The Party Starts at Midnight

by Lucy King

  But just when he was about to make a move from the stool, the door opened and a woman walked in and Antonio’s head blanked of any intention except to stay where he was.

  He wasn’t sure what it was about her that arrested him so powerfully. Maybe it was that she immediately stood out with her paler than pale colouring, made even more noticeable against the stark black of her dress. Maybe it was her long, slim, shapely bare legs and the classic black high heels. Whatever it was, Antonio couldn’t move, his eyes tracking her graceful movements with a precision that had come from years of practice tracking targets that were far more lethal.

  She came to the middle of the bar and waited patiently for the bartender to attend her. She had vibrant bright red hair, caught up in a high bun, showing off her delicate neck. A heavy blunt fringe was swept a little to one side; her eyes looked blue, but dark. Her dress was all at once discreet and sexy. It was silk and draped her from neck to mid-thigh, cinched in at the waist.

  She had slender arms and delicate wrists. Short functional nails painted with clear polish. A black clutch bag. Diamond stud earrings and no other jewellery. Antonio realised that she wasn’t as tall as he’d imagined—he’d guess about five foot four without the heels. Petite.

  Instantly that awareness of her inherent feminine fragility caused a slow burn in his groin, sending blood to his penis, thickening and hardening the shaft of flesh. Antonio had to move slightly to accommodate his body, mildly frustrated that he was being so easily stimulated when he’d felt dead inside at the other woman’s far more obvious charms.

  From what he could tell under the loose-fitting silk of the dress, this woman’s breasts were small. Maybe small enough not to wear a bra. Just then she moved slightly and Antonio realised that there was a slash in the front panel of her dress from the neck to just under her breasts, so discreet you mightn’t notice, but he did. He also noticed a tantalising curve of one pale breast, pert and firm.

  Desire engulfed him, swift and debilitating, as he imagined sliding a hand into that gap of material and cupping her breast, feeling the scrape of her hard nipple against his palm.

  * * *

  Orla Kennedy stood at the bar and tried not to let the prickle of self-consciousness make her run back out the original Lalique-panelled door of the seriously intimidating dark and decadent 1920s bar. She reminded herself stoutly that she was here for Dutch courage and to gain precious inside knowledge ahead of her meeting, so she couldn’t give up just because she felt as if every single pair of eyes was on her, singling her out as a sad woman drinking alone. Or worse, she realised when she saw a man and woman obviously flirting at the other end of the bar, that she was here to pick up a man!

  Orla glanced furtively around her, picking out some more couples at the intimate tables and a group of city boys in suits sitting at a table along the wall near the back of the bar. She breathed a sigh of relief that no one seemed to be laughing and pointing at her and decided to sit on a stool at the bar, noting that she could take in what was happening through the antique mirror on the opposite wall.

  The handsome bartender put her drink in front of her with a wink and Orla thanked him, signing it to her room. She took a sip but still felt that slightly uncomfortable prickling sensation, as if someone was watching her.

  Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to book a room at the Chatsfield Hotel ahead of her meeting with them tomorrow. She’d thought, in a light-bulb moment of inspiration, that it would serve her to get a measure of the people who seemed to be intent on taking over her own family’s ailing hotel business. Not that she needed to stay at the hotel to know of its well-documented luxuriousness and exclusivity.

  However, its reputation had taken a dent in recent times, thanks to the scandalous exploits of the Chatsfield heirs and heiresses. Orla’s soft mouth firmed to think of how they seemed determined to acquire chains in distress. Namely, the Kennedy Group, started up and owned by her father. He’d begun in Ireland in the sixties with a small hotel in the west of Ireland and through sheer grit and determination had built up an empire—helped along by the famed boom years. By then Patrick Kennedy had moved operations to England with his wife and young daughter, Orla.

