CHAPTER ONE

      LOOK UP.

      He commanded her to feel his gaze on her skin, to glance over and meet his eye. To make a connection with him. He’d been watching her for hours, biding his time until he could have her complete, undivided attention. Since the moment he’d first seen her striding round the room, her tablet computer and Bluetooth headset at odds with her black silk evening dress and staggeringly sexy heels, he’d been transfixed.

      The curve of her calves, the gleam of her skin and the fluid movement of her hair had caught his attention, but it was her fierce concentration that had held it. The way she’d managed the room and everyone in it with a gentle nudge here and a subtle pull there. With a glance at her watch and a whisper in the ear of a member of staff she’d averted disasters, negotiated tricky situations and ensured that every person she spoke to ended their conversation with a beaming grin. No doubt the charity the gala was fundraising for would make a fortune.

      Under normal circumstances, the thought of a to-do list and a watch filled his belly with apprehension, an unwelcome reminder of school days that had tormented him at the time, and still threatened the occasional nightmare more than ten years later. But worn as an accessory by a woman who seemed so effortlessly powerful, it was suddenly incredibly sexy.

      He’d waited for the perfect moment all night—watching groups where she was conversing, catching her eye across the room; at one point, he’d even headed towards her with a determined stride—only for her to abruptly change course and disappear into the kitchen. And now she was putting her head together with one of the other guests, consulting her tablet, tucking a curtain of shining hair behind her ear.

      She laughed, and the sound reached him as clear as if the room had been silent. Her face creased, her head dropped back, and humour radiated from her like a wave. He wanted to make her laugh. He was unreasonably jealous of the person who had inspired the sound, a man with pure silver hair and a walking stick.

      The string band had started playing in a corner of the ballroom, and a few couples were heading towards the dance floor. His eyes flickered towards them, and he wondered whether she’d accept an invitation to dance.

      In the moment that his eyes left her, he felt her look at him.

      He whipped around to try and catch her gaze, but her eyes had already dropped to her tablet, as she scrolled up and down. She glanced at him again, and this time he caught it. He turned, his hands in his pockets, and his body relaxed under her stare, turning his stance into something languid and louche.

      He walked towards her, smiling, still refusing to look away. He would hold this contact until he could get his hands on something more solid.

      Just a couple of steps away from her, he was hit with unaccustomed nerves. It had been an age since he’d felt nervous talking to a woman. Things were pretty easy-come-easy-go in his love-life, much to the satisfaction of everyone involved. Nerves were thin on the ground when the most you were looking to gain or lose was a few nights or weeks of fun. The prospect of commitment, of expectations, of being caught in a situation with no simple way out—only the fix of her eyes on his kept a shiver from his spine.

      ‘Hi, I’m Rachel Archer.’ The words arrived in a rush as soon as he was within arm’s reach and she stuck out her hand for him to shake.

      ‘Leo.’ He just managed the one word, though it felt as if all breath had left his body at the feel of her hand in his. He observed her closely, looking for any clue that she was as affected by this meeting as he. But she had dropped her eyes, pulling her hand back—was that a fraction of a hesitation?—and glancing down at her tablet.

      ‘So, are you enjoying crashing the party?’ She gave a throaty chuckle with the words, and he absorbed the sound, revelling in the delicious heat it inspired in his body. He was so focused on that sound that he almost missed the meaning of her words.

      ‘Crashing?’ he asked with a raised eyebrow and a smile. ‘Says who?’

      ‘Says me.’ No laugh this time, though a perfectly polite smile was still on her lips. He wanted a real one. ‘Tonight is strictly invitation only, though if you are here to contribute generously to the Julia House hospice, I’m sure we can make an exception.’

      He returned his hands to his pockets; it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he was there in place of his father, who was unwell and couldn’t attend. Normally, ‘representing the family’ wasn’t something he was interested in, but his father had promised the organisers that the family would be there with a generous donation—for a good cause he had been known to make an exception. He was intrigued, though. How did she know he was crashing—had she been asking questions about him?

      ‘I want to know more about why you think I’m crashing.’

      ‘Well...’ she said, pulling up another page on her tablet. ‘I planned the guest list. I sent the invitations, checked the RSVPs and wrote the table plan. There wasn’t a single Leo to be seen.’ Her eyes left her screen, and she looked him up and down, her eyes travelling from his face to his shoes, faltering slightly at his belt and chest. Encouraging.

      ‘Ah, so I must be crashing. I take it your lists are never wrong?’

      ‘Never,’ she agreed with a good-tempered nod, and just the merest hint of another chuckle.

      ‘Then I suppose I’ve got some making