For Revenge...Or Pleasure?. Trish Morey

forcing her back ramrod-straight in defence. She looked over her shoulder at him. ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘If you had the time, would you be more inclined to play?’

      Warm shivers assaulted her flesh. Was it the effect of his rich deep voice, or was it because she almost hoped he just might mean it? Something about the man was compelling. Damn, everything about the man was compelling. And something about her own body’s reaction impelled her to believe him.

      ‘I don’t play games.’ She arched an eyebrow in his direction for effect.

      ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘Such a waste.’

      ‘Not really,’ she replied, raising her chin with the certainty that she was about to have the final word. ‘Because when I play, I play for keeps.’

      She turned away, allowing herself a smile, feeling she’d won some kind of moral victory at least. Besides, the encounter had left her tingling with excitement. He might have thrown her completely at the start, but she’d enjoyed the attention from someone who appeared way more three-dimensional than the usual Beverly Hills society, with their egocentric conversation and their rapid-fire evaluation of who you were and how you might be of any use to them.

      But she hadn’t taken more than two steps before his rich laughter snagged into her consciousness, drawing her around as easily as a gentle finger press.

      Except the way he looked at her and the set of his large, strong body, like the king of the jungle about to pounce and devour its prey, wiped out her feeling of superiority in an instant.

      ‘In that case,’ he said, his dark eyes crinkling at the sides, yet still filled with intensity that took her breath away, ‘let the games begin.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      HE’D eliminated the distance between them, had reached out and taken hold of her hand before she could react. She gasped at his warmth, at the sculpted perfection of his hand and at his gentle touch, while fully aware of the latent strength lurking beneath.

      Without taking his eyes from hers he carried her hand to his mouth. She’d expected just a brief kiss, and was vaguely aware of how old-fashioned this gesture was, but already she was imagining the graze of his lips on her skin, was anticipating the brush of his warm breath. But at the last moment he flipped her hand over so that his mouth pressed open and hot against her wrist.

      Her pulse thundered into life under his molten kiss, her blood super-heated, melting her bones and stirring her dark, tender places into life. And as his liquid lips worked their magic on her skin and his tongue joined into the fray, ratcheting up the sensations another notch, she was certain that if he hadn’t been holding on to her hand she might well have dissolved into a puddle on the floor.

      She tasted as good as she looked. Better. This was going to be far more enjoyable than he would ever have anticipated.

      And he had her. There was no question. The passion flaring into life in her eyes told him that she would be more than responsive, more than accommodating. The way her lips were softly parted told him she was eager for more of what his mouth could do for her, and the way her nipples pressed all too obviously against the tight fabric of her gown told him that even tonight would not be too soon.

      She would soon be his. And then she would tell him everything she knew to save his sister.

      And he would destroy Dr Della-Bosca and pull apart the clinic, even if he had to do it brick by brick!

      He clamped down on the aching response of his own body as slowly, reluctantly, he drew his lips away.

      ‘Who are you?’ she asked, her words less a demand this time, more a breathy supplication.

      He smiled and dipped his head fractionally, still with a hold on her hand. ‘Loukas Demakis,’ he said. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Dr Ferraro.’

      Her eyes narrowed and sparked, and he could see she was building connections as if suddenly understanding. Had the pieces fallen into place already? Had she realised the recently married Olympia was his sister? Did she have any idea at all why he was here?

      ‘Demakis?’ she repeated. ‘As in the Senator currently making a run for the White House?’

      ‘My father,’ he replied, rapidly reassessing his quarry’s intelligence. ‘You’ve heard of him?’

      Her eyes regarded him frostily as she tugged her hand out of his, using it to support her glass. ‘Would that be such a surprise? I do try to keep informed of what’s going on in the world around us. Did you assume that just because I spend my days working with beautiful people that I must be a complete airhead?’

      ‘Not at all,’ he countered. Not any more. ‘I’d be a fool to make a mistake like that—obviously.’

      She smiled a little then, a sweet smile of victory that didn’t make it anywhere near her eyes. ‘Obviously,’ she mimicked, as if she knew damned well he’d underestimated her and been caught out.

      His back teeth ground together. He certainly wouldn’t do that again. There was much too much at stake to be outsmarted by any of Della-Bosca’s cronies.

      And that was all she was, he thought, forcing himself to remember, forcing himself to disregard the perfect skin and the womanly curves poured so skilfully into that dress. One of Della-Bosca’s cronies. Regardless of the fact he still burned to possess her. Regardless of the fact he could already anticipate the feel of her honey-fleshed limbs around him.

      And that last thought brought with it a smile as he flicked his gaze over her again. She would be good in bed—his own body’s reaction told him that. There was no chance he’d misjudged her on that score.

      He inhaled a steadying breath, finding it infused with her fragrance. Fresh. Spicy. Tempting.

      ‘I’m sure my father will be gratified to hear his reputation extends so far.’

      ‘Then be sure to tell him,’ she replied. ‘I’d actually like to see him make it all the way to the White House.’

      He suppressed a snarl. Now what was she trying to prove? His father didn’t need the support of people like her—people who did what she did, preying on the insecurity of others—and he certainly didn’t want it.

      ‘And you really care if he makes it?’

      Her eyes narrowed and he felt their glacial challenge again.

      ‘Is that so hard to believe?’ she quipped, confirming his thoughts. ‘I would have thought you’d be happy to find someone who supported your father’s policy stance. Perhaps not. But, for what it’s worth, I think there would be a kind of poetic justice in having someone like your father in the White House, don’t you?’

      His brow pulled tight. ‘What do you mean?’

      She arched an eyebrow and her blue eyes sparkled with confidence in a way that rankled. ‘Given that ancient Greece was the cradle of democracy, I think there’s a happy kind of irony there—democracy going full circle, if you like.’ She paused, her wide mouth curling into a teasing smile that disappeared all too quickly.

      ‘Besides, I’ve read about your father’s background—how his grandparents arrived in the nineteen-twenties with nothing and yet built up a boat-building empire; it’s a very impressive story. You must be very proud of your family’s achievements.’

      Was he? He hadn’t thought about it or the business lately—he’d had more pressing things to think about, like his half-sister marrying an American reality TV programme loser, her love affair with celebrity, running with the brat-pack and screwing up her life, and a father who wanted her stopped before she screwed up his political aspirations or got herself killed—or both.

      And he was going to make damned sure that didn’t happen.

      He looked down at her, his need to avenge the past and protect his sister setting his already heated blood to simmer point.

      ‘Is