Dressed to Thrill. Bella Frances

look away, but she couldn’t, and that swell of fog or emotion or awareness bloomed around them again. She felt as if she was breathing in his air. As if something of herself was seeping into his space.

      ‘Just what I say. You’re a very interesting person but you don’t fully know yourself yet…or you wouldn’t be battling the attraction that clearly exists between us.’

      ‘You must have some ego to think that every girl who rides in the back of your car wants to kiss you.’

      He shrugged. ‘I think you do.’

      Still he stared, and still she stared back.

      ‘Because you dropped one on me as you were leaving and I didn’t slap your face? That doesn’t mean I want to repeat it.’

      ‘You don’t want to repeat it?’

      A low, quiet probe.

      The car had stopped. She didn’t know if they were at lights or at their destination. But nothing could drag her eyes away from his to check. A shadow was cast across his face, lighting only the mocking twist of his mouth. But his eyes flashed like polished coals in the darkness.

      She swallowed. ‘Not a chance.’

      He was utterly still, completely and intensely present. She knew he could read her, but the chance of her admitting that? Zero. Even as she thought it the urge to feel his lips and taste his mouth swept over her. A shocking pleasure pulse throbbed between her legs. The air swirled thicker. She was definitely not in her comfort zone any more.

      ‘Better get the party started, then.’

      He broke it. Moved fluidly to the door handle. Stepped outside and held out a hand for her. She ignored it and gripped the doorframe instead. Stepped out and straightened in the lemony light of early dawn. The most sober, most disconcerted she had been at this time of day since…since she’d started realising that hedonism and ambition could be neatly packaged together. Since she’d purposely and deliberately burned every bridge that led her back to small-town, small-minded Ireland.

      So what if her family looked down on her? She knew the truth. She knew she had a cast-iron marketing campaign that made her unpalatable to them and delicious to others.

      She smoothed down her dress and touched her hand to the back of her hair. She dreaded to think what her face was like—lipstick probably smudged all over her mouth and the panda eyes slipping south. Who knew? That might be her best form of defence.

      He was watching, waiting. Chivalrous, she supposed. A doorman stood sentry and a plush carpet swept ahead. The car behind them moved off and she had a sudden image of walking into this nineteenth-century apartment block with him, black suit, and her, white dress, as if she had done it a thousand times before.

      Boy, she needed a drink.

      She couldn’t even look at him in the elevator. Didn’t make small talk and didn’t let the intense air-sharing affect her in any way. No way.

      When the lift slowed to a stop she watched as the doors eased open and she stepped out and waited. He indicated left and she walked at his side as if he was showing her to a vault. He unlocked the door with a keypad and held it open for her. She took one step inside the room. Not as expected. No cherry floors, leather and chrome. There was smooth carpet, richly coloured rugs and silk-covered chaises.

      She turned to comment and then she felt his presence behind her, heard the door click softly.

      She bolted into the space as if branded, suddenly realising that her whole safety in numbers default was not going to be much cop here. How long were they likely to be here, alone, before Angelica showed up, with or without her little posse? This whole keep him occupied plan was all well and good in a nightclub. But claustrophobic empty spaces, even ones as grand as this, suddenly seemed to suck up her bravado.

      ‘Champagne? Or would you like something stronger?’

      He was moving into the open-plan lounge, jacket tossed onto the back of a posture-correcting couch. Even the furniture looked down on her. Devine girls sat on sofas with their dinner on trays and their eyes on the television. She could make out a dining alcove, with a huge dining table and artfully mismatched Deco chairs, complete with seat-pads in jewelled satins.

      She definitely needed something stronger.

      ‘What have you got?’

      He swallowed his knowing chuckle and moved to a bar area. ‘I’m sure I’ll have what you want.’

      ‘Mount Gay?’ Suck on that, smarty, she thought, dredging up the name of the most inaccessible rum she could think of.

      He produced it. Of course he did.

      ‘With…?’

      ‘Awww…’ She breathed out with a slice of defeat. ‘Just give me it on the rocks. I’ll be gulping it anyway.’

      He laughed then. ‘You’re surely not nervous?’

      She laughed back, despite herself. ‘What? You think a dragged-up fashion-head like me can’t cut it in Luxe Land? With European aristocracy like you and les belles Cruzes? You’d think I feel any self-doubt? No chance. I’ll have what you’re having, baby. Every time.’

      ‘Every time?’

      He snared her gaze. Held it. Again. Walked towards her with the glass of rum, ice clinking gently off the sides. Soft smile so sexy on that mouth, so sinful.

      ‘Cut it out.’

      He held the glass as he passed it to her, still smiling, cocked an eyebrow in question. ‘What?’

      ‘You know what.’

      He stood almost in her space, with a matching drink, a roguish look.

      ‘Do I?’

      ‘You’re freaking me out. You’re just freaking me right out!’

      He laughed properly then—no artifice or charm. Just a belly laugh. And suddenly she felt relaxed.

      ‘No one could accuse you of not speaking your mind, Tara. It’s refreshing, I have to say.’

      She nudged her glass against his. ‘You too. I suppose.’ She took a long drink with the cubes bashing off her teeth and shook her head in wonder at her own self and this crazy situation. She could have happily strangled this man a few hours earlier, but now it seemed…it seemed he was maybe human after all.

      ‘You got any music?’

      ‘Sure. Come and choose what you’d like.’

      She wandered behind him, watching his fluid, masculine movements. There was a man who worked out. No doubt. His ass was absolutely perfect. If she’d been in the club she might even have grabbed it, given it a little squeeze. She’d done worse!

      He passed her his laptop and she flipped through a few lists. Taste was OK. Could do with a little education, but passable. She selected something mainstream, safe, stood back and felt the bass tones fill the space. That was better…

      Michael. She turned. He was frowning at his phone. Then he placed it down on the bar and caught her up in another of those stares. What the hell was going on? Demanding dark eyes drilled straight into hers and made her feel exposed, on fire, exhilarated, choked.

      ‘Everything OK?’

      He nodded as he walked towards her. ‘Fine. Just no word yet from Angelica.’ He tipped his glass. ‘Refill?’

      ‘Peachy.’

      She followed him to the bar. Stood watching. Jiggled her hips in time to the Balearic beats. Felt sort of good. House parties had never been her thing, really. Especially tiny house parties. Big crowds, big music, big hangovers. Absolutely. But there was something sweet and soothing about watching him move about his home, pouring drinks and looking so hot.

      ‘You here a lot?’

      He shook his head