The Dark Side of Desire. Julia James

with some dim part of her mind, was look at him.

      He drew her eye, drew her focus—made it impossible for her to look away. Impossible …

      Impressions stormed in her mind.

      Tall—broad-shouldered—dark-haired—strong features starkly defined.

      He made her want to stare, and that sent a hollowing arrow through her, stilling the breath in her throat.

      There was an air about him as he stood there, one hand thrust into his trouser pocket, the other holding his champagne glass, looking tall and lean and very, very assured.

      He was a rich man. She could see that easily. Not just because of his bespoke suit and clearly expensively cut sable hair, but because of the aura he projected, the air of supreme control.

      A man to draw eyes.

      Especially female eyes.

      And she could see why—helplessly acknowledged the effortless power of his frame, the strongly defined features that comprised a blade of a nose, a planed jawline, a wide, mobile mouth and, above all, the dark, opaque, hooded eyes that were resting, focussed and targeted, on whoever it was he was looking at.

       Who is he?

      The question formed itself in her head, though the moment it did so she tried to erase it. What did it matter who he was? There were any number of people at her father’s parties, and one more or less made no difference. But even as she thought it she knew it was not true. Not for this man. This man was different …

      She swallowed, freeing the breath that had been stuck in her throat, and as she did she realized with a start that her pulse had quickened. Realised, too, with more than a start, with a hollowing, knifing dawning, that somehow—and she didn’t know how, couldn’t know how—the man’s gaze had shifted, pulled away from whoever it was in the room he’d been looking at and he was now looking at her …

      Right at her.

      Instantly, instinctively, she veiled her eyes, shutting him out of her vision as if he were some kind of threatening presence—disturbing and disruptive—making herself invisible to him.

      Tautly, she returned her gaze to the people she was with, and haltingly resumed her conversation. But her mind was in tumult, and when, some indeterminate time later, she heard her father’s voice directed at her, she welcomed the interruption to her mental consternation.

      ‘Flavia, my darling, over here a moment!’ he called in the doting, caressing voice he always used to her in public.

      Dutifully she made her way towards him, trying to put out of her head the image engraved on her retinas of the darkly disturbing man who had so riveted her. She could feel agitation increasing her heart-rate.

      As she approached her father the shifting pattern of guests moved, showing that there was someone standing beside him. Her agitation spiked erratically and her eyes flared involuntarily.

      It was the man who had drawn her eye—more than her eye—a moment ago. Numbly, she walked up to her father, who was smiling with a benign air. ‘Darling.’ Her father’s hand reached for her arm and closed over it. ‘I’d like to introduce you—’

      Flavia let herself be pulled forward. Her mouth had gone dry again. She could hear her father saying something, but it was like a buzz in her ears. All she could focus on was the man standing with her father. The same tall, broad-shouldered, confident-stanced man she’d seen in the doorway.

      ‘Leon Maranz. And this is my daughter, Flavia.’

      Her father’s voice was affectionate and indulgent, but Flavia didn’t care. All she could do right now was gather her composure, which had no reason—no reason, she echoed vehemently—to go all to pieces like this.

      With palpable effort she made herself speak, forcing herself to say what was socially required. ‘How do you do, Mr Maranz?’ she said. Her tone was clipped, distant. Her acknowledging glance at him was the merest flicker, the barest minimum that social courtesy demanded.

      She wanted urgently to take a step back, to move away, keep her distance. Up close like this, the impression he’d made on her that she’d found so disturbing even from halfway across the room was a hundred times stronger. Just as before she took in height, easily topping six feet, and shoulders sheathed, like the rest of his lean body, with the material of a bespoke handmade suit that, like the pristine white shirt he wore, stretched across a torso that was honed and taut. He might scream ‘filthy rich’, but fat cat he was not …

       More like a sleek-coated jaguar …

      That strange, disturbing, subliminal shiver seemed to go through her again as the thought passed across the surface of her mind.

      ‘Ms Lassiter …’

      The voice acknowledging her clipped greeting was deep, almost a drawl. There was an accent to it, but not an identifiable one. She didn’t need a foreign name, or a foreign accent, to know that the last thing this lean, powerful, disturbing man was British. The natural olive hue of his tanned skin, the sloe-darkness of his eyes, the sable of his hair and the strong, striking features all told her that—had told her so right from the moment she’d set eyes on him.

      Her eyes flickered over him again, trying not to see him, trying to shut him out. She saw something glint briefly, swiftly gone, in his dark, black-lashed eyes—something that exacerbated the strange shiver that was still going through her.

      She fought for control. Self-control. This was ridiculous! Absurd to be so affected by a complete stranger—some rich, foreign business acquaintance of her father that she neither knew nor cared about, nor had any reason at all to be so … so … reactive to!

      Her spine stiffened and she could feel the motion drawing her body slightly away from Leon Maranz’s powerful orbit. Withdrawing a fraction—an essential fraction. Again, just for a barest moment, she thought she saw that dark glint in his eyes come again, and vanish.

      She took a breath, instinctively knowing she was being less than courteous but feeling an almost atavistic urge to get away from the impact he was having on her. She gave the barest nod of acknowledgement to his return of her greeting, then turned her head towards her father. The relief of being able to look away was palpable.

      ‘I must check with the caterers,’ she announced. ‘Do excuse me.’

      She could see her father’s face darken, knew she was being borderline rude, but she couldn’t help it. Every instinct was telling her to go—get away—right away from the man she’d just been introduced to.

      Her glance flickered back to him, as brief as she could make it. His expression was empty, closed. She knew she was being impolite, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t afford to allow herself to care about her rudeness, her glaringly obvious reluctance to engage in any kind of social exchange with him.

      ‘Mr Maranz.’ Again the barest nod towards him, and then she turned on her heel trying not to hurry, as she found herself wanting to do, to wave to the doors leading into the dining room, where a sumptuous buffet had been laid out by the hired caterers.

      As she gained the sanctuary of the other room she felt her tension immediately ease. But not her heart-rate. That, she realised, was still elevated.

       Why? Why was she reacting like this to that man?

      She’d met any number of rich, foreign businessmen at her father’s social gatherings—so why was this one playing havoc with her nerves?

       Because none of them had ever looked the way this one did!

      None of them had had those dark, saturnine looks. None of them had had that packed, powerful frame. None of them had had that air about them that spoke not just of wealth but a lot more …

      But what was that more …?

      As she made herself walk the length