INTERNATIONAL BILLIONAIRES

Life is a game of power and pleasure. And these men play to win!

Let Modern™ Romance take you on a jet-set journey

to meet eight male wonders of the world.

From rich tycoons to royal playboys—

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International Billionaires coming in 2009

The Prince’s Waitress Wife by Sarah Morgan, February.

At the Argentinean Billionaire’s Bidding by India Grey, March.

The French Tycoon’s Pregnant Mistress by Abby Green, April.

The Ruthless Billionaire’s Virgin by Susan Stephens, May.

The Italian Count’s Defiant Bride by Catherine George, June.

The Sheikh’s Love-Child by Kate Hewitt, July.

Blackmailed into the Greek Tycoon’s Bed by Carol Marinelli, August.

The Virgin Secretary’s Impossible Boss by Carole Mortimer, September.

8 volumes in all to collect!

Carol Marinelli recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title, and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as ‘writer’. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation, and after chewing her pen for a moment Carol put down the truth—writing. The third question asked—What are your hobbies? Well, not wanting to look obsessed—or, worse still, boring—she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered ‘swimming and tennis’. But, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!

Carol also writes for Medical™ Romance—her latest Medical™ Romance is emotional, dramatic, and stars a drop-dead gorgeous doctor! EMERGENCY: WIFE LOST AND FOUND On sale now!

Don’t miss Carol Marinelli’s book

THE DESERT KING’S HOUSEKEEPER BRIDE

out in December 2009

part of THE ROYAL HOUSE OF KAREDES

Dear Reader

When I was growing up, rugby caused a few good-natured arguments in our family. My parents were born in Scotland and lived where their daughters were born in England. Which for me had its advantages when it was Scotland v England—I could never lose.

I cry easily, and the national anthems always set me off. It is such a huge part of the theatre of rugby—whether it’s the All Blacks doing the Haka, or the English crowd singing along to ‘God Save the Queen’ I get goosebumps every time.

When my dad suddenly died I raced home from Australia, where I now live, back to England. I can remember just before it was time for me to return to Australia going to the police club, where my dad had been a proud member, and as we walked in the Scottish Rugby Team were there—loud and proud on the large television screen, singing the national anthem at the (then) Five Nations Series. We were all trying not to look at each other in case we really started crying, but my brother-in-law finally spoke and said, ‘This isn’t just a coincidence.’

So—rugby still gives me goosebumps, and I still love to watch. And I still cheer for either England or Scotland—only now both Australia and Italy have been added to the mix.

No wonder I love it—I almost can’t lose!

Happy reading

Carol Marinelli x

PS—Did I mention the sexy men and those muscular thighs…?

BLACKMAILED
INTO THE GREEK
TYCOON’S BED

BY

CAROL MARINELLI

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Dad

With love always

Carol xxxxx

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS her assumption, rather than her arrogance, that first caught Xante’s attention.

Wintry London skies were dark, and a rapid-fire of rain had scattered most of the people off the pavements. Even though it was midday, the cars that pulled into the plush forecourt of his hotel had their headlamps on and their wipers swishing furiously. A few braved the weather; coats overhead, they ran back from lunch to their work or their next meeting, while the organised or more seasoned Londoners opened umbrellas and carried on chatting into their phones. Only a select few took refuge in the forecourt of Xante Rossi’s Twickenham hotel.

Xante owned several hotels—they were part of his impressive portfolio—but rarely was the man himself to be found standing in their foyers, checking that everything was in order. He had staff to take care of those details. But today was different. Xante had a particular soft spot for his Twickenham establishment—it allowed him to indulge his passion for rugby. Today the England rugby team was arriving for an official function which was being held to raise serious money for charity. Serious money. The crème de la crème of high society would be attending the charity auction tonight that would be held at the end of dinner and would prove an opportunity for the rich to publicly display their wealth under the guise of it being for a good cause.

Xante liked all sports, but—unusually, perhaps, for a Greek—rugby was his passion. He loved the noble game; the blood, sweat and toil that made the game great. Philotimia was a sense of honour so vital to his people that it was written into the Greek legal code, and for Xante the great game of rugby represented philotimia perfectly.

Once the players were all here at his hotel they would train and travel as a team, but for now they were trickling in from across the country, and Xante had already greeted several, including the captain. It was natural that he wanted to be here to personally welcome the team—and it was natural, for entirely different reasons, that he noticed the willowy blonde arrive in the foyer. Svelte and tall, she’d have captured and held any man’s attention, and she was holding Xante’s now.

It was the way she shrugged off her coat—not with arrogance, just with the assumption that someone would catch it—that told him she was well heeled.

He had chosen his staff well. Albert, his chief concierge, moved quickly, realising that the bell boy had failed to notice her rich aura, and he caught the coat in an impressive move. Then, without a backward glance, the woman walked into the foyer.

Only then did she hesitate.

Taking in her surrounds, green eyes darting, she fleetingly looked a fraction lost, and only then did Xante fathom that she wasn’t a guest.

The hotel was practically in lockdown. Xante had brought in many extra staff to ensure that his important guests’ privacy was respected. Fans would remain outside, and journalists, however heavily disguised, were at this moment being politely turned away. But this woman, seemingly without prearrangement, had waived scrutiny and waltzed in as if she owned the place.

Certain people did not require a passport, Xante knew, and this lady appeared to be one of them.

