Marriage in Name Only?. Anne Oliver

blue. A piercing, blinding blue that, to her shame, melted her insides to mush. ‘Happy Birthday …’ she finished in her best Marilyn Monroe voice, then came to a breathless pause. What the heck was his name again? Oh, my, he was …

      Not available, Chloe.

      She leaned in to brush the expected kiss over his cheek, caught the whiff of his enticing masculine skin before his head turned and his lips were somehow on hers. Warm, firm. Friendly. Too friendly. Appalled, she peeled her lips away to stare at him. He stared back, those fascinating blue orbs sending all the wrong signals for a married man.

      ‘I’m not the birthday boy,’ he told her, before she could blink. He leaned closer so that his breath tickled her ear and murmured, ‘But then you already knew that, didn’t you?’

      Huh?

      He jerked a thumb at the man on his left and leaned back, his hands dropping away from her waist. ‘Sadiq’s the one you should be kissing.’ The tone of bored cynicism belied the heat in his eyes.

      She felt the safety harness being unclipped and realised she was still sitting on his lap. And … she went completely still … was she turning him on?

      Not waiting to find out, she slid off immediately, her legs barely supporting her. ‘Hey, you kissed me,’ she whispered into his ear, keeping her smile in place, but furious with his dismissive attitude and furious with herself for making the mistake in the first place.

      She turned her attention to the handsome black-haired, dark-eyed man who’d have looked right at home in one of those desert romance books. Way less unsettling. He was watching the two of them with an amused look, apparently unconcerned she’d stuffed up so sensationally.

      ‘Sadiq,’ she said with forced brightness and leaned down to kiss him to a roomful of enthusiastic applause. She wished him an enjoyable evening or some such but her mind was stuck on the previous thirty seconds.

      You already knew. The weird—and incorrect—accusation burned like a hot wire in her blood. How dared he—whoever the hell he was—insinuate she’d contrived this act to somehow seduce him?

      Sexual harassment. The taste of bile rose up her throat. An employee’s word over some fancy schmuck with the wealthy connections? Like that was ever going to happen. One word of complaint from him and Dana was so going to fire her.

      Jordan Blackstone watched the blonde’s pretty cheeks flush, her well-endowed cleavage on full view as she made a fuss of his friend, privately enjoying her discomfort … and more than a little disconcerted at his own. Thankfully, she’d stood up before things had got too awkward. Another moment of her cute rhinestone-encrusted butt squirming on his lap, he’d have been in real trouble.

      Women were always contriving new ways to meet him and he had to admit this one was unique. As was his body’s response to hers. He hadn’t expected to find his dormant libido awakening so fast and so hard.

      He watched her drop a quick kiss on Sadiq’s cheek. His own lips tingled at the memory of how they’d felt beneath his. Soft and sweet. What the hell had possessed him? Sheer momentary madness obviously, because in that pulse-pounding moment he sure as hell hadn’t been himself.

      She didn’t hang around. He’d barely blinked and she was gone in a flash of sparkles and skin. The sort of shimmering flash that lingered on your retina long after the moment had passed.

      He shook his head to clear the image. Soft and sweet was just a facade. No matter that she’d played the innocent mistake game, she was the type of out-there, attention-grabbing, rich-man-hungry woman he avoided. And that costume—what there was of it—was obviously intended to over-enhance her curves. Even if said curves were every man’s fantasy, it was hardly appropriate for this occasion.

      And she couldn’t sing to save herself.

      He picked up his glass, drained the bubbly mineral water to moisten his throat, which he realised had gone dust-dry, and watched Sadiq blow out his candles. A hovering waitress whisked the cake away to cut and distribute to the roomful of elite guests.

      The band struck up a party number and dancers hit the polished floor amongst the bobbing helium balloons. Jordan gazed at the ceiling as the rope snaked upwards and disappeared over a balcony. ‘Well. That was … interesting.’

      Sadiq chuckled. ‘Not as interesting as the look on your face when the lady landed on your lap, my friend. And that kiss … Want to tell me what you were thinking?’

      Jordan scowled. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’ And that was the problem. He had to be grateful for Sadiq’s request to ban the media from inside the venue or he’d be front and centre in tomorrow’s gossip rags.

      His friend leaned closer and spoke over the noise. ‘A discreet word here or there and you could get lucky tonight.’

      ‘I make my own luck.’ A sultry image involving him peeling that costume from her lithe and voluptuous body danced on his eyelids. He blinked it away. ‘And she’s hardly my type.’

      Another chuckle. ‘You have a type?’

      Jordan didn’t bother to reply, just reached for the water carafe and filled his glass. Not his type? Hell, certain parts of his anatomy obviously begged to differ. She was hot, no question. And wasn’t that all he was looking for in a woman these days? Hot and single and temporary?

      The sounds of merriment swirled around him as the music quickened, its throb beating low and heavy in his sensitised groin. He drained his glass, then tugged at his collar. Ever since she’d plonked that sexy butt on his lap and he’d felt her womanly assets graze his chest, his clothing had felt two sizes too tight. He could still smell her fragrance—warm and spicy and sensuous, making him think wicked thoughts; like lying naked with her in front of a roaring fire, her skin flushed with heat from their love-making.

      Then there were the eyes. The colour of aged Scotch. He hadn’t missed that initial flare of attraction, that quick clash of heat on heat, gone before he could think hot night in paradise. No, he hadn’t misinterpreted that, but recognition …? He frowned. Had he got it wrong?

      Because after the kiss and the accusation, those eyes had burned with a very different kind of heat—indignation. If there hadn’t been an audience, he had a suspicion he’d have felt the hot sting of that anger in one way or another.

      And now that he thought about it, quite possibly he’d have deserved it. Maybe she was already in a relationship? But she hadn’t worn rings—and why he’d noticed was beyond him.

      He relegated the confounding incident to the back of his mind, glanced at his watch and pushed up. Unfortunate timing, but his mate’s thirtieth birthday bash clashed with important business. He clasped Sadiq’s shoulder on his way. ‘Gotta go. Teleconference with Dubai in an hour.’

      His friend nodded. ‘Good luck. You’re still on for lunch tomorrow?’

      ‘I’ll be there.’ He dropped a light kiss on Sadiq’s wife’s cheek. ‘‘Night, Zahira. Great party. By the way, I loved your surprise.’

      Zahira’s dark exotic eyes smiled. ‘Wasn’t she delightful? And so brave to step in at literally a moment’s notice.’

      Jordan, who’d already turned to leave, swung back. ‘Is that so?’

      ‘The original artist had an accident earlier tonight,’ she explained. ‘A member of Dana’s staff volunteered to take her place.’

      Jordan felt a prick of guilt. Not a professional entertainer then, but a girl with maybe no experience who’d stepped in to save the day. That accounted for the debacle of a performance. It excused her actions; it didn’t excuse his. ‘Good for her,’ he mumbled. Then because he admired people prepared to give it a go and he’d treated her less well than he might have, he said, ‘She deserves a bonus at the end of the evening.’

      Zahira flicked him one of those unreadable female looks. ‘I’ll tell