  Unfortunately the economic downturn hadn’t been kind to them and a series of hotel closures had severely diminished their overall worth, making them vulnerable to takeover bids. They were nowhere near the league of the Chatsfield empire, but Orla could see how they would be an attractive prospect to add to the Chatsfield portfolio, as they weren’t too far removed with their good reputation and discreetly exclusive clientele. Which was why she was here now, trying to get a feel for their adversary. And, she realised with a sinking feeling, all it was doing was driving home just how intimidating a task she was facing.

  The feeling of being watched was so intense at that moment that Orla looked to her left and the breath left her mouth in a gasp when she saw a man deep in the shadows, at the corner of the bar, watching her intently. He didn’t look away. And, to her rising mortification, neither could she.

  It was the shock of colliding with that dark unsettling gaze, of not noticing him before now, that held her enthralled. She wondered how she could have missed him. He commanded the space around him. He was dark and broad. Short thick hair. Dramatic masculine features. Almost harsh. An unsmiling grim mouth, but full lips, his top one slightly fuller, and suddenly Orla was fixated on his mouth, and wondering what it would feel like to have those unsmiling lips touch hers.

  The realistion of what she was doing—staring at a complete stranger’s mouth and wondering what it would be like to kiss him—hit Orla squarely in the chest and she almost fell off the stool she was so embarrassed. Cheeks flaming, she swung her guilty gaze back to her drink and then knew she couldn’t stay there spotlit under the bar’s lights, dim as they were.

  Aghast that the man might have misconstrued her look, she gathered up her bag and the drink and moved to one of the tables against the wall which was covered in dark opulent velvet. She chose to sit at the wall, on the banquette seat, and breathed a sigh of relief to be slightly more hidden, cursing herself that she hadn’t had the sense to just come in and choose a seat and let her order be taken.

  She noticed her heart was thumping harder than usual, a queer fluttering low in her abdomen, and looked over to where the man was again, confident that he wouldn’t see her now. But she could see him and he was still looking at her. Orla’s pulse raced. She’d never experienced this before. It felt earthy, wicked, sexy.

  Against the silk of her dress, her bare breasts peaked, making tremors of awareness shoot up and down her body. She’d only realised when she’d unpacked that she hadn’t brought the bra she had to wear with this dress. And she’d had to wear the dress as she didn’t want to look too conspicuous in the bar in the trouser suit she’d brought for the meeting tomorrow.

  She’d figured that the loose material would hide the fact that she was braless as she was lucky enough, or unlucky enough, that her breasts were on the small side. But now, she felt as if she might as well be naked and was acutely aware of the gap in the material which usually showed only a discreet glimpse of the bra but which would now show skin if someone looked hard enough. Like the man. He’d been looking hard enough. Instant heat moistened between Orla’s legs and she squirmed.

  She resolutely diverted her gaze from the man and looked down, hunching her shoulders slightly for fear of giving anyone else the slightest bit of encouragement.

  On top of all of the awareness coursing through her body which she couldn’t seem to dampen down was the disbelief that she had even attracted the gaze of such a man. From what she’d seen he looked like the type who would go for the far more busty lady who was now practically sitting in her partner’s lap. Any minute now they would leave and Orla felt a twinge of something like envy for a second before squashing it with disgust.

  OK, so it had
been a while since she’d had sex. More than a year to be precise. And it had been a good while before that, if ever, that she’d had any kind of sex to write home about. And maybe she had never had a relationship that lasted longer than a few weeks. But the men she met didn’t seem so enamoured when they found out that her passion for her family business came first.

  Orla had contented herself that her career was her bedfellow. And up till right now it had been perfectly satisfactory. If a little lonely and frustrating when she saw amorous couples come into her hotel for romantic weekends and then leave a couple of days later looking sated and dreamy-eyed. So why was she thinking of this all of a sudden and feeling hot and unsatisfied inside?

