Not For Sale. Sandra Marton

she’d said calmly. “Why else would I be with him tonight? ”

      For five hundred dollars, the voice within her had whispered.

      Because, no question about it, Ilana Rostov was right. She was, most assuredly, not Lucas’s type.

      She wasn’t the type that belonged in this restaurant, either.

      The place was small, intimate and elegant. The patrons were elegant, too. She recognized familiar faces from movies and television and magazine covers. The women were expensively dressed. The men exuded wealth and power.

      And almost all of them, men and women, had noticed Lucas, the men with nods and smiles of recognition, the women with glances that could only be called covetous.

      More than one woman had looked at her in a way that said she was amazingly lucky to have such a man’s attention. And she was. Or she would have been, if any of this was real, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t, and she had to keep remembering that—and it was difficult because Lucas was so attentive.

      And so dangerously, excitingly sexy, even when he and Rostov had dropped into intense conversation over drinks. Ilana had translated for her husband in a low voice. Caroline had done the same for Lucas.

      It had gone very well—except for those times he’d posed a question to her, or leaned in, to hear what she had to say. Then he’d brought his dark head down to hers; she’d felt the whisper of his breath on her skin, found herself thinking that all she had to do was lift her head, just a little, and her cheek would brush his, she’d feel the faint abrasion of that sexy five o’clock stubble against her skin.

      Even now, with the deal concluded, a second bottle of champagne opened and poured, the danger wasn’t over.

      Every now and then, Lucas would touch her.

      Her hair. Her hand. Her shoulder, when he lay his arm along the back of her chair and brushed his fingers against her bare skin.

      It was part of the masquerade, or maybe he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. He was a man accustomed to being with women; everything about him made that clear. Either way, it meant nothing. But whenever he touched her—whenever he touched her.

      A tremor shot through her. Lucas, who was talking with Rostov but had his hand on Caroline’s, leaned in.

      “Are you cold, sweetheart? Do you want my jacket?”

      His jacket? Warm from his body, undoubtedly bearing his scent?

      “Dani? If you like, I can warm you.”

      Her eyes flew to his. Something glowed in those deep green depths. Was he toying with her? Her heart was trying to claw its way out of her chest.

      “Thank you,” she said carefully, “I’m fine.”

      He smiled. Her heart took another leap.

      He had the sexiest smile she’d ever seen.

      He had the sexiest everything.

      Eyes. Face. Hands. Body. And that kiss…That just-for-show kiss. She’d felt it straight down to her toes. The warmth of his mouth, the feel of his hands…

      She made a little sound. Lucas raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

      “Yes,” she said quickly. “I just—I just can’t decide what to order.”

      “Let me order for you, darling.”

      She wanted to say “no” but that would have been foolish. Reading Chekhov was easier than reading the menu. Black truffle mayonnaise. Whipped dill. She doubted either had anything to do with what you put on a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich, or the kosher dill pickle you’d eat with it.

      It was only that saying she’d let him do something personal for her made her feel uncomfortable—

      “Dani?”

      And that was ridiculous. There was nothing personal about ordering a meal.

      “Yes,” she said. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

      Lucas brought her hand to his lips. “Two thank-yous in a row. I must be doing something right.”

      The Rostovs smiled. That was good. After all, this performance was for them.

      She had to keep remembering that.

      Her toes curled.

      Oh God, she thought again, as the waiter took their orders, she was as out of her element as a hummingbird in a blizzard. Not just here, in these surroundings.

      She was out of her element with this man.

      She could leave now. She could. She’d done her job. Ilana Rostov was behaving herself. Her translation duties were completed now that, metaphorically, twenty billion dollars had changed hands. Twenty billion! She couldn’t even start to envision that amount of money but Lucas had mentioned it with less fuss than Dani had shown about the five hundred she’d pay her for tonight’s masquerade.

      It was a lie, all of it, and Caroline understood the reason for it. If she’d had the Botox Cougar after her, well, the male equivalent, she’d have done whatever it took to throw her off the trail.

      It was just that—that there’d been moments tonight when she’d thought, when she’d wondered, when she’d imagined how it would feel if she really were Lucas Vieira’s date, if she were his lover, if the evening would end in a softly lit room with him undressing her, baring her body to his hands, his mouth.

      And thinking like that was wrong.

      The waiter brought the first course. Just in time. She needed food. She hadn’t eaten in hours and hours. No wonder her brain was in meltdown.

      Unfortunately, she couldn’t swallow much more than a mouthful. She couldn’t eat the main course, either. She was sure it had to be delicious. It looked beautiful, nothing like food, but beautiful anyway.

      Trouble was, her stomach had gone on strike. No room for food here, it said, butterflies in residence.

      “Lucas.” Was that breathless, desperate little voice hers? “Lucas,” she said again, and he turned to her. “I—I—”

      His eyes searched hers. A muscle knotted in his jaw. Then he took her hand, did that incredible-hand-kissing thing again and looked across the table at Leo Rostov, who was in the middle of telling an endless joke.

      “Leo,” he said politely, “Dani’s exhausted. You’re going to have to excuse us.”

      It was a request but it wasn’t. There was a tone of command in his voice. She heard it and she knew Rostov did, too. His ruddy face grew ruddier. Leonid Rostov wasn’t accustomed to having someone else call an end to the festivities.

      “Lucas,” Caroline whispered, “it’s okay. If you have to—”

      “What I have to do,” he said quietly, “is see you home.”

      For the second time, she saw that her gorgeous, arrogant date was gorgeous and arrogant but that somewhere inside him, he was real.

      There was a flurry of activity. Lucas took out his cell phone, arranged for his driver to meet him outside the restaurant. He waved off Rostov’s attempt to pay the bill and ordered another bottle of Cristal.

      “You and Ilana stay and enjoy yourselves,” he said.

      And then they were out of the restaurant, into the midnight streets. Lucas turned her toward him.

      “Are you all right?”

      “Yes. Thank you. I just—I’ve had a long day, and—”

      His hands were warm and hard on her elbows. There was a look of concern on his face. They were standing so close that she could feel the heat coming off him, see that the emerald irises of his eyes were ringed with black.

      Caroline shuddered.