Taken for Revenge, Bedded for Pleasure. India Grey
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glanced up at the row of tall windows behind their elegant wrought-iron balconies on the first floor. Miles was still there, and as Olivier watched he glanced down. Olivier felt a small dart of triumph as he saw the expression of anger and disapproval on Miles Lawrence’s handsome face.
‘It was my pleasure,’ he said dryly.
‘He only does it because he cares, but unfortunately it’s a very thin line between being caring and being controlling—especially where my love-life is concerned. No one is ever going to be good enough for his little sister, of course…’
Loathing rose up in Olivier’s throat as she said that. Not good enough. Times had changed, the world had moved on, but it seemed that Miles Lawrence still held fast the same outdated, elitist principles of his forebears. The principles that had ruined Julien Moreau’s life.
‘Charming,’ he murmured sardonically. Bella jumped slightly as he trailed a caressing finger down her cheek, adding lightly, ‘Don’t look now, but he’s watching.’
Her eyes widened a little as understanding dawned. It was like dipping a brush of black ink into clear water, Olivier thought idly as the darkness of her pupils spread and deepened. Her head tilted back a little and her lips parted as slowly, deliberately, he bent his head and their lips met in the lightest butterfly touch.
He had her.
Lifting his hand to cup her face, he dipped his head again and closed his mouth over hers. His fingers slipped into the silk of her hair, and he felt her tongue dart between his open lips. He had her, and tasting Delacroix flesh was every bit as easy and as sweet as he’d anticipated.
Bella slid her hands inside his dinner jacket, placing her palms flat against his ribs where she could feel the steady rhythm of his heart. His body was warm, reassuringly solid, and the expensive, dry, masculine scent of him filled her head and blotted out the city smells of dust and diesel and night-scented stock from the square’s garden. She felt as if she was melting, and the violent trembling that had gripped her since she had run down the stairs after him eased, replaced by a delicious languor like honey in her veins.
The summer evening enfolded them as they stood alone in a halo of light from the windows, and the music of the band eddied around them. They were playing a mellow, dreamy song, and Bella felt her hips undulating lazily beneath Olivier’s warm hand.
Desire beat an indolent tattoo in her blood. She felt heavy with it, drenched and pulsing, as if there was an unhurried inevitability about it. The panic that she had felt before had completely disappeared. Suddenly she didn’t care what her family thought of her. What must Miles be saying now? That she was irresponsible…?
Olivier’s mouth moved to her cheek, the hollow beneath her ear, the curve of her neck.
Mmm…yes. Irresponsible, definitely…
She slid her hands over his shoulders, arching her back as his lips raised goosebumps up her arms.
Impulsive?
Oh, yes. There were impulses that she had barely dared to imagine raging through her like forked lightning, and she wanted nothing more than to give into each and every one of them.
Easily led…
‘Oh…’
She felt a sharp stab of dismay as Olivier lifted his head and pulled back from her a little. Her skin tingled and sang with the need to feel his lips against it again.
The expression on his face was impossible to read as he looked down at her, but his voice was wry and slightly mocking. ‘Do you think that showed him?’
For a moment Bella didn’t understand what he meant, and then disappointment and shame hit her as she remembered that this was just an act to annoy Miles. She gave a shaky laugh, desperate to make light of the terrifying and utterly genuine lust that rampaged through her.
‘Not sure…’ she said lightly. ‘Maybe sex on the back seat of your car…just to be completely certain he got the message that I’m a big girl now…?’
There was a part of her—a distant, dutiful part—that was completely horrified by what she’d just said but was helpless to intervene. The expensive therapist would have a fit, but Bella felt as if she had torn off a mask and was finally revealing herself. It felt good. She was tired of being invisible; she wanted to be noticed.
His mouth curved into a lazy, wicked smile that simultaneously dazzled her and made her squirm with painful, pulsing longing.
‘I’m sure my driver would enjoy that,’ he murmured.
She met his gaze and smiled challengingly. ‘I didn’t mean with him.’
For a moment neither of them moved. The laughter that had been bubbling inside her was obliterated by a tide of drenching urgency. From behind them, in the house, there was a ripple of applause as the band finished the song, and then silence.
His eyes were so dark it was impossible to see where the pupil ended and the iris began. The band started up again, in a persuasive flourish of strings. As if in a dream she stroked the flat of her hand down the silk lapel of his jacket, swaying slightly against him.
Unsmiling, Olivier held out his hand.
With slow deliberation Bella touched her palm to his. For a moment they stood there like that, while the music curled around them, and then Bella let her fingers close around his. His hand felt big in hers, strong and unbending, and as she moved towards him his other hand came up to her waist, bunching up the thin silk as it slid across her back. She held his shoulder, but despite the formality of their position she couldn’t help tilting her pelvis towards him, arching her back so her hipbones bumped against his.
And then they were dancing. His hooded eyes glittered down at her, but his face remained completely still.
He was guiding her steps gently, expertly, and the click of her heels echoed dully off the high buildings around them as they swayed against each other in the empty street. Above them the sky had darkened to a rich sapphire-blue, and the sounds of the city seemed very far away. There was just the music and the presence of this man, this stranger with his dark, hypnotic eyes and his aura of quiet, persuasive strength.
He had the stillest face she had ever seen, she thought hazily. His exceptional beauty concealed everything, like armour. She had a sudden fierce, searing need to get past it to the man beneath.
‘I have to go.’
His words cut crudely through her thoughts. He was pulling away from her, distancing himself, and she felt instantly desolate.
‘Why? Where are you going?’
‘I’m due at a reception at the Tate. I’ve donated a picture to their forthcoming exhibition, and it’s the private view tonight. I have to be there.’ He hesitated, looking at her measuringly. ‘But you could come with me, if you’d like to?’
‘I can’t. My grandmother—it’s her party and—’
She broke off. Miles had appeared in the doorway, his face a scowling mixture of irritation and concern. ‘Bella, come back inside at once,’ he said with barely concealed impatience, then gave a nervous half laugh. ‘That dress is completely inadequate for hanging about outside. You’ll catch your death of cold.’
Olivier’s eyes were on her. She could feel their dark, silent challenge. She looked from him to Miles, and was suddenly aware that her big brother, who had always seemed so omnipotent, so completely in control, was afraid. And then she looked back to where Olivier stood, strong and certain, and Genevieve’s words from that morning came back to her.
Don’t throw away your happiness to appease your family.
She would understand.
Hesitantly she walked forward towards Olivier, and took his hand, feeling his power give her strength. ‘I’d like to come with you—if I may?’ At his brief