Taken for Revenge: Bedded for Revenge / Bought by a Billionaire / The Bejewelled Bride. Lee Wilkinson
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then, and he ran one long olive finger around the rim of his wine glass.
‘What are you doing these days?’ he questioned.
Sorcha blinked at him suspiciously, like a person emerging from the darkness into light. ‘You want to hear about my life?’ she asked warily.
He smiled up at the waitress who was heaping smoked salmon onto his plate and shrugged. ‘We have two choices, Sorcha,’ he said softly. ‘We can talk about the past and our unfulfilled sexual history, which might make us a little…how is it that you say…? Ah, yes. Hot under the collar.’ His gaze drifted to her bare neck. ‘Not that you’re wearing a collar, of course,’ he murmured. ‘And it would be a pity to taint that magnificent chest with unsightly blotches, don’t you think?’
Sorcha lifted her hands to her cheeks as they began to burn. ‘Stop it,’ she begged, and cursed the debilitating effect of desire which had turned her voice into a whisper.
‘You see? It’s happening already. And it’s all your fault for being so damned sexy,’ he chided, but he realised he had made himself a victim of his own teasing, and that his erection was pushing hard against his thigh. He shifted uncomfortably. Only this time the brakes were off. She wasn’t eighteen any more, but a woman—and he was no longer morally obliged to handle her with kid gloves.
‘The alternative is that we make polite conversation like every other guest in the room. Safer by far, don’t you think?’
Sorcha swallowed as she felt the blood-rush slowly drain from her face. Safer? Today he looked about as safe as a killer shark! Had she been blind to his almost tangible sex appeal before—or just naïve enough to think that he would protect her from it?
And he had, hadn’t he? He had treated her like a piece of delicate porcelain.
Sorcha bit her lip—because what was the point in remembering that? She didn’t want to feel soft and warm about him—not when his eyes were gleaming dark and intimidating fire at her. But she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, was she? All she had to do was get through this ordeal without showing any further sign of weakness, then it would be over and Cesare would be gone—and with him all the bittersweet memories he evoked.
She watched the bubbles in her champagne glass fizzing their way to the surface. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Where are you living these days?’
‘I’m…’ She hesitated. At home made her sound as if she were five years old. ‘Living at the house.’
‘Really? Isn’t that a little—’ he shrugged his shoulders ‘—repressive?’
Now, why did she feel stung into defence? ‘It’s an enormous house—and anyway, I’ve only just moved back. I’ve been living and working in London. I’ve bought a flat up there, actually—but I’m renting it out at the moment.’
‘Really?’ he mocked, and his mouth hardened. ‘And what about your career?’
There was something in his tone which she didn’t like or recognise. Almost as if he were going through the mechanics of asking her questions to which he already knew the answers. Or was she just being paranoid, crediting him with powers he didn’t have simply because his attempts at ‘conversation’ sounded like an interrogation?
But she was proud of her work—and why shouldn’t he damned well know it? ‘I got a job straight after university for one of the best firms in the city and I worked for them until recently. They offered me promotion to stay, but I…’ What was it about his manner which made her reluctant to tell him? ‘I decided to work for the family firm instead. So here I am.’
He raised his dark brows. ‘Ah! That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’ Sorcha frowned. ‘I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘You don’t? Forgive me, cara—I should have said nothing.’ He lifted the palms of his hands upwards in an apologetic gesture, although his face didn’t look in the least bit apologetic.
‘No,’ said Sorcha coldly. ‘You can’t dangle a carrot like that and then snatch it away.’
‘I can do any damned thing I please,’ he retorted. ‘But I will take pity on you.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders, enjoying seeing the convulsive little swallow in her long throat at his deliberate use of the word pity. ‘It’s just that rumours in the business world…well, you know what they can be like.’
‘I never listen to rumours,’ she said fiercely. ‘Whittakers has had a few problems, it’s true—but we’re undergoing an upturn and things are looking good!’
‘Good?’ Cesare smiled, but it was a hard smile edged with scorn. ‘What a hopeless little liar you are,’ he said softly. ‘Whittakers is going down the pan fast—and if you don’t know that then you aren’t fit to be employed by them.’
If she had been anywhere else but sitting at the top table at her sister’s wedding, wearing enough aquamarine silk-satin to curtain the entire staterooms of a large cruise-liner, then Sorcha would have stood up and left the table. But apart from the obvious logistics of rapid movement in such a voluminous garment—she had a duty to fulfil. She knew that, and he knew it, too.
‘Every company goes through a rough patch from time to time,’ she defended.
‘Some do. It’s just that Whittakers seems to be enjoying a permanent rough patch,’ he drawled.
And suddenly Sorcha wondered why on earth she was tolerating this egotistical man giving her the benefit of his opinion. She hadn’t asked for it, and she didn’t particularly want it.
She glanced across the room as if he hadn’t spoken, to where the brunette was sitting with an untouched plate of food and an empty wine glass, staring at him like a hungry dog.
Sorcha gave him a cool smile. ‘Did you really come here today to discuss the fortunes of Whittakers?’ she questioned lightly. ‘I’m sure you could find more interesting things to do than snipe on about profit and loss!’
He followed the direction of her gaze and smiled. ‘I’m sure I could,’ he murmured. ‘But I’m not looking for a one-night-stand—at least not tonight, and not with her. I’m going to enjoy getting to know my new colleagues instead.’
There was triumph gleaming from his black eyes, and the smile of pure elation which curved his mouth sent Sorcha’s pulse skittering. But this time it was not desire which was making her feel almost dizzy, but fear—a nebulous, unformed fear which was solidifying by the minute.
‘Colleagues? What colleagues?’
He savoured the moment, knowing that in years to come he’d remember this as the moment when his obsession with her had finally lifted.
‘You and I are going to be working together,’ he murmured.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Rupert has brought me into the company as trouble-shooter.’
The chatter of the guests receded and then came roaring back again, so loud that Sorcha wanted to clamp her hands over her ears and stare at Cesare in disbelief.
‘I don’t believe you. He wouldn’t do that.’ Her shocked words sounded as though she was speaking under water.
He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘Because…because…’ Because he knows the history between us. But that was the trouble. Rupert didn’t. No one did. Not really. They had kept it pretty much hidden, and afterwards she certainly hadn’t confided that there had been a proposal of marriage. She suspected that they would have looked at her as if she was crazy to turn a man like Cesare down.
So she had locked it away, thinking that the less said, the sooner it would be mended. And in theory