Billion-Dollar Baby Bargain / The Moretti Arrangement: Billion-Dollar Baby Bargain / The Moretti Arrangement. Katherine Garbera
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here to offer yourself?” he murmured huskily. “It’s supposed to be one of the delights of being the best man, hooking up with the maid of honor. What fun.”
Victoria found nothing amusing in his biting tone. “No.” She backed up but, before she could retreat, his arms came around her and he lowered his head.
“Don’t—” she managed, and then his mouth ground down on hers.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. Full of whiskey and force and anger, it was unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
Victoria struggled but his grip was tight, pinning her arms at her sides. He moved closer, his thighs thrusting against her softness, making it clear he was aroused.
God.
She fought herself free. “What the hell was that about?”
“I don’t like being manipulated.” He was breathing hard. “I don’t want a woman, understand?”
“You’re insane.” She resisted the urge to retort that he was fooling himself—he was desperate for a woman. For her.
“You’re saying you didn’t come out for exactly that? Conspiring with your friend, hoping to catch me on the rebound?”
“You are such a jerk.” She swung her back on him, determined to leave him out here alone.
He grabbed her and yanked her back. “Not nice.”
This time when his lips descended she knew what was coming—and tensed.
But it was different.
Soft, seductive. His tongue stroked the corners of her mouth until she parted her lips, granting him access. This time he kissed her with a dark desire that stirred wants that had never been woken. Dark, traitorous desires. And when his hands swept up over her arms, down her back, she edged closer, craving more—wishing he’d sweep her off to someplace private where they could spend hours together exploring naked skin and sweet sensations.
By the time he ended the kiss she was ready to do whatever he asked.
Connor North set her away from him with shaking hands. “Now, tell me that wasn’t what you wanted.”
She lifted a hand to her mouth, the fullness of her lips tingling. Damn Connor North. He must surely be aware of his effect on her. Sucking in a shuddering breath, she said, “Don’t try it again or I’ll slap you so hard it’ll leave marks on your face.”
He laughed. “Here—” he thrust a pristine, folded white handkerchief at her “—use this for that other dramatic gesture B-grade girls love. Wipe it across your mouth and make the necessary sounds of disgust.” His eyes glittered wildly in the half light.
Ignoring the shaky feeling inside, Victoria quirked one expressive, dark eyebrow. “Girls do that to you often?”
“No…but then the women I know don’t threaten to slap me, either.” His not-so-subtle emphasis of the word women caused color to flame in her face.
She balled the handkerchief in a fist, and he flinched as she raised it to his mouth.
“Stand still.” Her voice was tight. “Better I wipe my lipstick off your mouth.”
The curves of his mouth felt full and sensual under the fabric.
“There, I’m done.”
Connor stared down at the red stain on the white cloth and his lips twisted. “You should have left your mark on my mouth.”
He raised his head and Victoria felt the force of his reckless attraction hit her like a surge of current. “Why would I want to do that?” She injected scorn into her voice.
He shrugged carelessly. “It would have given all the gossips something to talk about other than my scurrilous split from Dana.”
“I don’t want to be linked to you.” Victoria was appalled at the idea. “So we’re going to go back to the table and smile like crazy—for Suzy and Michael’s sake. But after today I intend to take great pains to keep as far away from you as possible.”
“That won’t be necessary. You’re hardly my type…” he paused, then added tauntingly “…Elizabeth.”
Victoria spun away and stalked inside and quite spoilt the moment by failing to remind him that her name was Victoria.
Chapter Three
August, present day, two years later
Late on Monday afternoon, Connor walked out of the morgue in the small Northland town where the bodies had been taken and gulped in a lungful of crisp, fresh air. Michael. The face he’d known so well in life had been unrecognizable in death. And all the dazzling laughter had left Suzy forever. Connor craved the deep, cleansing peace of tears.
But grown men didn’t cry.
Nor did he have time to grieve. Picking up his pace, he jogged across the car park to where the Maserati waited.
But once inside, he sat motionless, staring blindly through the windshield.
He should call Victoria. The thought came from nowhere. He sighed. What the hell was the purpose? Except to upset her further.
Pulling out of the car park, he headed for the highway.
Not far from the exit to the town he saw again the sickening skid marks, and the white symbols the police had painted on the tarmac.
Driven by a nameless, senseless urge Connor pulled over and got out.
The grass verge was peppered with glass, and he stepped over the deep furrows Michael’s tires had gouged out of the turf. A light country breeze blew across his face and cars whizzed past. There was none of the sense that Michael’s spirit still lingered—as Connor realized he’d hoped for when he’d pulled over.
It’s not fair. They should be here! Victoria’s words rang in his ears.
Balling his fists against his eyes, he faced the fact that he would never again see the slight smile that changed Michael’s expression from intellectual to human. He would never again play squash against that killer competitive drive that few people knew Michael possessed.
A tidal wave of sorrow swept over him, and a moment later the aftershock of loneliness set in, paralyzing him.
Even after the fiasco with his ex-girlfriend and his business partner, he’d been able to act. He hadn’t even missed Dana—he’d kept himself too busy. Working like a fiend to get the Phoenix Corporation up. Going to the gym. Squash and beers with Michael. Dating a string of women who entertained but didn’t enthrall. While all the time Michael watched him with that quiet smile and offered advice that Connor hadn’t taken.
And now he’d never see Michael again.
Even fighting with Victoria had to be better than this miserable emptiness. Then he remembered her face as he’d last seen it yesterday. Devastated by the loss of Suzy. Again the compulsion to call Victoria nagged him.
Michael…
Hell.
He dropped his balled fists to his side, blinked rapidly and swallowed, furious at the hot tightness in his chest. Never was a long time. And right now it stretched before him endlessly.
He wasn’t accustomed to being powerless.
The only things left for him to do for Michael were so final—so futile. Arranging the funeral. Carrying the coffin. Executing his will. Ensuring that Dylan was protected.
A car swept by in a rush of air, the driver hooting, jerking him out of his trance of grief.
Dylan.
Connor raked both his hands through his wind-ruffled hair. Michael had loved Dylan; he loved Dylan, too.
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