The Billionaire's Contract Bride. Carol Marinelli
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the door, Tabitha made her way along the thickly carpeted corridor, her heart beating loudly, her pulse rapid and out of time with the music pounding below.
The dark, shadowy figure making its way towards her was so broad, so tall, it could only belong to one person.
A couple more steps and his face came into focus, his eyes glittering and dark, a curious look of triumph on his face.
‘Looking for this?’ He held up her bag, the splash of feminine colour an enticing contrast against such a masculine backdrop. ‘I was back down at the party and I saw it lying under the table.’
‘Thank you.’ She accepted the bag but didn’t turn back, unable to tear her eyes away from his penetrating gaze.
‘Fancy a nightcap?’
Even as Tabitha nodded her acceptance she knew he didn’t intend to take her back down to the bar, and for that moment at least she wouldn’t have had it any other way.
His room was amazingly tidy. A few heavy bottles and brushes adorned the dresser, and a half-drunk glass of whisky was on the coffee table. Tabitha noticed the ice-cubes undissolved; he hadn’t gone straight back down to the wedding after he’d left her.
His eyes followed hers to the glass; his steady voice answered the unasked question.
‘I was trying to figure out a legitimate excuse to see you again tonight. Contrary to the lecture I’ll be delivering to Aiden in the morning, sometimes the answer does come in a bottle.’ He looked at her bemused expression. ‘I was sitting here thinking about you, wondering if I could risk ringing you, then it dawned on me you didn’t have your bag…’
‘Why did you need an excuse? I mean, why did you want to see me again? Haven’t you quite finished lecturing me?’
‘Lectures over.’
Could this be happening to her? Had Zavier Chambers sat nursing his whisky filled with the same trembling desire that had overcome her as she lay on the sofa? Surely it wasn’t possible? ‘So why did you come looking for me?’
‘Isn’t that obvious?’
She had stared at the glass long enough. Dragging her eyes up to his, she was shocked and strangely excited to see the same blatant desire emanating from them that had turned her to liquid on the dance floor. ‘I thought you hated me.’
He shook his head slowly, deliberately. ‘It’s a rather more basic feeling you evoke in me at the moment.’
How could this be happening to her? How could someone as charismatic and overtly sexual as Zavier possibly be interested in her, possibly want her? He could have any woman he wanted. He held her gaze, pinning her with his eyes. Everything about tonight seemed surreal, as if she were caught up in some strange erotic dream.
‘Come here.’ His voice was low, his request direct.
Tabitha knew that she should have left right there and then—picked up her bag, thanked him for his help and got the hell out of there.
But she didn’t.
Tentatively she stepped towards him, drawn by an overwhelming longing that transcended all else.
She was completely out of her depth, overcome with desire. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined acting so boldly, yet Zavier imbued in her a feeling of wantonness—desires so basic, feelings so overwhelming that for now she couldn’t even begin to deal with the consequences, couldn’t contemplate anything other than what was happening right here and now. One look into his dark brooding eyes and a whole lifetime of scruples needed rewriting.
‘Dance.’
Mesmerised, she nodded, her hand reaching out for him, desperate to feel him again, to revisit the magic they had created on the dance floor. But Zavier had other ideas. Almost imperceptibly he shook his head.
‘No. Dance for me.’
His eyes left hers for the briefest impatient moment, his fingers working a remote control and the room filling with the low sensual throb of bass, the straining tears of a violin. And though it moved her, though the music fuelled her, it didn’t even come close to the rush of desire that flooded her as his gaze returned.
‘I can’t.’ Her tongue flicked over dry lips. ‘I can’t,’ she said again when he didn’t answer. ‘You’ll laugh at me.’
Again he shook his head. ‘I’m not laughing, Tabitha; I want to see you dance. Dance for me like you do when you’re alone.’
He knew! Like a child caught singing into a hairbrush, she felt the sting of embarrassment. It was as if he had an open ticket to her mind, her dreams—as if he had seen her pushing back the coffee table at home, pulling the curtains and dancing as she would have if only her ambitions had been fulfilled.
It was the most ridiculous of requests, one that under absolutely any other circumstance would have been laughable. But there was no mirth in his voice, not even a note of challenge, just the thick throb of lust and a million fantasies that needed to be fulfilled, imbuing her with the confidence of a woman who could fulfil them, the empowering realisation that though it was Zavier calling the shots it was she, Tabitha, fulfilling them.
The straps on her sandals were fiddly, her hair falling forward as her shaking hands worked the tiny buckles. She was incredulous that she was even contemplating obliging him, but as the music filled the room it overtook her awkwardness, the throbbing sensual rhythm fuelling her. Slowly she slid her toes up the long length of her calf, the wraparound dress falling apart to reveal taut flexed muscles. Instinctively tightening her stomach, she felt the imaginary string that pulled dancers taller snap taut. She let the music take over, washing over her body as, like liquid silk, she moved to the beat, swaying, turning, dancing the most private of dances for the most captive of audiences. And when the music slowed, when, breathless, her body glimmering, she dared to look at him, the blaze of desire emanating from his expressive eyes took the last of her breath away.
‘Come here.’
It was the second time he had beckoned her, the second time he had summoned her, and Tabitha knew the interlude was over—knew this time when she went to him exactly how the scene would end.
Tabitha had never been promiscuous; to date her relationships had always been taken seriously. She wasn’t a woman who could be bought with meals and flowers, her heart wasn’t something to be given away lightly, but as she crossed the room, as she took that tentative step off the cliff-edge and into areas unknown, her mind was whirring, her love-life passing before her eyes in those fateful final moments before passion completely took over.
With blinding realisation she knew why she was doing this—or, more importantly, why she wanted to do this. Meals, flowers—they all made her feel wanted, feminine, sexy. Zavier Chambers had done in a few hours what most men took months to achieve. He had made her feel completely a woman.
He stood absolutely still as she crossed the room, drawing her towards him with an animal magnetism, but as she drew nearer his arms shot up, pulling her close, dragging her from her cliff-edge as if one split second was too long to be apart.
The weight of his lips on hers was explosive, hungry. She almost cried out at the impact of him against her, her lips parting as he probed her with his tongue. She could taste the lingering traces of whisky, the sharp scent of his maleness filling her senses.
His hair was thick and silken under her fingers, his thighs hard and solid as he pulled her nearer, and she could feel his arousal, urgent and solid. Pulling at her hairclips, he threw them almost angrily to the floor, his fingers spilling her Titian curls, coaxing them around her face. Pushing her head back, he let his lips explore her neck, scratching the soft skin with his chin as his sensual mouth located the flickering pulse there.
He pulled away. ‘Are you sure?’
His voice was thick, rasping, and the question was thoughtful. But she was beyond any rationale. The whys and wherefores would have to wait; for