Italian Maverick's Collection. Кейт Хьюит
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able to bring himself to throw a damper on her enthusiasm. His agreement to the scheme had been taken as read, though there had been several times since when he’d wished he had objected, not least when an army of caterers, musicians and assorted staff who were required for the smooth running of such a social event invaded his home.
Still, it looked as if the hard work had paid off. The night seemed to be a roaring success.
Raoul could hear his wife’s throaty laugh from across the room. Her head was thrown back to reveal the lovely line of her swan-like throat, and the emeralds that had been dug out of the vault for the occasion lay glinting against the pearlescent skin of her breasts. That had been their first row tonight—the dress too revealing, too everything.
His thoughts slid back to when she had walked through from her dressing room carrying his mask in one hand, hers in the other.
The cut of the black dress had drawn a spontaneous low, feral groan from his throat; once he had started breathing again all he could think about was peeling it off.
‘You can’t wear that!’
In retrospect Raoul could see that he could have dealt with the situation better, but then hindsight was a marvellous thing.
The smile left her lovely face and her chin went up as she tossed his mask across. He lifted a hand automatically to catch it.
‘You want to dictate what I wear?’
Hell, there was the quiet voice, the one that generally preceded a redheaded meltdown. He felt an answering flare of temper aggravated by extreme sexual frustration.
‘Do you always have to get your own way?’ he countered, thinking of all the times he had let her have it. You’re in danger of turning into a lapdog, Raoul.
‘Have you ever heard of compromise? Or patience?’
‘I beg your pardon! And if I am a male, controlling jerk for wanting my wife not to wear something that could get her arrested—’
Her magnificent eyes flashed green fire up at him and her even more magnificent bosom swelled with wrath. ‘You think I look like a hooker?’
‘Do not put words in my mouth.’
‘It’s not my fault if some men have one-track minds!’
Raoul hooked a hand around her back and felt a deep responsive quiver run through her body as she dropped the hand-painted antique mask. ‘I’m not some men, I am your husband.’ The argument, the real cause, the hundreds of guests about to arrive burned away in seconds as the heat of primitive need consumed him.
‘Shall I help you out of it...?’
He took her throaty little whimper as a yes and started to slide the zipper of the scandalous dress down. The image in his head of it falling in a silken puddle at her feet vanished as she suddenly stiffened and pulled away and, with hands raised above her head, began to struggle frantically to pull the zipper back up.
‘You think all you have to do is get me in bed and I’ll agree to anything!’ she charged furiously.
Nerve-shredding frustration gnawed at him as he walked towards her. His control was perilously close to snapping. It must have been reflected on his face because Lara, matching his steps, backed away until her back was pressed into the canopy of their four-poster bed.
‘It’s getting you there, cara, that can be problematic.’
‘You arrogant—’ she gasped, her voice vanishing as they faced one another, panting, their mingled breaths crystallising into an electrical charge that vibrated in the air around them.
‘Lara, I’m—’
She was leaning into him, her luscious lips a breath away from his, when a loud tap on the door made her blink like someone waking.
‘Come in!’ she yelled, before adding a warning, ‘Hush!’ as Raoul swore.
‘Sorry to disturb you, but the caterers have a problem with the ice sculptures. They say they can’t work with—’
Raoul’s groan drowned out the rest of the woman’s words. He didn’t have a clue who she was but he’d seen her about the place the past week.
Lara shot him a cold glance. ‘Don’t worry, Sara, I’ll come and have a word, just give me a moment, would you?’ She waited until the door shut before she rounded on Raoul. ‘Do you have to be so rude?’
‘Me!’
‘Yes, you! Would it kill you to smile? You make her nervous.’
‘I don’t seem to make you nervous.’
‘You make me—!’ She gave a little gasp that drowned out whatever it was she was going to say.
He found his anger shifting, giving way to reluctant concern as he realised how fragile she was looking. Her make-up might hide the shadows underneath her incredible eyes but it didn’t disguise the sharpness of her delicately carved collarbones.
‘Have you ever heard of delegation?’
Her determination to be involved in every aspect of this charity ball meant that there had been times when he had made time to be with her, and, rather than appreciate the effort he was making, she’d stood him up, for a florist! Oh, and, how could he have forgotten? A bottled-water supplier!
He liked to think his ego was fairly resistant but rain check...?
It wasn’t that he felt neglected, it was not as though he expected her to be at his beck and call—the idea was laughable—but the dark shadows under her eyes were not. But as much as Raoul found the entire thing a pain, he couldn’t help but admire the way she’d thrown herself into it.
But then, that was Lara. She never did anything at less than full throttle, he brooded, floating a glance over her sleek, sexy outfit. His opinion that the outfit was not fit for public consumption did not stop his blood heating and his body hardening. He frowned, imagining that he wouldn’t be the only man she had this effect on tonight.
‘What are you going to do, serve the soup and conduct the orchestra?’
His disdain brought an angry flush to Lara’s cheeks. Not breaking eye contact, she lifted her chin to a determined angle. ‘I want everything to be perfect. Would it have been too much to expect a little support?’
She had no intention of admitting that there had been many times when she’d wished she’d never started it.
Even if the person she was doing it for wasn’t impressed... She blinked away the thought. This wasn’t about impressing anyone, this was about charity.
‘Why? What does it matter? People will get drunk and say things they regret the next morning. You’re not being judged. It’s all in your mind,’ he said, tapping his own head.
‘You just criticised the way I look.’ She took a step towards him and lifted her chin. ‘I’d call that judging, caro.’
She curled her fingers around the ornate handle of her mask and held it up. It covered the upper half of her face, leaving her lush, crimson-painted lips and rounded chin visible while through the slits her eyes sparkled like the green gems around her neck.
‘I may not be able to make a baby but I can damned well organise a party!’ Her defiance melted away as her words hung there in the air between them.
She was acting as though she’d just made some great reveal. But Lara was not telling Raoul anything he didn’t already know. The timing had said it all. She had picked up the masked-ball baton and hit the ground running a day after their last big fight about IVF.
With a sigh, Lara dropped her hand. What good was there in hiding behind a mask when she’d just volunteered all her insecurities? Thanks to her big mouth. It would take more than some papier mâché to hide them now.
The siren had vanished, her face stripped bare