Sleeping Beauty's Billionaire. Caroline Cross
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herself gazing straight into the unsmiling face of Gavin O’Sullivan.
It wasn’t fair. Twelve years, and she looked exactly the same, Gavin thought grimly. Dainty. Delicate. A doe-eyed waif with flawless skin and the hint of a dimple in one soft cheek.
The only thing different was her hair. Gone was the ebony sheaf that had once fallen in a silken tumble to her waist. In its place was a cropped, tousled cap that somehow made her neck seem more fragile, her straight little nose finer, her densely lashed blue eyes even bigger.
Not that he gave a rip. His sole reason for seeking her out was to get this encounter over with. He’d come to celebrate Nick’s wedding, and he was damned if he was going to spend his time worrying about inadvertently bumping into her. Better by far to take the direct route, where he called the shots. Just to make sure that she or anyone else who might recall they’d once had a thing for each other would be absolutely clear he was long over her.
He summoned the polite, impersonal smile that was his stock-in-trade in social settings. “Hello, Colleen. It’s been a long time.”
For a second longer than was strictly polite her gaze remained riveted on his face. Then she seemed to catch herself and, as if recalling her manners, smiled and said, “Gavin. How nice to see you.”
He’d forgotten what an appealing voice she had. Soft, a little husky, with a warmth that wrapped gently around whomever she was addressing like a well-worn flannel blanket. Too bad it was merely part of her act.
“Does Nick know you’re here?” For an instant she sounded almost nervous, but then her voice evened out and he knew he must’ve imagined it. “Have you talked to him yet?”
What did she think? That he was still some ill-mannered inner-city kid who didn’t know how to behave at a fancy wedding? “Sure. I saw him when I went through the reception line.”
“Oh. He must be so pleased that you came.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that. I do know I’ve enjoyed seeing him again.”
“Of course.” Although her pleasant expression didn’t alter, a shadow darkened her eyes, and he knew she’d heard the slight but deliberate emphasis he’d put on him.
He felt a flick of satisfaction.
In the next instant he asked himself what in hell he was doing. It had been years since their breakup, damn it. And while being dumped by Colleen had been hard at the time, it was nothing compared to some of the other things he’d endured in his life. Losing a girlfriend just wasn’t in the same category as being raised, if it could be called that, by an alcoholic single mother in one of Boston’s toughest neighborhoods. Or getting himself not just through high school but also through college. Or even having to learn about art and culture later in life because such “civilized” things had taken a back seat to survival when he’d been younger.
What was more, the intervening years had been good to him. He’d transformed himself from a dirt-poor charity case to a rich, respected, successful hotelier whose extensive holdings provided jobs for hundreds of people.
And he certainly hadn’t lived like a monk while he’d done it. In the time since he and Colleen had parted ways, he’d dated his share of women. Most of them, at least lately, tended to be either up-and-coming actresses, members of what was left of European aristocracy or international supermodels.
So maybe he should try not to act like some petulant kid; maybe he could even see his way clear to give little Ms. Barone a break. After all, there was a chance, slight though it was, that he might not be where he was if she hadn’t chosen to stomp on his heart all those years ago.
“Dance with me,” he said abruptly as the band struck up a new song.
Her eyes widened and for a second something that looked almost like panic gleamed in their sapphire depths. “I beg your pardon?”
What the hell. So he wasn’t a saint; but what could it hurt if by acting like an adult he also gave her a taste of what she’d thrown away? He deliberately softened his voice. “Dance with me, Colleen. Please?”
She hesitated another instant, then her face smoothed out as she apparently decided he was now upwardly mobile enough to warrant her attention. “All right.” Flashing him a quick smile he might have deemed shyly beguiling had she been anyone else, she headed for the dance floor.
He fell in behind her. Refusing to debate the wisdom of what he was doing, he forced himself to concentrate on the slow but catchy beat of the love song the band was crooning—and not the supple line of her back. By the time they reached the outer circle of dancers, he was ready. Taking Colleen’s slender hand in his much bigger one, he slid his other palm to rest on the small of her back, pressed her close and led her into the dance.
Given the awkwardness of their reunion, the acrimony of their former parting and the disparity of their heights, their coming together should have been more than a little graceless.
Instead, from their first step they were perfectly matched, melting together in a rhythm that was as instinctive as breathing—or sex.
“Oh, my,” Colleen murmured.
“What?” Even to his own ears, he sounded a little terse, but then, the last thing he’d expected was the pleasure that was currently sizzling along his nerves.
“I’d just…forgotten.” She raised her chin and met his gaze, an unexpected and oddly self-effacing expression on her fine-boned face. “It’s been a long time since I danced. I’d forgotten how nice it is.”
Nice? That was the last word he’d use to describe the awareness tingling through him like ungrounded electricity. “Yeah. Right.”
She cocked her head. “When did you finally learn?”
“What?”
“To dance. As I recall, you didn’t…before.”
Now there was a diplomatic choice of words. For a second he was tempted to make her squirm, to politely inquire, “Do you mean before you discarded me like yesterday’s newspaper, with no more explanation than we didn’t suit and you didn’t want to see me anymore?”
But then he reminded himself of his decision not to be petty. Which was no doubt good since a second later the band launched into a complicated instrumental riff that sounded as if it might keep them together longer than he’d been counting on.
What wasn’t good was the discovery that he wanted in the worst way to look away from Colleen’s gaze so that he could bury his face in the delicate curve where her neck met her shoulder and drink her in, inhale her scent, taste her skin, savor the flavor of her on his tongue. Just like that, any sort of distraction, including conversation, seemed like a damn good idea. “I took lessons. Arthur Murray.”
“You’re kidding.” She couldn’t hide her amazement.
Annoyed and not sure why, except that it pissed him off royally to be lusting after a woman he didn’t like, he retorted, “I’m dead serious. Elliot insisted.”
“Elliot?”
Terrific. If ever there was a subject he didn’t care to discuss with her, this was it. “Elliot Sutherland,” he said repressively. Determined to distract her long enough to retake control of the conversation, not to mention his treacherous body, he executed a complicated series of steps.
She followed effortlessly, not missing a beat. “I apologize if I ought to recognize his name, but I don’t,” she said easily. “Is he a friend?”
“Yes.”
She continued to look at him, the picture of interest—and endless patience. Clearly, she wasn’t going to drop the subject.
“Elliot was my boss.” And the closest thing to a father I ever had. Not that she needed to know that. Or would care if she did. “He owned the Independence Hotel downtown and he gave me my first real job in the business.”