Bargaining with the Billionaire. Robyn Donald
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an acrobatic manoeuvre that left her breathless.
Cool, she commanded. Be very, very cool. Right now.
‘Quite a transformation.’ He bent to pick a bloom from the gardenia by the steps.
‘I assume that’s a compliment,’ she said in a muted voice, overwhelmed by the sight of him in a casual shirt the same grey-blue as his eyes, and sleek black trousers that hugged his hips and made the most of his long legs.
His blue eyes mocked her. ‘Of course.’ He tucked the gardenia into his top buttonhole and waited while she locked the door.
This time he was driving a Range Rover, a massive thing that combined power with restrained luxury. From his kennel, Laddie watched interestedly as Curt opened the passenger door and closed it behind her.
Already belted in by the time he got in behind the wheel, she linked her hands in her lap and thought, Cool! He was far too big, and in the confined space he loomed when he turned to examine her, a frown drawing his brows together.
Hiding her dilating eyes with a quick sweep of her lashes, she stared at the fine-grained olive skin of his throat and demanded, ‘What is it?’
A swift hand found the leather tie in her hair and pulled it smoothly down over her ponytail.
‘Hey!’ she spluttered. Her hair swirled free, settling in a thick topaz cloud across her shoulders; she looked down to see a wave of it sift over his wrist. The westering sun burnished it into a flame of gold and cognac. Her heart began to pound in her ears, a cynical little drum informing her that although her mind and her will might want one thing, her body had its own agenda.
He drawled, ‘That’s much more grown-up,’ and dropped the strip of leather into his pocket as he switched on the engine.
‘Agreeing to this doesn’t give you the right to manhandle me,’ she told him tautly.
He gave her a sardonic smile and backed the vehicle skilfully around. ‘I promised not to kiss you. Anything else goes. I’ll do whatever needs to be done to save my sister’s marriage. And in case you didn’t know, what you call manhandling is an indication of attraction.’
Peta opened her mouth to speak, then closed her lips again.
‘You were going to say?’ he enquired as the vehicle swung out onto the road—his road, she thought bitterly.
‘I was going to ask if her marriage was worth saving,’ she said.
‘That’s her decision.’ He turned his head to flash a brief, white smile at her. ‘So do your best tonight, Peta. No flinching girlishly if I touch you, plenty of smiles and lots of play with those astonishing eyelashes.’
* * *
Peta had been to several parties at the homestead before— not the A-list ones, of course, just the neighbourhood affairs. Walking beside a silent Curt through the gardens towards a rear terrace, she thought bleakly that he must love his sister very much to initiate this sham relationship. How had he convinced his lover to agree to it? The thought of Anna Lee, artist and snob, rubbed her already raw nerves painfully.
Curt looked at her. ‘Smile.’
She produced a wide, false grin. ‘Don’t expect me to gaze adoringly into your eyes. No one who knows me would believe it.’
‘Didn’t you gaze adoringly into the eyes of your previous lovers?’
‘No,’ she said, clipping the word short. There had been no previous lovers, but that was no business of his.
‘I expect you to follow my lead in everything I do,’ he said softly, and when her eyes flashed he went on with grim emphasis, ‘Or else.’
Actually, he played it perfectly. Inherent sophistication meant he didn’t make a show of his supposed interest; he staked his claim far more subtly with glances and smiles, the occasional touch of his hand on her waist or arm, and his possessive air. In an odd way it made her feel protected and safe, and that, she thought warily, was even more dangerous than the flash-fire of sexual hunger she felt whenever he touched her.
If it hadn’t been for Ian and Gillian she might have enjoyed the evening, but in their presence she felt as though she were teetering on the edge of a perilous cliff, exposed and vulnerable, waiting for someone to push her over.
Born a hostess, Gillian had done an excellent job with the gardens; from the terrace around the swimming pool parents could sip and watch their children swim, and those who felt energetic worked it off at the tennis courts behind high, vine-covered walls. Any who demanded less strenuous activity tried their hand at petanque.
The Mathesons were gracious, as charming as they had ever been, yet an hour later Peta looked around the lovely grounds, the laughing people, and wondered why no one else sensed the strain between their hosts.
‘You’re doing well,’ Curt said, bending as though he were murmuring sweet nothings in her ear.
Painfully aware of Ian’s swift glance, she froze.
Curt directed a narrow smile at her. He lifted his hand to her chin and commanded, ‘Another smile, Peta.’
The sensual force of his masculinity hit her like a shock wave. She met his half-closed, intent stare with eyes grown dark and her breath barely coming through her lips.
‘On second thoughts, that’s even better,’ he said after a pause, his voice suddenly rough.
You’re giving too much away, some distant, despairing remnant of prudence warned. It took a real effort to blink and turn her head.
Across a group of people she met Ian’s eyes again, and felt her heart twist at the flash of pain in them. But sorry though she was for him, he had no right to fall in love with her, she thought raggedly.
‘I hate this,’ she said.
His expression didn’t change. ‘Then you shouldn’t have got yourself into this situation,’ he said smoothly, and smiled at her, a slow, sexy movement of his hard, beautiful mouth.
Stifled by his closeness, she glanced up to see him watching the muscles move in her throat as she swallowed. Butterflies tumbled about inside her in dazed confusion; her lips parted and she had to wrench her gaze away.
‘Dinner’s ready, everyone,’ someone—Ian?—called above the heavy thudding of her heart.
‘We’d better go and help serve.’ Curt took her elbow and steered her towards the table by the pool.
Ordinarily the delectably savoury scents would have coaxed Peta into hunger, but her stomach clenched as she gazed at succulent meat from the spit, fish wrapped in leaves and baked in the coals, and salads that were pictures in green and gold and scarlet.
And Gillian shooed them away. ‘Ian and Mrs Harkness and I know what we’re doing,’ she said, her gaze skimming Peta as she directed a smile at her brother. ‘Get something to eat then sit down and enjoy yourselves.’
After filling her plate, Peta allowed Curt to guide her to a table under an immense jacaranda tree. Four other people were already there; they looked up, a little startled when Curt first pulled out a chair for Peta then sat down himself.
Acutely aware of their interest—tomorrow the whole district would be buzzing with gossip, Peta thought mordantly— she tried to appear serenely confident while Curt charmed everyone’s initial reserve into open laughter and eager conversation.
A lilac-blue flower drifted down to land on her plate.
‘Messy things, jacarandas,’ one of the men, the machinery guru on the station, said cheerfully. ‘If they’re not dripping flowers, it’s seedpods or leaves. Don’t know why anyone would plant them.’
He grinned unrepentantly at the outcry from the women. His wife accused him of not seeing beauty in anything other than a well-tuned engine, laughing when he admitted it without a jot of shame.