Mistress: At What Price?. Anne Oliver
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suit. As her gaze moved on, she realised several of the well-suited men were eyeing her up. And not-so-little Johnny What’s-his-name was headed her way. Great. Just what she didn’t need.
She knew she attracted men. With her face on the cover of Europe’s top magazines, and becoming a familiar face in Australia, it was inevitable. But tonight she could have done without the attention. Especially tonight, since she’d just sworn off men for life. Another sigh slipped past her lips as she automatically checked her lipstick in the mirror, straightened her shoulders and turned, smile back in place.
Well, surprise, surprise. Daniel Huntington the Third, who refused to answer to anything but Dane, leaned a shoulder against the doorway and watched Mariel Davenport hold court, her little flock of male admirers clustered around her, apparently hanging on every word that spilled from those luscious coral lips.
She was the last person he’d expected to see here this evening. Nor had he anticipated the quick punch to his solar plexus as he cast a critical eye over the breezy black halterneck number, with its plummeting neckline and incy-wincy skirt. He was pretty sure if he stood close enough and let his eyes skim casually down he’d see her navel.
Not that he intended to stand that close. With his six-foot-three advantage he could see her well enough from here. He thought he might just be able to smell the perfume she used to wear—that hint of black roses and sweet sin seemed to waft across the few feet between them. Alluring, seductive. It suited her, from the tips of her raven-black hair, piled on top of her head, to the soles of her perfectly pedicured feet and shiny stiletto sandals.
He couldn’t see her feet, of course, or those milelong legs that had her topping out at nearly six foot, but he knew her well enough. First class all the way.
She hadn’t noticed him yet, but he lifted his beer in mock salute, then poured a fortifying mouthful of the cool bitter brew down his suddenly dry throat.
Was she with someone? he wondered. Her French lover? Odd how his fingernails bit into his palms at the thought. He’d been fine about that little detail until a moment ago.
Until he’d seen her again in all that glorious flesh.
But, no, she must have come alone—because if she’d had a partner Dane was pretty sure the man would be attached to her side like some fashion accessory.
He flexed the fingers of his free hand, flicked them against his thigh, and watched her flash that cover-winning smile at her fans. The one thing Mariel loved was attention, be it personal or the camera. And from what he’d heard about her career over the past years, and seen in the latest beauty magazine that her sister had touted, the camera loved Mariel.
Fashion designer turned photographic model.
He considered speaking to her, but he wasn’t about to become one of her fawning admirers. Good grief, a couple of those guys had been exploring Play Dough and finger paint when she’d been experimenting with make-up and mobile phones. Did they not realise? He expelled a harsh breath through his nostrils. He could wait.
‘Ah, here’s our very own newly announced Babe magazine’s Bachelor of the Year.’ Justin Talbot materialised beside him. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to, my friend.’
‘Looks like you found me.’ Dane glanced his way, mentally shaking his head at the snazzy dove-grey waistcoat, matching tie and wing-tip collar Justin’s new wife had obviously picked out. Dane didn’t believe in conforming to dress code unless it was for a funeral.
‘You’ve done us proud,’ said Justin, clapping a hand on Dane’s shoulder.
‘Easy for you to say.’ Dane scowled, his gaze unerringly finding Mariel again. ‘You dobbed me in.’
As if he needed more women hounding him. Since he’d won the title he’d grown very weary of the relentless parade of would-be starlets clamouring for his attention.
‘Think of it as doing your bit for charity,’ Justin said.
‘There are better ways to raise funds,’ Dane muttered. ‘And the press is having a field-day.’
‘What did you expect? Millionaire businessman, founder of OzRemote and eligible bachelor. Hey…it’s Mariel Davenport.’
Dane felt Justin’s voice switch from jovial to slightly breathless like a prickle between his shoulderblades. He shrugged the feeling off. ‘So it appears.’
‘Jee-ee-z. Looking good, Mariel,’ Justin murmured. ‘Even better than that photo spread Phoebe showed us. She hasn’t been back in…how long? What’s she doing at Carl and Amy’s wedding?’
‘Ten years.’ And five months. ‘And your guess is as good as mine,’ he muttered, frowning into his amber liquid.
‘Wasn’t she living with some French guy?’
‘Yep.’
‘You spoken to her yet?’
‘Nope.’ Sweat trickled down Dane’s back, making his shirt stick. He tossed back the remainder of his beer and thought about stepping outside for some fresh air. The atmosphere was stifling in here, even with the aircon working overtime.
‘Why not?’ Justin queried. ‘You two were pretty close. I remember—’
‘That was a long time ago.’
A lifetime ago…The night before she’d left for overseas. In her bedroom, the full moon filtering through the open window, its silver light bathing her milk-white skin, her eyes black pools of wonder, gazing up at him…
Dane shifted his stance, cleared his throat as every hot-blooded cell south of his larynx mobilised. ‘You right for a drink?’
‘We’re leaving in a moment, Cass has an early start tomorrow. I’m going to say hi to Mariel before we go; want to join me?’
Dane shook his head. ‘I’ll catch up with her later.’ He turned and pointed himself in the direction of the nearest drinks waiter.
But, damn, he couldn’t let it go. His head swivelled in time to see Justin plant a kiss full on Mariel’s smiling lips. He knew it meant nothing more than what it was—a welcome home—but a sudden tension locked Dane’s jaw, making his teeth clench. His fingers tightened around his glass.
He watched his mate whisper something close to her ear and Mariel turned slowly to look Dane’s way. So slowly—or maybe it was just that the moment seemed to crawl to a stop—that he had time to experience, in graphic detail, the full effect of that face, that attention, focused wholly on him.
The way the high cheekbones flushed with colour, the flutter of long black lashes as she blinked those emerald eyes at him, just once. The way her glossy lips parted slightly—in surprise or dismay?—then lifted infinitesimally at the corners, resembling something approaching warmth.
Whatever—it faded like a rose in winter, no doubt as she took in his rigid jaw and neutral stare. Because, frankly, he couldn’t seem to drum up anything else. She lifted a hand, let it hover a moment before she smoothed a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear.
Her eyes were still locked with his. Until her gaze lifted to his hair. And, yeah, some might say it needed a trim. Her nostrils flared slightly as her gaze shifted to his open-necked shirt. His throat prickled; his Adam’s apple bobbed. Hell. He was glad he didn’t have a woman, particularly an ex-fashion designer, telling him how he should dress.
And thanks to Justin’s intervention he had no alternative—manners dictated he at least speak to her. Forcibly unclenching his teeth and loosening his grip on the glass, he started forward.
Mariel watched Dane Huntington saunter towards her, his casual, almost arrogant manner all too familiar. Whatever Justin was saying—if he was saying anything at all—faded. Her stomach juddered once, as if she’d hit more of that air turbulence she’d experienced on the final approach into Adelaide.
Phoebe,