A Touch of Temptation. Tara Pammi

idea of an advice column into an exclusive, information-filled web portal with more than a million members and a million more waiting on shortlists for membership.

      He closed his eyes and immediately the image of her assaulted him.

      Dressed formally, in black trousers that showed off her long legs and a white top that hugged her upper body, she was professionalism come to life—as far as possible from the woman who had cried her pleasure in his arms just a month ago.

      He had even forgotten the reason he had come to New York while he had followed her crisp, confident presentation. But the moment she had realized he was present in the audience had been his prize.

      She had faltered, searched the audience. That seconds-long flicker in her focus was like a nervous scream for an average woman.

      But then there was nothing average about the woman he had married. She was beautiful, brilliant, sophisticated. She was perfection personified—and she had as much feeling as a lump of rock.

      A rock he was finally through with—ready to kick out of his life. It was time to move on, and her little nervous sputter at the sight of him had gone a long way toward pacifying his bitter resentment.

      He walked to an elevator and pressed the number for the tenth floor. When he reached her suite he pulled the gold-plated keycard he had bribed from the bellboy from his coat packet.

      He entered the suite and closed the door behind him.

      The subtle scent of lily of the valley assailed him instantly. It rocked him where he stood, dispensing a swift punch to his gut more lethal than the ones he had taken for half his life.

      His lungs expanded, drawing the scent of her deep into him until it sank once again into his blood.

      His body pulsed with remembered pleasure. Like a junkie getting his high.

      He studied the suite, with its luxurious sitting area and mahogany desk. Her files were neatly stacked on it, her sleek state-of-the-art laptop on top of them. Her handbag—a practical but designer black leather affair—lay near the couch in the sitting area.

      The suite was everything its owner was—high-class, flawless and without an ounce of warmth.

      He turned at the sound of a door on his right.

      Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it. A sheen of sweat danced on her forehead.

      He frowned, his curiosity spiking.

      Her glistening mouth trembled as she spotted him, her hands moving to her midriff.

      There was a distinct lack of color to her skin. Her slender shoulders quivered as she ran the back of her hand over her forehead.

      He looked at her with increasing curiosity. Her jacket was gone. A V-necked sleeveless white silk blouse showed off her toned arms. The big steel dial of her designer watch highlighted her delicate wrist. A thin gold chain dangled at her throat.

      The shadow of her breasts beneath the thin silk drew his gaze.

      He swallowed and pulled his eyes up. The memory of her breasts in his hands was cutting off his breath more effectively than a hand choking his windpipe. The feel of her trembling with pleasure in his hands, the erotic scent of her skin and sex—images and sensations flooded through him.

      He could no more fight the assault than he could stop breathing.

      Her eyes flared wide, the same heat dancing in those chocolate depths.

      She was the very embodiment of perfection—always impeccably dressed, exuding the sophistication that was like a second skin to her. Yet now she looked off-balance.

      He reached her, the slight sway of her lithe figure propelling him toward her. “Are you okay, gatinha?”

      She ran her palm over her face, leaving pink fingerprints over her colorless skin. Stepping away from him, she straightened the already immaculate desk. Her fingers trembled as she picked up a pen and moved it to the side.

      She was more than nervous.

      “No, I’m not,” she said, shrugging those elegant shoulders. The frank admission was unusual. “But that’s not a surprise as I just saw you, is it?”

      He raised a brow and sliced the distance between them. “The sight of me makes you sick?”

      Her fingers clutched the edge of the desk, her knuckles white. “The sight of you reminds me of reckless stupid behavior that I’d rather not remember.”

      He smiled. “Not even the good parts, where you screamed?”

      Pink scoured her cheeks. The slender set of her shoulders straightened in defense. She moved to the sitting area and settled into a leather chair. “Why are you here, Diego?”

      He watched with a weird fascination as she crossed her legs and looked up at him.

      The nervousness he had spied just moments ago had disappeared. She sounded steady, without a hint of anger or upset. Even though the last time they had laid eyes on each other she had been half-naked in his bed, her face bereft of color as he had dressed and informed her that he was done with her.

      There was no reproach in her tone for his behavior a month ago.

      Her calm composure grated on him like the edge of a saw chipping away at wood.

      She drove him to be the very worst of himself—seething with frustration, thrumming with desire—whereas she remained utterly unaffected.

      He settled down on the coffee table in front of her and stretched his legs so that she was trapped between them. He flipped open the file next to him against his better instincts, to finish what he had come for. “Your proposal is brilliant.”

      “I don’t need you to tell me that,” she threw back, her chin jutting out.

      He smiled. The confidence creeping back into her tone was not a surprise. When it came to her company his estranged wife was a force to be reckoned with. “Is that your standard response to a potential investor?”

      She snorted, and even that was an elegant movement of her straight nose. “It’s my standard response to a man who I know is intent on causing me maximum damage.”

      Diego frowned. “Really? Have I done that?”

      She snatched the proposal from his hands and the scent of her wafted over him. He took a breath and held it fast, the muscles in his abdomen tightening.

      Droga, two minutes in her company and he was...

      He expelled it with the force of his self-disgust. Pleasure was not the reminder he needed.

      “You already had your revenge, Diego. After I walked out on our marriage six years ago you refused to divorce me with the express purpose of ruining my wedding to Alexander. Then you seduced me and walked out four weeks ago. Isn’t that enough?”

      “Seeing that you went back to your life, didn’t even falter for a second, I’m not sure.”

      Something flickered in her molten brown gaze as she spoke. “I propelled my sister and Alex into a scandal, putting everything Alex has worked for at risk.”

      “Again, them—not you. From where I stand nothing has gotten to you. Apparently nothing ever gets to you.”

      She ran her fingers over her nape, her gaze shying away from him. Sudden tension pulsed around her. “You left me utterly humiliated and feeling like a complete fool that morning. Is that better?”

      He had wanted her anger, her pain, and it was there in her voice now, thrumming with force. But it was too little, too late. Even now it was only the prospect of her precious company having caught his interest that was forcing any emotion from her.

      “Maybe,” he said, shrugging off his jacket.

      Her gaze flew to his, anxious. “Tell me—what do I need to say so that you’ll leave my company alone? What will save