The Jet-Set Seduction. Sandra Field
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“Tell your friend to vamoose. If he values living.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Stefan,” she said, her heartbeat competing with the drums. “It’s okay, I know Slade.”
“On, no, you don’t,” Slade said, standing so close to her he could see a tiny fleck of mascara on her lower eyelid. “If you knew me, we wouldn’t have had to indulge in this stupid charade.”
“You agreed to it.”
“You know what I want to do right now? Throw you over my shoulder, haul you out of this god-awful bar and carry you to the nearest bed.”
He looked entirely capable of doing so. She said faintly, “Bouncers don’t like it when you do things like that.”
“It’d make me feel a whole lot better.”
“I suggest we have a drink, instead.”
“Scared of me, Clea?”
“Of a six foot two, one hundred ninety pound, extremely angry male? Why would I be scared?”
“I like you,” he said.
She blinked. “Five seconds ago you looked as though you wanted to throttle me.”
“Five minutes ago you looked extremely disappointed when you thought I wasn’t here.”
“You exaggerate!”
“I don’t think so. Let’s dance, Clea.”
“Dance? With you? No way.”
“I’ve sat in this bar for three long nights,” he grated. “I’ve been propositioned, I’ve drunk inferior wine and I’ve been bored out of my skull. The least you can do is dance with me.”
He’d waited for her. He’d passed The Test. Now what was she supposed to do? “You asked for it,” she said recklessly.
The floor was crowded and the music raucous. Her eyes blazing with an emotion Slade couldn’t possibly have named, Clea raised her arms above her head and threw back her mane of hair as movement rippled down her body. Lust stabbed his loins, hot and imperative. Holding her gaze with his, he matched her, move for move, and deliberately refrained from laying as much as a finger on her.
He didn’t need to. Pagan as an ancient goddess, hips swaying, nipples thrusting against the thin silk of her camisole, Clea danced. Danced for him alone. Danced as though they were alone. Danced until he thought he might die of unfulfilled desire.
The music ended abruptly. Into the ringing silence, the barkeeper said, “Closing time, ladies and gentlemen.”
Clea bit her lip, her breasts heaving. “You did it again,” she whispered. “Made me forget who I am.”
Slade dropped his hands to her shoulders and kissed her full on the mouth. “Good,” he said. Dancing with her had also, for the space of four or five minutes, blanked out the fact that he was underground in a dark room.
Quite a woman, this Clea Chardin.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “I need some fresh air.”
So did he. Slade took her firmly by the hand and led the way up the narrow stairs.
Outside, under a star-spattered sky, Clea took a long, steadying breath, trying to forget how wantonly she’d swayed and writhed on the dance floor. “I’m hungry,” she said in faint surprise. “I forgot to eat dinner.”
He’d been gulping air obsessively, hoping his enormous relief at being in the open air wouldn’t show. But Clea said, puzzled, “What’s the matter? Are you all right?”
He spoke the literal truth. “I spent far too long cooped up in that bar—not sure I’ve got any eardrums left.” Tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow, he added, “Food—that’ll help.”
He set off at a killing pace along the brick sidewalk, which was lit by lamps atop curving iron posts. Distantly he could hear the soft shush of waves against the breakwater. A breeze rustled the tall cypresses, while palm fronds rattled and chattered edgily. Clea said breathlessly, “I said I was hungry, not starving. You could slow down.”
“Sorry,” he said, and moderated his pace. “How do you know Stefan?”
“I met him in Nice last year. He designs yachts for the very, very rich.”
“Have you slept with him?”
“No.”
“Do you own a yacht?”
She grinned. “I get seasick on a sheltered lagoon.”
“But if you didn’t, you could afford one of Stefan’s yachts.”
“My grandfather left me the bulk of his fortune. Payton Steel, have you heard of it?”
“Very, very rich,” Slade said, tucking the name away in his mind. So her parents must be dead: a loss contributing to what he was beginning to suspect was a deep, underlying loneliness. Or was he way out to lunch? “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
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