Hot Boss, Wicked Nights. Anne Oliver
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tingle danced down her spine, hot and cold at the same time, like a hot fudge sundae, touching every vertebra in turn with the shivery sensation. Someone was watching her; she could feel it. And it felt like one hundred per cent pure masculine interest.
She resisted an involuntary shudder as she cast her eyes over her shoulder.
Then she saw him, and understanding dawned bright and hot. The six-foot-something dream in jungle-green army-surplus pants, black T-shirt and scuffed boots looking at her. Tanned and unshaven with dark hair. Topaz eyes.
The reason for the tingle.
And the reason her heart was knocking against her ribs. The suddenly damp palms. He was the reason for a whole lot of deliciously wicked things happening to her body right now. Oh, yeah, she could do casual and her ego wouldn’t mind one bit if he was the one doing the stroking.
She turned slowly, her champagne flute all but forgotten in her hands as she eyed him back from behind the safety of her disguise. Did this guy work out or what? His T-shirt clung like a lover to his well-sculpted body, the sleeves stretched tight over hard muscle and olive skin. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of an adventure movie.
A glance lower suggested his legs were in as good a shape as the rest of him, but the baggy trousers kept the details a mystery. She looked up in time to see his gaze centred near her exposed navel. His frank appraisal as his eyes drifted to the gauzy folds of her skirt and the outline of her legs seared her skin with liquid heat, sending bubbles of lava-lust through her veins and leaving her gasping for air in the suddenly overheated room.
She’d never felt this reaction to a man’s attention before. Weak. Wanton. Willing. She was totally out of her depth. Not only did he look dangerous, she had no doubt he was because any moment now she’d melt at the base of those size twenty-something work-scuffed boots.
And those boots were making their way towards her.
She straightened to her full five feet four inches. Obviously he wasn’t into style, since he hadn’t bothered to conform to anything remotely resembling the expected neat casual dress code. Still, she was prepared to overlook that one small infraction since he more than made up for it in other ways.
Go for it. Sheri’s words chimed in her head. Casually single until you meet Mr Right.
By the time he’d reached her, she had her nerves under control. Almost. Until she found herself looking up—way up—into those eyes. At this distance she could see flecks of green in his gold irises and lines feathering from the corners that spoke of time in the outdoors or fatigue, or both. He smelled of sweat and heat and testosterone.
‘Can I get you something?’ he said, in a deep sexy rumble that matched the rest of him.
Something? Like excited? Her neglected libido sighed. He could get her anything he pleased. Anywhere, any time.
‘A drink,’ he clarified, nodding at her half-empty glass when she didn’t reply. ‘Looks like you could do with a refill.’
Uh oh, he was chatting her up and this was real life, not a daydream. Her bravado dipped, her fingers tightened on the glass. ‘Ah…I’m fine for the moment. Thank you.’
From the corner of her eye she saw a couple of the girls watching with interest. Waiting to see if she’d bolt, no doubt. So she forced herself to remain still.
His gaze dropped to her mouth—or where her mouth would be—and his brows lowered fractionally. She could see him pondering the etiquette of lifting her veil, and deflected his thoughts with a quick, ‘You look as if you’ve just flown halfway around the world.’
Her accusatory tone triggered a full-wattage smile from him, which in turn triggered another hike in her pulse rate.
‘In fact I’m just in from LA.’ The sinews in his forearm twisted as he checked his watch. ‘As of two hours ago.’
Okay, so that was the reason for the unkempt look. ‘Work or pleasure?’
‘Both.’ He cocked his head. ‘I assume you’re with the fancy-dress party-goers?’
She shrugged and smiled back. ‘A hen night.’
He leaned forward slightly so that his head was closer to hers. ‘Not yours, I hope.’
‘No.’ Her heart pounded once, hard. Through the gauze she could smell a hint of residual aftershave now—something spicy and expensive—at odds with his rugged appearance.
‘That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,’ he said, and one hard, callused hand wrapped around Kate’s—the one clutching her champagne flute. Electricity arced between their fingers, sending sparks shooting up her arm. Her eyes jerked to his and locked into his magnetic gaze. She felt the power in his fingers as he raised the glass. Felt his warm breath on her hand as he held the crystal tantalisingly close to his mouth. A slight movement on her part and she’d feel the scrape of his dark stubble against her skin.
Somewhere over her shoulder she heard a squeak of suppressed mirth. Her friends thought this was amusing? Well, she’d show them. She’d make something of tonight, with the man about to share her drink. This might be her last chance. A chance to show everyone, including herself, that she wasn’t over the hill yet.
And…if she hid Kate Fielding tonight, she could partake of some of that casual fun she’d been missing out on. Have her ego stroked. Ooh, yes. For a little while she could be whoever she wanted with him.
For him.
Damon Gillespie was suddenly very glad he’d arrived in Sydney three days early. He’d been about to have a drink at the bar, take a quick look at the premises he’d come to Sydney to see, then hit the sack before tackling the business side tomorrow, but he’d walked into a costume party.
And seen her.
She’d looked… Not lonely, but alone. Definitely alone. Like him. Maybe that was the reason she aroused more than simple lust in him. But what?
Shrugging off the oddly disquieting feeling, he pressed their joined fingers against the stem of the glass. Forgot about jet lag and sleep deprivation and concentrated on the purely physical. The sensation of her knuckles locked like grim death beneath his, the subtle Oriental scent wafting from her costume as his gaze roamed over her once more.
Business could wait.
With most of her face covered, he had only a misty temptation to go by. Glimpses of a straight nose and high cheekbones, generous lips.
Ample female flesh spilled out of her bra top, bells and beads twinkling beneath the lights even as she drew breath. Her skirt—twenty or so gauzy scarfs in saffron and gold—sat low on her hips, showcasing her tiny waist and a glorious expanse of flat belly and golden skin, not to mention the outline of a perfect pair of legs. What intrigued him most was the ruby stone where her navel should be. How the deuce did she keep it there? he wondered. Some pelvic muscular trick?
His body tightened and the familiar rush of adrenaline he experienced before a jump rushed through his veins. Back in Oz two hours and he’d found a living fantasy. It had been a long time. He’d been too busy expanding his latest project and chasing his hunger for extreme sports across the globe to indulge in female company.
He intended to rectify that. Tonight.
He lifted the glass—and her fingers—to his lips and searched her eyes for a response. Framed with heavy mascara and navy eyeliner, they looked huge, and an honest-to-goodness lust flickered in their midnight depths. Spanish eyes, he thought, and from the recesses of his memory flashed another pair of dark eyes. He willed it away, pressed his lips to the flute and swallowed.
He could taste her on the glass. Sweet with a hint of tart. But the champagne… He grimaced in distaste. ‘Champagne should be chilled.’ He pried her fingers from the glass, set iton a passing drinks waiter’s tray and swapped it for a fresh one. ‘Here you go.’
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