Forbidden Seductions. India Grey

of speaking, but Cleo wasn’t, and, detaching himself from Sarah’s clinging hands, he said, ‘Come on. I’ll get us all a drink.’ He nodded towards Cleo’s glass. ‘Is that a pina colada?’

      ‘This?’ Cleo was taken aback. ‘Um—no. It’s just pineapple juice,’ she said, aware of Sarah’s displeasure at this turn of events. ‘And I don’t need another drink, thank you.’

      ‘Well, I do,’ said Dominic flatly. And before he’d given any thought to his actions, he’d gripped Cleo’s elbow with a decisive hand and turned her towards the bar set up beside the swimming pool.

      He regretted it instantly. He hadn’t forgotten how soft her skin was, or erased the memory of her scent, that tonight was a mixture of musk and spice and some tropical fragrance. But he had blanked it from his mind.

      Now, however, it was back, more potent than before.

      The side of her breast was so warm and sexy against his suddenly moist fingers. And if she was wearing a bra, it was doing little to hide the way her nipples had peaked and were pressing unrestrainedly against the thin fabric of her dress.

      Oh, God!

      His arousal was as painful as it was inappropriate. With Sarah—the girl he’d brought to the party, dammit—following closely behind, he had no right to be feeling as if the ground was shifting beneath his feet.

      Yet it was. And, heaven knew, he wanted to touch Cleo. Not as he was touching her now, but privately, intimately. To bury his hands in her silky hair and bury another part of his body—that was hot and hard and pulsing with life—in some place equally soft, but tight and wet as well.

      He wondered if she’d heard his hoarse intake of breath, the surely audible pounding of his heart. She must have felt his fingers tightening almost involuntarily, because she turned to look at him, her eyes almost as wide and elemental as his own.

      He abruptly let her go, surging ahead to where a handful of waiters tended the comprehensive array of drinks his grandfather had provided.

      ‘Scotch,’ he said without hesitation. ‘No. No ice. Just as it is.’ Then he raised the single malt to his lips and swallowed half of it before turning to address the two girls.

      Cleo was wishing she’d accompanied her grandfather, after all. She was far too aware of Dominic, far too conscious of the fact that in other circumstances she wouldn’t have wanted him to let her go.

      Everything about him disturbed her: from the lean, muscular strength of his body to the intensely masculine perfume of his skin.

      When he’d taken her arm, his heat had surrounded her. The hardness of his fingers gripping her arm had felt almost possessive. She’d wanted to rub herself against him, like a cat that was wholly sensitive to his touch.

      She still felt that way, she thought unsteadily, and then had to compose herself when Sarah caught her gaze. Was the other woman aware that Dominic was a fallen angel? That beneath his enigmatic exterior beat the heart of a rogue male?

      ‘How long do you expect to stay on the island?’

      Sarah got straight to the point and Cleo told herself she was grateful.

      ‘I— Just a few more days,’ she said, aware that she’d lowered her voice in the hope that Dominic wouldn’t hear her.

      ‘Oh…’ Sarah looked slightly taken aback. But pleased, Cleo thought. Perhaps she’d expected a more aggressive kind of response.

      Though why should she? She and Dominic had looked very much a couple when they’d arrived tonight.

      ‘So you’re not planning on making your home here?’

      Sarah was persistent, and Cleo wished she could just leave her and Dominic to sort out their own problems.

      ‘Not at the moment,’ she replied at last, not wanting to say anything to offend her grandfather. But she was grateful when someone else attracted Sarah’s attention.

      She didn’t really dislike the girl, she assured herself. It was just that they had nothing in common.

      Except Dominic…

      ‘Here!’

      She was forced to look at him again when Dominic took her drink from her and thrust another glass into her hand.

      ‘What is this?’ she protested, managing to instil a convincing edge of indignation in her voice. ‘I said I didn’t want another drink.’ She sniffed suspiciously. ‘Ugh—this is alcoholic!’

      ‘Damn right,’ agreed Dominic, finishing his own drink and turning to ask the waiter for a refill. ‘This is supposed to be a celebration. You can’t celebrate with a pineapple juice and soda.’

      ‘Who says?’ Cleo leant past him to replace the glass on the table that was serving as a bar, intensely aware of him beside her. She cast a nervous glance behind her. ‘I wonder where your grandfather is. I think I ought to go and find him.’

      Dominic sucked in a breath. Her bare arm had brushed along his midriff as she deposited the glass and he felt as if someone had scorched him with a burning knife.

      ‘Don’t,’ he said barely audibly, his voice rough with emotion. ‘The old man knows what he’s doing.’ He blew out a tortured breath that seared along her hairline. ‘God knows, I wish I did.’

      Startled eyes lifted to his, liquid dark eyes that Dominic felt he could have happily drowned in.

      ‘I—I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, a catch in her breathing, and his hard-on threatened to drag him to his knees.

      You do, his eyes accused her. But then Sarah was beside them, and Cleo hurriedly made good her escape.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      CLEO walked along the shoreline in the coolness of early morning.

      It was barely light and, apart from a few seabirds, she was alone on the beach.

      All the guests had left in the early hours. They’d stayed much longer than she’d expected, particularly as her grandfather had retired soon after midnight.

      In his absence, Serena had done her best to provide entertainment for their guests. Earlier in the evening, a group of West Indian musicians had arrived, and although Cleo had anticipated a lot of noisy percussion, she couldn’t have been more wrong.

      These musicians used their steel drums to produce melodic liquid sounds that played on the senses as well as the mind. Rippling chords of magic that filled any awkward silences with rhythm and enchantment.

      The area around the pool had been cleared and there’d been some dancing. But, even though Cleo had danced with a couple of Jacob’s friends, she’d avoided the younger men like the plague.

      The last thing she needed was for these people—who probably neither liked her nor trusted her—to get the idea that she was like her mother. She didn’t know much about Celeste, of course. Only what her grandfather had told her. But nothing could alter the fact that she’d had an affair with a married man.

      Her employer, no less.

      She supposed, from the Montoyas’ point of view, the evening had been a success. She’d been introduced to San Clemente society, and Jacob’s intentions towards her had been made plain for all to see.

      But they were wrong.

      There’d been a subtle change in the atmosphere after her grandfather had retired. No one had been rude, but their questions about her life in England had seemed more pointed somehow. She’d got the feeling they regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and blame.

      But it wasn’t her fault that her father had seduced her mother, she told herself fiercely. And if they had fallen in love…