The Tycoon's Trophy Mistress. Lee Wilkinson
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sexy than his pictures had led her to believe, and Carla had been quite wrong. His breath was fresh and sweet and the eyes that looked straight into hers were amazing—a brilliant silvery grey, their heavy lids fringed with dense, sooty lashes.
Her heart started to race and her breathing became shallow and impeded, while a quiver of pure hatred ran through her.
She was staring into those handsome eyes as though mesmerized when he reminded her politely, ‘Don’t forget to fasten your seat-belt, Miss Michaels.’
But her brain seemed to have slowed to a standstill and was unable to direct her fingers. When she had made a couple of fumbling, unsuccessful attempts, he leaned over and fastened it for her.
As the car slid smoothly away from the kerb, he felt a boyish urge to punch the air in triumph. After all these months of waiting, here she was at last, sitting beside him.
Close up, she was stunning. Her skin was flawless, a creamy gold, rather than pallid, as some natural redheads were. And those eyes! Daniel had been making bets with himself as to what colour her eyes would be. Probably blue, he’d decided. Blue he could happily live with, but that clear, dark green was absolutely breathtaking.
Not for the first time he found himself regretting what had happened. It could make getting anywhere with this gorgeous woman next door to impossible.
Though she was looking at him in a way that made him strongly suspect she already knew who he was, he decided to take the plunge and bring things into the open. ‘I guess I’d better introduce myself. I’m Daniel Wolfe.’
He held out his hand.
Like someone in a dream, Charlotte took it.
His palm was cool and dry, his handclasp firm, but she would sooner have touched a snake and she was already withdrawing her hand before he said politely, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Michaels.’
Stunned by this surprise encounter, she made no reply. Her brain seemed jarred, incapable of coming to grips with the situation. All she could think was that it was too soon. She wasn’t ready.
When she continued to sit as still and blank-faced as if she were having a passport photograph taken Daniel held his breath.
If she believed only a fraction of what the gutter press had printed she still had no reason to love him and, his usual confidence deserting him at times, he had wondered uneasily what her reaction would be when they finally came face to face.
Yet it was a hurdle he had to get over, and now the moment had arrived all he could do was wait for the recriminations.
But, apparently thrown by the unexpectedness of the meeting, she remained silent.
Letting his breath out slowly, he went on, ‘As we were travelling at the same time I thought we might as well share a car to the airport…’
Charlotte, who had been struggling to gather her wits, blurted out the first thing that came into her head. ‘I had no idea you were in London… That’s why I was so surprised when you introduced yourself.’
Registering that she had a lovely voice, low and slightly husky, he remarked, ‘I got the impression that you knew who I was before I introduced myself?’
‘Yes, I knew,’ she admitted.
‘But we’ve never actually met.’
‘No,’ she agreed.
‘I presume you’ve seen me at the office?’
‘No.’
‘Out and about, socially?’
Shaking her head, she pointed out, ‘We’re hardly likely to move in the same social circles.’
‘This beats I Spy.’
Momentarily failing to understand, she said, ‘I beg your pardon?’
Straight faced, he explained, ‘As a young child I used to get bored travelling in a car. My mother tried giving me books but looking down made me sick, so we always played I Spy With My Little Eye. I was just remarking that this particular guessing game beats it.’
Annoyed that he was making fun of her, she said crisply, ‘I’ve seen pictures of you in the papers.’
But pictures hadn’t had this impact. Pictures hadn’t prepared her for the man himself.
He sighed. ‘It was just getting exciting, and now you’ve gone and spoilt it.’
‘Well, we can always play I Spy.’
As soon as the words were spoken she wished them unsaid. She was supposed to be trying to charm him, not trying to cut him down to size.
She couldn’t afford to hurt his feelings. Like most men of his ilk he probably had a fragile ego and no sense of humour.
But a split second later he proved her wrong by bursting out laughing. He had a nice laugh, quiet and infectious, not the kind of hearty guffaw she so disliked.
A gleam in his eye, he said, ‘I’m forced to admit that these days I prefer more grown up games.’
‘I’m aware of that.’ She had had tragic proof of his liking for ‘grown up games’, and all at once she wanted to fly at him, to rake her nails down his handsome face until she drew blood.
Regretting the teasing remark that had prompted such an icy response, Daniel sat quite still, watching her intently, braced for the worst.
But, already ashamed of that primitive urge to violence, and reminding herself that if she was to succeed in her campaign he mustn’t know about her connection with Tim, Charlotte reined in her anger.
Making a great effort she added lightly, ‘In every picture there’s been a different woman on your arm, and the papers have frequently referred to you as a latter-day Lothario with a string of notches on your bedpost.’
‘At times their stories have bordered on the libellous. I’ve always deplored that kind of coverage.’
‘Then it wasn’t you who said, “No publicity is bad publicity”?’
Happy to respond to what seemed to be a change of mood, he answered with a grin, ‘What do you think?’
His smile showed the gleam of white, healthy teeth, formed deep creases each side of his mouth and filled his dark face with charm.
Very conscious of his sexual magnetism and hating him for it, Charlotte made an effort to smile back.
She found it easier than she had anticipated. It seemed she was a better actress than she had given herself credit for.
Rocked by that smile, he told her, ‘I’m afraid my present relationship with the press leaves a lot to be desired. After being asked at a recent press conference what I thought of modern journalism, I stated my belief that some journalists not only embroider the truth but fabricate what they don’t know. Since then they’ve been out for blood.’
‘Are they lies?’ The question was out before she could prevent it.
‘Very often they are,’ he said steadily. ‘Though I don’t pretend to live like a monk, most of their stories are just that. Stories. But, unfortunately, when dirt’s thrown some of it’s bound to stick.’
‘But surely you were once the press’s Golden Boy?’
‘I was until I proved to be uncooperative… Which I can never accuse you of being.’ Smoothly he changed the subject. ‘I hope agreeing to make this transfer so soon didn’t cause you too many problems?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘You’re not leaving behind anyone special? A boyfriend, perhaps?’
‘No.’
Only too pleased to have Sheering’s report confirmed, Daniel queried, ‘How did you manage with regard to your flat?’
‘The