Summer Sins: Bedded, or Wedded? / Willingly Bedded, Forcibly Wedded / The Mediterranean Billionaire's Blackmail Bargain. Julia James
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was the tall, lean body, the tanned, planed face with its thin blade of a nose, the high cheekbones, perfectly contoured jaw-line, sculpted mouth. And the eyes. Dark, shadowed, with etched eyebrows that just for a moment gave the set of his face a saturnine expression.
Her stomach flipped again, and she could feel a sudden pulse at her throat. She tried to subdue it. She’d seen handsome men before. Why make such a fuss over this one?
The answer came to her. Because she’d never seen a man like this before, that’s why.
The pulse beat at her throat again.
Annoyed with herself now, she made to pull her eyes away. What on earth did it matter that she’d never seen a man as devastating as that before? He was a punter, that was all. And, as a punter, the only interest anyone working here in the casino would have in him was in parting him from as much money as they could.
Even as the thought formed in her mind she saw the casino manager gliding forward. His eyes must be glinting, Lissa thought, at the prospect of such a fat fish arriving in his net. Through lowered lashes she watched the byplay of the manager fawning on the new arrival. Then, with a swift, searching glance around the bar, he beckoned for a hostess. The best in the house. Lissa was not surprised. Tanya was a voluptuous Slavic blonde, and she sashayed towards the newcomer, bestowing a sultry smile on him. The new arrival glanced at her, eyes narrowing very slightly.
Then Lissa’s attention was diverted. A hand came down on her bare arm.
‘I feel like dancing,’ one of the two men at her table announced.
Hiding her reluctance, Lissa smiled as if delighted, and got to her feet. Just beyond the bar was a small dance area where the music was coming from. She was grateful it was upbeat and fast, requiring little more than jerky gyration. But two minutes later the music segued into a slow number, and her escort slid his hands around her waist. She tried not to flinch, though she hated close dancing with punters.
Then, abruptly, there was someone else there.
Xavier let the blonde hang on his sleeve, but he took no notice of her. His attention was entirely focussed on his mark.
Lissa Stephens.
In the flesh. And no different from the photo in the dossier. Blonde hair, backcombed and sprayed for volume, far too much make-up, and a figure moulded tightly in a cheap satin dress. For a moment a stab of black rage speared him that such a blatantly tarty female could embroil his idiotic brother. What the hell did Armand see in her?
‘I adore dancing,’ the hostess at his side gushed breathily.
Xavier could hear her accent—Polish, Russian, something in that region. Presumably she’d come to London in the hope of a better life than she would have at home. He felt a flicker of compunction. For so many of the former Eastern Bloc life was tough, and he couldn’t blame such women for trying to improve their economic circumstances, even if in distasteful ways such as being a casino hostess, or worse. Then his eyes hardened again. That allowance might be made for immigrants, but could it extend to someone like Lissa Stephens? She’d grown up with the advantages of a free education, free health care and, if necessary, free housing. So what need was there for her to work in a place like this—unless she chose to? And what did it say about a woman who wanted a job like this?
Time to move in on Lissa Stephens and take her measure close up.
He walked to where she was dancing in a clinch.
‘My dance,’ he said.
The man swivelled his head belligerently. Xavier dealt with him first.
‘Trade?’ he invited.
The man looked past his shoulder at the blonde Slavic beauty hovering, who clearly outshone his existing dance partner. Instantly his belligerence vanished.
‘Deal,’ he said, his voice only slightly slurred. He dropped his current partner and pasted a big smile on his face at the woman at Xavier’s side, sweeping her off into a dance. Judging by her peeved expression, the girl hadn’t wanted the trade—but Xavier couldn’t care less. He turned his attention to his target.
In the dim, flashing light she looked no different close up, except for her slight air of being taken aback.
‘Shall we?’ he said, and not waiting for an answer took her into his arms.
She stiffened like a board.
Surprise flickered in him—it was an out-of-place reaction for her to make. Instinctively, he eased back a little, drawing some distance between them.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Something moved in her eyes, then it was gone. A smile stretched her mouth.
‘Hi—I’m Lissa,’ she said, her voice husky, ignoring his comment.
The smile widened. Or did it strain, rather, as if it were an effort? Xavier dismissed the momentary speculation. His hands rested on her waist, and through the cheap satin he could feel the curve of her body. His eyes surveyed her face.
There was no hardness in her expression now. Instead there was only blankness. Close up, her make-up was atrocious. Layered on over her skin, cracking already around her nostrils, her eyes caked in shadow and her lashes in thick mascara. And as for her mouth—
Her crimson lipstick was like jam, sticky and thick.
Revulsion shimmered through him. No woman of his acquaintance—and his acquaintance with women was extensive—would ever have done what this girl had done to her face! The women in his world, Madeline and her friends, were all chic, elegant, and their make-up was immaculate. They were from a different species than the woman he was dancing with. Disdain edged his eyes.
Then, catching himself, he concealed it. It would not serve his purpose to let it show. Deliberately making himself relax, he looked down into her face.
‘So, Lissa—do you think you’ll bring me good luck at the tables?’
He smiled encouragingly. Again, just for a moment, she seemed to stiffen in his arms. Then it was gone.
‘I’m sure you’ll be lucky,’ she said. Once more the smile seemed to stretch right across her mouth.
‘Fine by me,’ Xavier answered. ‘Let’s go.’
He dropped his hands from her, and just for a second she seemed to sway slightly. He ignored it, and started to usher her from the dance floor, effortlessly guiding her forward, across the bar area and into the gaming rooms. He could just about feel the manager’s eyes on him, greedily eyeing him up. A cynical twist pulled at his mouth. Well, he would oblige the proprietors of this third-rate establishment and lose sufficient money to be sure of a welcome return.
Should one be necessary, of course.
Although he very much doubted it would be. His eyes narrowed, focussing on the over-laquered hair bouncing on Lissa Stephens’s bared shoulders, on her derriere, swaying as she walked in front of him on her high heels. Already, his worst assumptions were being confirmed. Lissa Stephens looked to be exactly what he had feared she was—a woman he could never permit his brother to marry.
Lissa all but collapsed on a high-perched chair at the blackjack table. What on earth was going on? Her heart was slugging in her breast, and with her dress as tight as it was that was a bad idea. Her stomach was churning and she was breathless to boot. Desperately she tried to get her head together—and failed completely. All she could do was cling to the chair and try and keep going.
But it was hard—horribly hard.
Two realities had just slammed into each other, and the result was carnage. She could cope with one reality, but not both. The sordid reality of having to work in this place, looking so tarty, having to smile at complete strangers and coax them to buy extortionately priced bad champagne, was only bearable so long as she could mentally dismiss each and every punter that she had to ‘be nice’ to. She couldn’t, absolutely couldn’t, let any of them get to