CHAPTER ONE

      SHE was to die for.

      Mark King couldn’t help but look at her. He darted glances from the dance-floor, noting the other men in the room, young and old alike, drawn to her like yuppies to Wall Street. They had no idea.

      Mark, however, knew she was dangerous. His heart pounded in his chest and his blood fired to the challenge. And she’d be a challenge—he raked her boldly with his eyes—every sexy inch of her.

      She stood as tall as the group of men who swarmed around her, dwarfing them in both stature and style. The light fell softly on her from the chandeliers of the hotel ballroom, setting off burgundy highlights in her dark hair—hair that was swept back to her nape, small wisps escaping to frame her ivory face.

      Pearl drops hung from her ears and a string of pearls fell low over the swell of her breasts. Mark closed his eyes and could almost imagine trailing his lips over her skin.

      He led his date closer to the stranger, moving slowly with the music, his eyes drawn to the long black gown that hugged the woman’s shape faithfully, and to the curves that made his hands itch with the need to touch. The split in her dress ran almost the entire length of her long legs—legs that captivated him with fantasies of what they’d feel like wrapped around him.

      Mark saw a bearded man close to her, intimately close, possessively close, almost touching his suit against her bare shoulders. His gut clenched tight. He dropped his gaze to her hands—not one ring on any of her fingers—and let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Who was she?

      ‘Mark!’ Sasha’s voice scraped on his fantasies. ‘If you don’t want to dance, just tell me. These are new shoes.’

      Mark looked down, dimly aware of his size ten and a halves on the tips of Sasha’s shiny red shoes. ‘Sorry.’ He moved back onto the floor, noticing the score had changed, as had the rhythm of the music. He willed himself to focus on something other than the sexy stranger.

      There was always more than enough work to fill his mind. Tracking down the next challenge, the delving and the searching for weaknesses in a company, the thrill involved in acquiring it, and the dissecting and selling off to make every dollar spent multiply for him.

      What sort of job would Miss Femme Fatale have? A model? A designer? Or maybe she survived as a professional heartbreaker, progressing from one relationship to the next, consuming both bank balance and heart? A fleeting urge to find a place for her in his company surged from his loins—he could see her occasionally, often, always…

      ‘Excuse me,’ said a silky voice. A perfectly manicured, unvarnished fingernail tapped Sasha’s shoulder.

      Mark looked directly into deep blue eyes that were unafraid to gaze right back at him. His breath caught in his throat. The sexual magnetism that made the stranger so confident radiated from her. Drew him in. Stoked a growing fire deep inside him.

      Mark couldn’t tear his eyes away. Her ivory face had a soft flush, as though an artist had carved her delicate features from marble then dabbed her cheeks with colour. Her dusky-rose lips were full and tempting, and her royal blue eyes danced over him in a way that sent bolts of desire coursing through his body. A small scar interrupted one finely arched eyebrow, suggesting she was indeed human after all and not some exquisite work of art.

      Sasha dropped Mark’s hand and swung around, her face set grimly to confront the interloper. ‘Yes?’

      ‘I’m cutting in.’ The stranger’s voice rang with command as she unhesitatingly took Mark’s hand and stepped into his arms. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

      Mark tried to hide his amazement.

      He