe an olive had got stuck in his windpipe, because he sat immobile opposite her and it was as if a very black cloud had suddenly darkened the midday sky. She felt a strong urge to run indoors and get away from the storm that was sure to follow. But she didn’t run away. She was not the type—not really. And—whatever he was about to launch across the table—it was only words. Not burglary or bankruptcy or any of the other things that either had already or potentially might have an impact on her life.

  So she fought the urge to shy away from the intense mood that had descended and sat back. Lifted the glass now saved from being a projectile to her mouth and sipped on her wine, staring at him, challenging him.

  ‘What’s wrong? Suddenly realising that maybe you don’t yet know yourself fully? Just like me? But it’s OK for people to hurl words at you across a table or a car or a kitchen sink?’

  ‘Actually, I think that right now you are more beautiful and sensual than any woman I have ever met.’

  She was not expecting that. And even though it made her head rage it sent a dart of pure lust right to her core to know he thought of her like that.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off him. They roamed to his mouth, with its full, formed lips, and she remembered kissing them—the perfect fit of them round her own, the way he’d used his tongue and his teeth to stoke and nibble, the licks and thrusts that had matched how he filled her and how he’d moved inside her. She looked back to his eyes and this time the throb was something deeper, something more frightening than lust itself. It was openness, exposure, trust and care. And suddenly the shield was far away—out of reach, useless. And she was wide, wide open.

  ‘But, whether you see me as a hypocrite or whether I see myself as protective, the issue that matters is that lust is just that. And if there’s one thing I am sure about it’s that I am more—and hopefully you are more—than a wild animal ruled by passion. So…’

  She couldn’t believe it—she was feeling as if her heart was beating on a plate beside her tapas, and he was talking as if he was giving a traffic update.

  ‘So, regardless of how beautiful or sensual you are, this trip is about Angelica’s wedding dress. Nothing more. I’ll leave you to your own devices this afternoon. No stress. No tension. And no distraction. I hope you can deal with that.’

  His chair was pushed back. He moved up onto his feet. Napkin tossed down. A smile. Little quirk of a smile. A final tug at the wine glass. Placed on the table. And he was off—away.

  FIVE

  Barcelona outfit number three. Two had been a swimming costume and wrap that Tara had shoved herself into when the excruciating silence in the house and the excruciating man of the house had both played mind games with what was left of her sanity. It made her feel almost like the unwanted child she’d once been—when she’d been too small to pick up on the undercurrents that little girls should be seen and not heard.

  Well she’d more than made up for that since then.

  She pulled out the dress and looked at it critically. A swirl of vibrant print on silk jersey. The obligatory deep-cut V. She held it up. Maybe a touch too deep? Had those words ever been formed into a sentence before? Tara shook her head—never in her mouth, they hadn’t. But this was dinner with the Cruzes. No doubt in some ten-star restaurant that he’d managed to get a table at without booking a year in advance like lesser mortals.

  She looked at her shoes. Great colour match but, again, nothing there was whispering demure. Everything was screaming where’s the party at. Strange that she should be feeling like this tonight. It must be the knowledge that Angelica and Fern would be Princess-Grace-Perfect eating away at her self-confidence. But even that was unusual. She’d spent so long honing her own image—happily honing her own image and then reinventing it—that to question herself now was a bit odd.

  She got dressed anyway. Maybe she should do something different with her hair? Less up, more down? Not straightened, but maybe waves? Big waves, of course, and a smoky eye, nude lip. She worked her way through the routine and then stood, faced herself in the antique mirror.

  She was unrecognisable. It had to be the lack of eyeliner. She could have coloured in a path to Australia and back with the eyeliner she had used—but even her recent craze for the liquid line had died a sudden death. Must just be time for a new image—maybe something she could capitalise on in the next collection. She pulled a face. If she could capitalise on this she would be working a whole new demographic. Something was definitely off.

  Her phone buzzed in her hand.

  A text from Angelica.

  Sorry, darling. Am caught up with poor Sophia. She has had terrible news and I can’t leave her yet. Fernanda is on her way here too. Hope Michael is looking after you and see you very soon. Ax.

  Great, just great.

  She sat on the bed. Felt a bone-deep weariness. Sighed to her soul.

  Another night of defending herself against his charm, his insults, his off-the-charts attractiveness. Another night when she’d have to screen every comment and field every probing, penetrative look. One to one, face to face. This was why she liked parties. To flirt and, yes, to hide. Because sometimes the whole effort involved in being Tara Devine was just too, too much.

  She looked down at her nails. Now painted perfectly. Fingers bare of rings—because the only ring she wore was on the chain round her neck. Her grandmother’s wedding ring. Her fingers absently found it and rubbed at it. Her grandmother had known what it was like. She’d had the battle scars. But she had protected her girls as best she could. She had put herself in the firing line and kept her flock out of his reach. But she was long gone. Long, long gone but never forgotten.

  Tara felt the swell of sadness and crushed it back down. There would be no more tears. Not now. Not when she had come so far—so far away and so far on. So standing one more night with Michael Cruz shouldn’t really be too difficult...?

