The Night That Started It All. Anna Cleary
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of the world was hunky-dory. She hoped no one inquired about her so-called fiancé. She should never have promised to allow Rémy time to break the news to Em in his own way. She might have known he’d never drum up the courage.
Face it, she’d known all along she should have told Neil and Em herself. Weeks ago, she saw now, instead of feeling she had to avoid them all this time. How much could she tell Emilie about her beloved Rémy, though? It was clear she couldn’t reveal anything tonight, with her sister-in-law under pressure.
And she’d have to be careful how much she told Neil. She’d long sensed he didn’t like Rémy. He’d always been so protective of her, heaven knew what he might do if he knew about this last thing. And how might that impact on Emilie?
She spotted Neil then, standing in a group with a tall, dark-eyed, sardonic-looking guy who was scanning the room, looking gloomy and detached.
Luc noticed his host waving at someone and suppressed a yawn. These Australians were so open. So forward. So relentlessly friendly and lively. To a jet-lagged Frenchman, a houseful of them was overwhelming. He listened, nodded, made meaningless conversation with strangers and mentally gritted his teeth.
These days, an hour in any roomful of couples was an eternity.
He watched a couple’s unconscious linking as they chatted with other people. Hands brushing. Hips. Under duress he could admit to himself he missed those touches. The tiny automatic intimacies a man had with his lover.
At least he lived cleaner now. No promises, no lies. And no pain. It was honest, at least.
As though in ridicule of this absurd reflection a pang of yearning sliced through him. If only he could grow used to this life with no alleviating softness in it. No excitement. No warm body to open to him in the deep reaches of the night. What he needed was a …
Through a chink in the crowd his eye was snagged on a flash of colour. He looked. And looked again. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a face, and for a minute the breath was punched from his lungs.
The crowd moved, and now only her soft blonde hair was visible to him. He waited, not breathing, until she angled his way again. Ah. An intriguing sensation thrilled through him. It was her eyes. They were fascinating. So deep and alluring and mysterious. Eyes to haunt a man.
He felt his blood quicken.
The crowd parted again and he was able to take in the whole of her. She’d have fitted in well in any nightclub, but in this assembly she looked almost theatrical. Fragile, with her long legs in the high heels, the soft chiffon dress slipping off one shoulder, neat little shoulder purse knocking against her hip.
Mesmerised, he couldn’t drag his gaze away.
Shari smiled as a waiter proffered a tray. She helped herself to a shot of vodka, downed it, then replaced the empty glass and took another to be going on with. She was casting about for a friendly face when she noticed the dark-eyed guy still watching her, his brows lowered and intent.
What the …? Had she broken the vodka laws?
His eyes had a strangely hypnotic quality. A girl had to ask herself if it was really the vodka that was so capturing his attention.
She attempted to crush his impudence with a haughty glare, but he didn’t even flinch. Shaken by a momentary pang of insecurity, she hastily drowned it with another gulp of the potato elixir.
For goodness’ sake, she was at risk here of tipsiness, not a good thing in platforms. If the guy didn’t look away soon she’d be unable to lie on the floor without holding on.
Luc was aware other women were probably present. Pretty women with breasts and soft hair. Women with an air of mystery. Blondes. Legs, long and lovely, shimmering with every slight movement.
He just hadn’t until this moment burned to touch one particular one.
Shari eyed her vodka guiltily. Although why should she? She was free, single and twenty-eight, and it was a party. She called the waiter back and rescued another glass from the tray. Turning then to face her examiner, she held them up and waved them at him, then took a sip from each.
His frown intensified. He shook his head at her a little, and she felt her blood stir thrillingly. At the same time a nervous shiver slithered down her spine. This guy was inviting a connection. The question was—what kind?
Shari flicked a glance about to see who else he might be with. He must belong to someone. In that swish dark suit and black silk shirt only a madwoman would have let him out on his own.
But no. At this actual moment, he only seemed to be with Neil.
His dark eyes swept her, bold, sensual while at the same time mildly censorious. Was he disapproving of the vodka, or what? If it had been Rémy he’d have been pouring the stuff down her throat to make her more compliant.
This vodka was a highly underrated substance. She could feel a warm glow coming on. Amazing how it could boost the confidence. Despite the fabled ice packing her mouse veins, she was pretty sure if she passed by that guy she could scorch him with her body heat.
In a roomful of people, why not give it a shot?
Enough of all this shillying and shallying, surely it was time to hug the birthday boy. With a deep breath, and assuming her most glamorous and mysterious expression, she summoned her inner Amazon and swished across to Neil, where she planted some lipstick on his cheek.
‘Happy birthday, bro,’ she said huskily.
Dear old Neil looked appreciatively at her. ‘Didn’t I see you in the movies?’ He gave her a brotherly hug, then peered into her face. She had to steel herself not to flinch away for fear of him spotting the reason for her disguise. ‘That’s not a tattoo there, is it?’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘What do you think, Luc? Do we want our women branded with frogs?’
But the guy’s dark velvet gaze had travelled well beyond her frog. He was drinking her all in, razing her to the parquet. True, tonight her curves were exceptionally appealing, but anyone would have thought this was the first time he’d ever laid eyes on a woman.
Though she seriously doubted it. Not with his bones.
Her chiffon top slid off one shoulder and she saw his eyes flicker to the bare section. Against all the odds, a shivery little tingle shot down her spine.
The guy queried Neil without taking his eyes from her. ‘Qui est-elle?’
‘My sister,’ Neil said, his arm around her. ‘This is Shari. Shari, meet Luc. Em’s and Rémy’s cousin.’
‘Oh.’ An unpleasant sensation rose in the back of Shari’s throat and she took an involuntary backwards step. The door guy. He hadn’t mentioned being related.
The guy’s eyes—Luc’s—sharpened, while Neil goggled at her in surprise.
Recovering her party manners with an effort, Shari pulled herself together.
‘Delighted,’ she lied through her teeth. Lucky she was holding the two shot glasses and wasn’t required to touch Rémy’s cousin. Just her luck though, Neil chose that moment to exercise what he considered his brotherly prerogative, and snatched the glasses from her.
‘Thanks for these,’ he said, and swilled the contents one after another.
Trapped. There was no preventing the Frenchman from taking her hand.
‘Shari,’ he said. ‘Enchanté, bien sûr.’ He leaned forward and brushed each of her cheeks with his lips.
Oh, damn. Her skin cells shivered and burned, though they’d been inoculated against the male members of this family.
Not that this guy resembled the Chéniers, with their reddish hair and blue eyes. Where Rémy was impulsive, surface cute and brutal, this cousin seemed more measured. Graver. Seasoned. Harsher face, experienced eyes. Dark compelling eyes, with golden gleams that reached into her and made her insides tremble.