Summer Sins: Bedded, or Wedded? / Willingly Bedded, Forcibly Wedded / The Mediterranean Billionaire's Blackmail Bargain. Julia James
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eyes narrowed as he turned off the water and stepped out, reaching for a towel to pat himself swiftly dry.
What game was Lissa Stephens playing?
Was she playing one at all?
Another question seared over the first.
Was it one she played, or didn’t play, with all men?
Or only him?
With an impatient rasp he tossed the towel back on the vanity unit and stared at his reflection.
He knew his own attraction. Women were easy to attract—he had, after all, a potent combination they liked. His looks, his wealth, his position in society. Lissa Stephens might not be aware of the third, but she was certainly aware of the first two. Was that why she was giving her time to him? His eyes hardened suddenly. What if he only possessed the second of those attributes—wealth? Would she be here now, adorning herself downstairs, if he were not a wealthy man?
And was that the main attraction his brother held for her?
He needed to get her measure. It was essential. Imperative.
Then, like a punch to his stomach, he realised he already had it. Why would a woman having an affair with Armand be here, tonight, with another man—unless Armand meant nothing to her? Certainly not enough to stop her having dinner with another man.
But was dinner with another man crime enough in itself? Another thought spiked through his mind. What had she said when she was going ballistic at him in that damn rain? Something about getting fired if she didn’t take the private hire for the evening? Was that why she’d agreed to his invitation to dinner? To keep her job?
Hell—he turned away from the mirror. He still couldn’t get a steer on the girl. Every time he tried to nail her down, apply all the rational powers of his mind to her, the evidence slithered away from him again. With another muttered imprecation he strode through into the bedroom and started to get dressed.
His mood was not good. Damn Armand. Damn Lissa Stephens. Damn having to go through this rigmarole of finding out whether the girl was or wasn’t fit to marry his brother.
And damn most of all, he thought, tight-lipped, as he finished knotting a silk tie at his throat and slipping on his suit jacket, the fact that right now the thought that was uppermost in his mind was just what Lissa Stephens would look like with a decent outfit on.
He slid his wallet and key into the inner pocket of his jacket, punched the lights, and set off to find out.
All thoughts of Armand seemed suddenly very far away, but right now he didn’t care. Right now there was room for only one person in his thoughts. A girl he couldn’t make out.
But whose measure it was essential he got—whatever it took.
CHAPTER FIVE
LISSA SAT, perched on the edge of a leather tub chair, her pulse too rapid, her breathing too shallow. Nervously, she tried to ease the tight material across her knees, but there was no give in it the way she was sitting, legs slanted sideways. Her spine was very straight. Across the scoop of her dress at the back she could feel the fall of her hair grazing lightly as she moved her head to keep the entrance to the cocktail lounge in view. She didn’t look around, because if she did she knew she would catch the eyes of other men present, looking at her. They’d looked at her as she’d walked in, minutes ago, her nervous state making her hyper-aware of their glances. The glances, too, of other women present, checking her out, assessing her.
She knew what they were seeing—another woman like them, looking the way a woman should in a swanky place like this, with its soft lights and softer music emanating from the grand piano in one corner, and the retro-style bar winding sinuously along one wall, staffed by an abundance of barmen.
She’d never been in a place like this before. Before, in her earlier existence, when she’d dressed up to go out it had always been to places that were within her budget, or those of the men taking her out. None of them would have stretched to a swish five-star hotel like this. Here, the clientele was predominantly male, all wearing business suits, or the occasional less-formal-but-still-expensive-looking casual wear.
A waiter came up to her, attentively asking her what she would like to drink.
‘Oh, mineral water. Sparkling, please. Um, thank you,’ she got out. Silently, she hoped Xavier Lauran was intending to show up. She didn’t like to think what even mineral water cost in a place like this. More than she’d want to pay, certainly. The waiter returned almost instantly, but there was nothing so unsubtle as a tab accompanying the bottle and glass, with its sliver of lemon and chunks of ice, and the little bowl of expensive dry nuts set down on the small round table in front of her.
Nervously, she took a sip of the water poured out for her, then set the glass down again, still staring at the entrance. Twenty minutes was up—she’d rushed to make it on time. Rushed through the process of accepting the first dress that the woman in the boutique had proferred, and shoes and stockings to go with it, then being directed to the lavish Ladies’ Cloakroom where there was ample room not just to change, but to do her make-up and style her rain-wet hair courtesy of the hairdyer the attendant had provided for her.
She took another sip of water and contemplated whether to start on the nuts. But she didn’t want to get her fingers salty.
Her nerves jangled. She didn’t let herself think. Didn’t let herself think about what she was doing. Too late to change her mind now. And besides, she couldn’t. The heavy truth of it was unavoidable. Being here, tonight, was the way she was going to keep the job she didn’t want, but needed to keep.
And she wanted the memory, too. Just the memory. Of an evening spent with the most debonair man she had ever met—an evening far removed from the responsibilities of her everyday life. A daydream that just this one night was a reality.
And, oh, the reality.
He was walking into the lounge. She saw him instantly.
Her stomach hollowed. Faintness drummed in her ears. He was walking towards her, coming closer.
His eyes had gone to her. Seeing her as instantly as she had seen him. And in those eyes was something that simply sent her reeling.
It was a punch to his guts. He could feel it impacting. Like a fist. Blasting right through him.
He went on walking towards her, but he had absolutely no awareness of his surroundings. His entire focus was on the woman he was walking to. The woman who was blasting a hole right through him.
She looked—breathtaking. Stunning. Incredible.
Every last gram of speculation he’d entertained about just what she might look like when she had the right clothes, the right make-up and hairstyle, was confirmed. In spades.
His rapid expert gaze took in the whole package at a single glance. Hair—sleek, long, blow-dried back off her face. Face—every pure, perfect line set off by make-up that was simply another universe away from the garish layers she used at the casino. Now, subtle shadows accentuated the luminosity of her eyes, contoured her cheekbones, and then, finally, a rich sheen of lipstick perfectly delineated the delicate but sensuous curve of her mouth.
As for the dress—he gave a silent salute to the boutique saleswoman. Or was it Lissa Stephens herself who’d chosen that simple, but superbly cut coffee-coloured sleeveless silk shift that went so perfectly with her fair colouring? He didn’t know, didn’t care. Knew only that at last he was seeing Lissa Stephens as he had wanted to see her from the moment he had got out of the car the night before to offer her a lift home after purposely preventing her from catching her bus.
Why had he done that? Stopped her getting her bus so he could offer her a lift? He’d had a good reason, but right now he didn’t recall exactly why. There wasn’t room inside his head for that. For anything. Anything at all except to close in, the way he was doing, on the woman sitting there as he walked up to her. He stopped dead in front of her, looking down.