  Because of a stranger’s blatantly interested gaze. God. What was wrong with her? He was probably the type of guy to hook up with anything with a—

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  Orla’s head snapped up so fast she heard a bone crack in her neck. For a second it was as if someone had just hit her. Everything receded and then rushed back. The man was standing there. In a dark suit and white open-necked shirt. He was astonishingly gorgeous up close, and he was enormous. All over. Ridiculously tall...six foot three? Six foot four?

  Orla was so stunned that she couldn’t speak. He clearly took that as encouragement and sat down opposite her, in the velvet upholstered bar chair. She could only gape at him. His sheer nerve. The fact that he was right there in front of her.

  He put his drink on the small table and that seemed to jolt Orla back to some kind of reality. She looked to the left and right and then hissed in his direction, ‘I did not say you could sit down.’

  Her heart was beating so fast she was breathless. Giddy with a rush of something that felt disturbingly like excitement. Disgusted at herself for this rampant reaction, she went to stand up but the man just said urgently in a deep and mesmerising voice, ‘Please don’t leave.’

  His voice tugged at her nerve endings, making them tingle. Orla stopped and looked at him. She felt breathless all over again. He really was huge. Broad and powerful. Even more arrestingly masculine up close, his features defined and stamped with virility. And then she realised his accent wasn’t foreign. She frowned. ‘You’re from here?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You just...’ Orla went hot in the dim light when she realised she was giving away the fact that she’d thought about him for more than a fleeting moment. ‘You look foreign.’

  His mouth tipped up on one side, drawing Orla’s eyes to it.

  ‘I’m half Italian, half English.’

  ‘Oh...’

  ‘And you?’

  Almost slightly stupefied, Orla answered, ‘Irish...born there but brought up here.’

  ‘That would explain your red hair.’

  Orla looked into his eyes and wondered what colour they were. They appeared black in this light and she shivered slightly, suddenly aware of a hardness to this man she’d not noticed before. A latent sense of danger.

  And then she remembered where she was and stiffened again. ‘Would you please leave? I did not ask you to join me.’

  There was a taut silence between them and he didn’t move. Huffing, Orla made to move again. ‘Fine, well, if you can’t have the courtesy to move, then I will.’

  But his hand snaked out and wrapped around her wrist and Orla felt as if a lightning bolt of heat went straight to her groin.

  ‘Please...you’ll be doing me a huge favour if you can just pretend that we know each other for a minute.’

  Orla looked at him. Speechless and not just because of his hand on her wrist that felt hot and big. She pulled free and held her arm to her chest in an unconsciously defensive gesture. She narrowed her eyes on him. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘See that woman at the bar?’

  Orla glanced over to where he had inclined his head slightly and saw the woman who had been wrapped around the other man like a vine. He was gone and she was alone again.

  ‘Yes, I see her,’ Orla supplied somewhat reluctantly.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid that I was going to be next on her hit list.’

  Orla looked at the man and her eyes widened. He had a look on his face that was downright...pathetic. Big eyes, all innocence. Orla felt a very scary falling sensation inside her chest. He was flirting with her. Outrageously. Her nipples tightened into hard tight buds and Orla crossed her arms for fear they’d stand out like beacons against the thin silk of her dress. She put on her most severe expression. The one that usually had staff scurrying in all directions.

  ‘And you’re trying to make me believe that you’re not strong enough to stand up to a little bitty woman?’

  He lifted a brow and that elevated his face from gorgeous to downright sexy. ‘Not working, no?’

  Orla shook her head and couldn’t stop her own mouth twitching ever so slightly. She saw movement behind the man and observed dryly, ‘I think you’re safe now—her current victim looks like he was just on a toilet break.’

  The man didn’t look behind him, but Orla realised when he looked up that he could see through the reflection of the venetian glass over the banquette seat as it was tilted slightly down towards the seating area. He looked back at her and smiled. ‘There goes my cunning ruse to have an excuse to talk to you.’