  Maybe she could try to make him see a bit more reason about Fernanda. Maybe she could do what her grandmother would have done—she would always do the right thing if it was going to help the underdog. All she had to do was remember she had her Kevlar body suit on under her dress. And not one single word that Michael Cruz fired at her would pierce it.

  She snatched up a bullet-deflecting pink patent clutch and headed for the door. Time to dine.

  * * *

  The SkyBar? Or a backstreet Irish pub? Michael Cruz knew women. And he made decisions. So why was he over-thinking this simple decision as if it was a billion-dollar arms deal?

  He glanced at Tara, sitting beside him in the car. It was a deliberate act on his part to drive, and a last-minute decision after seeing her come towards him through the foyer. She literally took his breath away. Total remarketing job. But that didn’t fit either. He really didn’t see her as that type of game-player—the type that would try to read a guy and act and dress to suit. For one thing, she couldn’t seem to hold her tongue in check for long enough to engage her control mechanisms.

  She was a heart-on-her-sleeve blurter—a take-me-as-you-find-me or take-a-hike type of girl. If anything, she was a bit less ballsy than she made out—a bit more vulnerable. And he had caught a whiff of that vulnerability again tonight. She was preoccupied. Distracted? Maybe it was the enforced closeness they had again. Of course he could have left her to her own devices in the house—fed her and excused himself—but there was no budging Angelica from her latest project, and it was as clear as the water he was going to be drinking all night that Angelica knew he’d host, and he’d host well.

  So where to take her? Yesterday it would have been the Irish pub without question—where she would have fitted in and had a laugh, and he would have relaxed, knowing she was knocking back shots and cracking jokes with the best of them. But tonight that seemed less and less like the right thing to do. She looked…she looked almost demure—if not elegant.
>
  And quite why that was so unsettling him was anybody’s guess. She was off-limits. They’d had their fun. And as soon as she had her meeting with Angelica and got the hell back to her world, the easier everyone’s life would be.

  SkyBar. Without a doubt. She’d love it.

  * * *

  She looked at him over the edge of the cocktail menu. Then dipped her eyes again. He ignored the city at night view that normally called to him and steadied his eyes on her.

  She peeped up again. Then down. He laughed. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Finally she closed the menu. ‘How can I choose? I want them all! That’s a ridiculous list of booze for a lush like me to cope with.’

  ‘Why do you do that?’

  She lifted up her water glass and poked at the lemon. Another of her little quirks. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Belittle yourself like that?’

  She shrugged. Pouted. ‘Depends what you see as belittling. I don’t think that calling myself a lush is as bad as being called a bad influence.’

  She pointedly looked at him and then sucked water noisily through her straw. A few people turned to look at her. She put the glass down with attitude, snaring a few more looks and responding with a confrontational grin.

  ‘Ever get any paparazzi here?’

  ‘Do you want some publicity?’ He nodded to the waiter, who was expertly hovering, and ordered more water, a gin martini and a champagne cocktail. She could have whichever she liked.

  ‘No, I just wondered. I am actually enjoying flying under the radar for a few days.’

  She sat back in the seat and she did actually look as if the champagne cork that seemed to be permanently wedged in her solar plexus had finally popped and the fizz was trickling over her.

  Now, that was a very stupid thing to think. His eyes lingered where he knew they shouldn’t as she twisted to take in more of the view. Her look tonight was all woman—with none of the comic book. She was lush, all right—but not in the way she’d made out.

  Her thick, peachy golden hair framed the curves of her cheeks and lips. And her body was killing him. He’d been almost painfully sore since he’d seen her at lunch, and it didn’t look like there was going to be any relief. Was it just that she had that perfect female ratio that tuned to some prehistoric part of his brain and made him want to throw her to the ground and claim her like a crazy man? Or was there something more complex? He wished he knew. And wished he could do something about it other than the obvious.

  ‘Are you OK?’ She was looking at him as if he was about to pass out.

  ‘Sure.’ He laughed. She had no idea—he hoped. ‘How’s your drink?’

  She sipped on the cocktail and nodded appreciatively. Sipped again. Then again. Guzzled it. It was half gone.

  ‘You maybe want to slow down. Remember you’ve got another one.’

  ‘It’s so good. Mmm.’

  He had to look away. Her mouth was wrapped round that straw as if she was sucking up nectar. Her tongue jabbed the froth and his erection hardened. Maybe he should have taken her for a mojito on Passeig de Born. At least there would have been crowds there. And movement. Not the highly charged sex bomb that was about to go off right in front of him.

  ‘So you’re taking a break from publicity-seeking while you’re here?’

  She drained the last of the cocktail and sat back. Her breasts rolled pleasingly under her dress and she crossed her legs. Was there any chance she was putting on a show for him?

  ‘Not deliberately. I’m not in a place to do that right now—especially right now—but I can honestly say it’s quite relaxing to think there’s no need to choreograph the whole night just so I’ll get the column inches I need. Though the way things are looking now I’ll be back on the conveyer belt come Monday.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were that dedicated. You must be exhausted. All that partying but one eye on the payback…or the fallout—because there has to have been some of that too?’

