The Marriage Risk. Emma Darcy
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a jaundiced eye, he looked where she was looking and was instantly jolted into electric attention. Lucy! Hanging onto the arm of a guy who could be cast as the romantic lead in a movie, and probably was!
He had a matinee idol face framed by a riot of black curls, a smile a dentist would be proud of, and he certainly didn’t mind drawing attention to what was obviously a gym-toned body, wearing a flashy waistcoat with an over-lustrous coloured tie which mocked the regular black bow-ties most of the other male guests, including himself, had automatically used.
A young trendy show-off, James was telling himself, just as Buffy heaved a sigh that undoubtedly set her opulent breasts aquiver for the approaching sex symbol to notice. His teeth grated together as he switched his attention to Lucy, who, he was suddenly pleased to see looked her normal self—hair neatly tucked up, glasses on, the same little black cocktail dress she invariably wore when called upon to attend an evening function.
Except there was something different about her—a jaunty self-satisfied sway to her hips—which struck him as decidedly un-prim. Her mouth, too, seemed to have a more sensual purse to her lips as she gazed up at the self-styled hot stuff, who was apparently amusing her with his playboy patter.
In fact, James began to feel that Lucy’s prim facade was more innately provocative than Buffy’s in-your-face femininity. It was certainly tantalising, posed next to the party guy who was parading her towards the group in which James and Buffy stood, waiting to be joined by these two last table companions.
Waiting, James thought irritably, able to dismiss his concern over Lucy’s absence now. No doubt it was the star act she had in tow who had kept them waiting. He struggled to adopt an affable manner for performing introductions, hoping Buffy would stop ogling and have the decency to remember who her escort was.
‘Ah!’ he drawled with a bright, welcoming smile. ‘Here you are! We’re about to go into the auditorium,’ he couldn’t resist adding to point out their lateness.
‘But there’s time for introductions,’ Buffy pressed eagerly, positively jiggling with eagerness.
‘Lucy…’ James invited, keeping his teeth clamped in a smile.
‘James Hancock, Josh Rogan,’ Lucy obliged with commendable economy.
James braced himself to return a macho handshake but apparently the younger man felt no need to prove himself stronger than Lucy’s employer. He simply radiated self-assurance, his dark eyes twinkling the kind of focused interest that made people feel at ease and pleased by the interest. James recognised the ploy. He used it himself. Josh Rogan was clearly an accomplished salesman.
‘A pleasure, having you with us,’ James rolled out, containing his curiosity while he did the honours. With a sweep of his hand encompassing the group around him, he went on, ‘I think you’re all acquainted with my punctilious secretary, Lucy Worthington.’ Although she had certainly not been punctilious tonight! ‘Josh, this is Buffy Tanner…’
Buffy leaned over as she took Josh Rogan’s hand, giving him an eyeful, but unlike most men who would find the view irresistible, Josh smiled into her face and repeated her name with a happy lilt that could have been applied to a Matilda or a Beatrice. If he was receiving Buffy’s signals, he had no intention of answering them.
The other three couples in their group were given the same treatment by Josh Rogan as he was introduced to them. James could find no fault in his manner. The response to him was instinctively positive, an attractive person putting out pleasant vibrations and getting them back.
‘What business are you in, Josh?’ Hank Gidley, the last one to be introduced, inquired with keen interest.
‘Fine wines. Import and export,’ came the answer that allowed James to slot him into place, though it wasn’t the place he’d first imagined. However, it did explain the polished savoire-faire displayed so far. Josh Rogan was used to dealing with customers who could afford to buy fine wines and he probably charmed them into buying whatever he wanted to sell.
‘Oh, I thought you’d be in modelling like me,’ Buffy gushed.
The dark eyes twinkled at her wickedly. ‘Like everyone else, I admire external beauty, Buffy, but I’m really into tasting superb content.’ And he swung his gaze to Lucy as though she provided the taste he most relished.
She grinned at him—grinned like a Cheshire cat who’d just been fed lashings of cream—and James felt his stomach clenching with outrage. Here he’d been worrying about her, while she had been revelling in being tasted by this wine buff, no doubt with much sensual appreciation. Which explained why her hips had been swaying with that smirk of satisfaction about them.
‘Time to go in to our table,’ he announced tersely, and wrapped Buffy’s arm around his to lead off their little procession.
Nothing was going to plan this evening.
Nothing!
And he didn’t like it one bit.
CHAPTER THREE
AS THEY followed James and Buffy into the auditorium, Lucy was still laughing inside at the way Josh had complimented her content. It was all she could do not to burst out in spluttering amusement. James had been positively tight-faced about Josh preferring her to his trophy woman, and Buffy Tanner’s jaw had literally dropped at being so cavalierly dismissed in favour of Lucy Worthington.
A double blow to ego, she thought sweetly, and it served them both right—James for calling her his punctilious secretary on what was supposedly her night off, and Buffy Tanner for thinking she could vamp Josh right under Lucy’s nose.
However, her amusement didn’t last long. As they trailed after the leading couple towards their designated table, Lucy had to concede Buffy looked absolutely stunning, even the back view of her which she was swishing in front of Josh right now. The white beaded evening dress she barely wore was cut almost to her free-flowing buttocks, leaving a lovely curve of naked spine on display, and her shining mane of black ringlets dangled to just below her shoulder-blades, tempting touch.
The gleaming expanse of naked skin was without blemish, and Lucy couldn’t really bring herself to believe there was any cellulite hidden under the clingy fabric that moved so enticingly with every step forward. It was all very well to feel smugly pleased that Buffy couldn’t hook Josh with her seductive padding, but she did have James securely at her side.
With so much femininity on display and available to him, why would James even bother to look at his commonplace secretary in a different light? It wasn’t really feasible, Lucy decided, although Josh had certainly delivered a surprise impact out there in the foyer. That, in itself, was some balm to her wounded pride.
She told herself to be content with it because miracles were not about to happen on her behalf tonight. Better to concentrate on enjoying herself with Josh than burn herself up, hankering after what was never going to be with James Hancock.
The auditorium seemed vast—a sea of tables for ten set around a dance-floor. Four hundred guests were pouring in, settling around the starched white table-cloths which added the required class to the gleaming cutlery and glasses and the centre-pieces of angel candles set in clusters of perfect camellias. Countless silver stars hung from the ceiling, a reminder that this ball was being held by the Starwish Foundation to raise funds for children with cancer.
James had organised the entertainment, free of charge, and a young, up-and-coming band was on stage, enthusiastically playing a jazzy number to get everyone in a party mood. Behind the musicians on an elevated platform was a gleaming red convertible, an Alpha Spider sports car which was to be raffled tonight, a prize to promote the idea that in every heart is a hope for something special to magically happen to them.
A wish come true was the theme of the charity ball, but Lucy couldn’t, in all honesty, believe her wish that James could suddenly find her desirable had any possibility of coming true. He might wonder how a man like Josh could find her attractive, but why would that niggle of curiosity alter what he felt—or