  Butterflies exploded in Orla’s belly. She could insist on getting up to go, but right now she was curiously loath to. This man was a smooth charmer, but he also had an intriguing rough edge too, and there was no doubt about it, but something deeply feminine within her felt like it was blossoming in the heat of his regard. Coming back to life.

  As if sensing her weakening, he said, ‘Can I buy you a drink for disturbing your peace?’

  Orla hesitated. She had the funny sense that her peace was about to be disturbed in a very profound way. And that if she pushed for him to leave again he’d go. There was something innately proud about him.

  But what harm was a drink? Feeling sensitised and more alive than she could remember feeling in a long time—if ever—she uncrossed her arms and shrugged minutely and took a mental step over a line. ‘Sure, why not?’

  As if like magic, to prevent her changing her mind, an immaculately clad waiter appeared to take their orders. The man didn’t take his eyes off Orla and the waiter left. She was feeling breathless again, all hot and liquid inside.

  A very feminine dampness was growing between her legs and she crossed them in a moment of self-consciousness. His eye immediately went to one pale thigh and Orla cursed her choice of dress. She put her hands on her leg and he looked back up, a smile making his mouth quirk again as if he knew exactly how awkward she felt.

  He sat back. ‘So...tell me, you’re here on business?’

  Orla nodded. She really didn’t want to get into anything that reminded her of the reality she faced. The inevitable takeover of her family business. So she said, ‘I’m in sales...’

  Which was pretty much true. Along with marketing, management, PR, entertainment, travel, diplomacy...

  The man grimaced and said, ‘I’m in acquisitions. It’s a grind, isn’t it?’

  Orla regarded him suspiciously. This man looked no more like a banal businessman caught up in the daily grind than Santa Claus in full flight with all the reindeer. But she sensed intoxicatingly as if they’d both tacitly agreed to pretend to be something, someone, else.

  She was about to respond when something unpalatable occurred to her. She glanced at his left hand and didn’t see a ring, but that didn’t mean anything. ‘Are you married?’

  He shook his head and the faintly sick expression that passed over his features assured her even more than when he said, ‘No...’

  Then he frowned. ‘Are you?’

  Orla shook her head quickly and repressed a shudder. No way was she ever g
etting married so that some man could come and take half of the business she’d worked so hard to build up with her father. She’d seen the detrimental effects a marriage had on a business. ‘No,’ she said quickly, emphatically.

  ‘Well, as we’ve established that we’re both free and single...where were we?’

  Orla repressed a shiver of awareness, of pure physical longing, and the feeling that she wasn’t in control of what was happening at all. She forced her mind to operate. ‘We were in sales and acquisitions, I believe.’ And why did that suddenly sound so...suggestive?

  ‘Ah, yes...’

  The waiter returned then with their drinks. Whisky for both of them.

  The man lifted his glass and tipped it towards her. ‘To chance encounters.’

  Orla lifted her glass too, and said, ‘To very forward men with pathetic chat-up lines.’

  He smiled. And so did she. They took a drink and Orla relished the smooth feel of the liquid running down her throat. Warming her up. She felt unbearably sensual all of a sudden. Languorous.

  ‘Perhaps we should exchange names?’

  Orla’s chest tightened. Names were real. They would root this in reality and she suddenly didn’t want that.

  Far more lightly than she felt, she said, ‘I think introductions are overrated. We’ll most likely never meet again. What’s the point?’

  His eyes glinted in the dim light. A tiny smile tipped up one corner of his mouth. ‘We don’t have to divulge real names if you don’t want to. But I would like to call you...something.’

  Orla went hot again. So that he could call her something in the throes of passion? The wicked thought made her pulse spasm between her legs.

  He held out a hand then, a mischievous look in his eye. ‘I’m Marco.’

  Orla put her hand in his and for a second her mind blanked when his big one enclosed hers completely. When she felt the calluses on his skin.

  ‘I’m...Kate.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Kate...?’

  Orla smiled at his obvious query as to her second name and pulled her hand free. ‘Just Kate.’