  She ran her tongue over her lip. Chewed it a little. ‘Always a risk. But, as I said, I’m not in the clear yet so I take every opportunity and make the most of it.’

  ‘I thought you had things pretty well sewn up. Angelica mentioned your backers.’

  She lifted her water glass and attacked the lemon again. ‘They let me down. Today, actually. I just heard.’

  She shook her head and a look of vulnerability slid over her. And it was striking. Those tiny flashes of the other side of her personality just added to the enigma. She sat quietly, stirring the shards of the lemon she’d massacred in her water. In a little world of her own. It made him realise how lonely she suddenly seemed. Fitted with what Angelica had confirmed on the phone earlier when he’d tried to probe a little more. That she was a master of self-created PR who’d honed the party girl persona—a single party girl. No one there at her elbow or her back. Maybe she had a great family—he didn’t know and he didn’t really want to know—but right now she looked as if she needed someone to scoop her up and take care of her. There must be someone close who cared? Women like her didn’t come along every day. He’d certainly never met one.

  ‘Don’t you have other options? Other ways to raise the cash you need?’

  Suddenly she brightened. Or at least she tried to brighten. The wide, full mouth split to reveal that unique smile and her eyes flashed. She raised the martini glass and threw the contents—almost the whole glass—down her throat. Wow, she could pull it back to the gutter when she wanted!

  ‘Sure!’ She spluttered, choked on the word, the alcohol clearly burning and making her eyes water. He reached over and patted and rubbed her back as she laughed and clutched her chest. ‘Wow. That was strong!’

  ‘Is it not a bit early to drink to the success of your new backers? Maybe let’s get some food first?’

  She was still choking and laughing and then, as he watched, it looked almost as if she was veering on the other side of humour.

  ‘Hey, are you OK?’

  Tears had definitely gathered in her eyes and the bursts of laughter were not sounding so funny any more. Was she…crying?

  ‘Hey—Tara, querida, you’re OK.’

  He moved right over beside her. Curled her under his arm and tucked her head against his chest. Her hair was soft and he breathed in her scent for all of two seconds until he felt her push back against him and sit right up, her head still turned away.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Her voice was still croaky but she was back in the game—no doubt about it. ‘Do Not Touch’ radiated off her in waves. Maybe she was one of those types that didn’t like to be comforted. Though, thinking back, he couldn’t say that he’d met any real resistance to his touch when she’d been naked in his bed. And he was back to that again. He really had to get a bit more perspective on this.

  He studied the line of her back. No matter how she dressed herself up, Tara Devine was an ambitious, driven woman who just happened to push his sexual buttons like a pinball machine. She was upfront about who she was and what she wanted. Fine. But what she wanted was taking her in a direction he’d already been. And he had no wish to go back there—ever. And every wish to make sure his family didn’t go there.

  It wasn’t a good world. It was shallow. It was dark. It brought out the worst in people. Had brought out the very worst in him. It wasn’t the first time he had realised that with his mother’s horrific death had come a very big silver lining in the form of a crushing sense of responsibility. It hadn’t seemed that way at the time. But in a way it had been his saviour. Because he knew that in his day he had been much, much wilder than Tara Devine had ever been.

  ‘You sure? Did it just go down the wrong way, or were you overcome with grief at finishing your martini? I can always get you another. You just need to ask. No big deal.’

  She turned a blotc
hy face and gave a little half-smile. ‘Thanks. All good. Maybe I’ll have another water.’

  ‘So. Backers. You need any help with that? Or you got it covered?’

  ‘Nah, I’m going to be fine. There are plenty more Dutch Ronnies out there.’ She settled herself back in her seat—at least she’d got whatever emotions had been rolling through her back under wraps.

  ‘Dutch Ronnies? Is that a type of condom?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Not one that I remember you using.’

  He had to admit that his use of condoms that night was nowhere near as maxed out as he would have liked it to be. In fact, had he known then what he knew now, he would have planned a much, much better night. One where she didn’t slip off and out of his grasp. One where he had the chance to bend her into the shapes he had spent a lot of time imagining since. Some of which had taken even him by surprise.

  What was he getting himself into here? It was time to get back on track.

  The waiter put down their water and they waited in silence until he left.

  ‘Do you think Angelica will be back tomorrow?’

  He had to admit that he was counting on it. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. I think so—but what you need to know about Angelica is that she manages to make everything fall into her lap. And she sometimes forgets that there are agendas other than hers. Not that she’s selfish. Far from it; in fact most of what she’s about is helping other people—finding what I call her “projects” and moving them on, like a little ambassadorial conveyor belt.’

  She looked directly at him with eyes that were earnest and blue as truth. ‘Does she see me as one of her projects?’

  He could only answer as honestly as she deserved. ‘Truthfully? I think so. But that’s no reflection on you and no statement about your independence or capacity. She gets attracted to people for all sorts of reasons, and she gets as much out of helping people as they get from her help.’