She was strolling around the foyer, looking at the artwork on display, presumably waiting to meet someone. Xante’s head was full of questions, which meant he required answers—and quickly, please! It was the hallmark of his success.

‘That lady.’ Xante checked with his concierge, the one person in the place who would certainly know. ‘Who is she?’

Albert was talking to a couple, telling them about numerous shows that were on at the West End, before swiftly moving to his desk to check ticket availability. A brilliant multi-tasker, Albert still managed to deliver the required information to his boss as the theatre agent placed him on hold.

‘Karin Wallis,’ Albert said in low tones, and Xante frowned at the familiar name. His life was too busy to read the who’s who of London, Paris or Rome, or wherever his schedule dictated that he be, and he relied on people like Albert to do the groundwork for him.

‘Is she famous?’ The name was familiar. Xante’s brow furrowed as he tried to place it.

‘She’s from one of England’s most famous families,’ Albert murmured. ‘They regularly grace the social pages.’

‘And?’ Xante pushed, because Albert never volunteered gossip—he always wanted to be asked!

‘The parents died a couple of years ago. The brother’s a bit of a rogue, but charming; the younger sister attends boarding school.’

‘What about Karin?’ Xante was tired of squeezing out information. ‘What do you know about her?’

‘Well, the press refer to her as “the Ice Queen”.’ Albert gave a tight smile. ‘They would argue that the name merely refers to the numerous ski trips the lady takes—she’s just returned from one in Switzerland—however…’ Albert gave a small cough to show he was uncomfortable discussing such things and reluctant to give his boss advice; it was a dance they performed regularly.

‘Go on,’ Xante invited.

‘Frankly, sir, you’d be wasting your time with her. No one gets close to Karin Wallis.’ Always discreet, Albert immediately terminated the conversation as the couple reapproached the desk. ‘It shouldn’t be much longer now, sir…’ Even if Xante was his boss, the guests came first—that was the reason Xante employed him, after all.

Xante nodded, heading to Reception, where he checked in with the floor manager, reminding him that he wished to be informed whenever one of the team arrived.

The Ice Queen!

How Xante wished he had time to rise to Albert’s unwitting challenge today. Impossibly good-looking and obscenely wealthy, Xante Rossi had no trouble attracting women. Raised on a Greek Island by his widowed mother, Xante had fought hard just to exist, scavenging for food in the overflowing bins outside the restaurants where the rich tourists ate, scouring the fishing nets for their rotten remains. His father’s death had devastated him, but on that wretched day, all those years ago, something else had happened that had frightened the nine-year-old Xante.

He had been at the beach, waiting for news with uncles, cousins and friends, whilst his mother had been back at the house, keeping vigil, praying for a miracle. Then the boat had returned with its grim load.

An uncle who had been fishing with Xante’s father had broken the harsh news to him, letting the small boy cry for a while before telling him that now he must be strong. The priest had gone to break the news to his mother.

He couldn’t remember the walk home. Maybe they had gone in a car; Xante truly couldn’t recall.

What he did recall though was the shock of walking into the house and seeing his mother dressed head to toe in black.

She’d only been in her twenties, but that day, in Xante’s eyes, she’d aged two decades.

All the colour, all the vibrancy, was wiped away for ever. On that fateful day, he’d lost not just his father but his mother’s laughter too. How he had wanted it back. Had wanted her to dress again in pretty floral skirts and white, cotton tops; had wanted her hair in curls instead of hidden behind a black scarf; had wanted her to wear make-up again and had wanted to smell her sweet perfume.

But those days, like his father, had gone for ever.

His mother, the house, shrouded in grief.

But at fourteen Xante had found a diversion.

He’d been tall for his age, good-looking even then, and the tourists that had flocked to his home town had provided rich pickings. The older kamaki boys had told him that, having mastered the art of kissing, it was time to move on to the mountains. Riding up on his scooter with a pretty girl who’d worn vibrant colours and make-up, and who’d laughed at his jokes and held tight to his waist, Xante had finally found freedom from the stuffy confines of home.

He had been found out, of course. The school had written to his mother about his poor attendance, and she had called for his uncle, who had located him on the mountain in a rather compromising position. Then Xante had been hauled back home and beaten to within an inch of his life, his mother screaming of the shame he had brought to their family name.

It had put an end to his mischief for a while.

Xante had buckled down at school, and his grades had picked up, but always the mountains had called him.

And still, even today, Xante remembered that surge of triumph he had felt in his kamaki days when he had eked a delicious response from virgin flesh, or had aided a lonely housewife to escape the drudgery of the marital bed and discover her most intimate secrets again.

Ice Queen! Xante smiled to himself; there was no such thing.

Still, he was far too busy for distraction today. He took a seat in the guest lounge, where his computer demanded his attention. Coffee was automatically served, but Xante couldn’t help but observe the woman in question as she walked into the room.

The vigilant head-waiter immediately guided her to a seat, and for the first time Xante realised she was nervous. Xante read women easily; he had grown up mastering the skill. And, though most would have missed it, Karin Wallis was certainly nervous. Her eyes were darting around the room as she entered, but there was such poise to her that most wouldn’t have noticed; all they would have seen was an elegant woman walking in gracefully.

Heads turned as she passed.

Elite sportsmen, who could have and did have the most beautiful women by their sides, noticed her just as Xante had. There was nothing sleazy about it. The women all looked too; there was just something about her that merited more than a passing glance.

Breeding.

That was the word.

Her fine, porcelain features, the elegant way that she sat—her legs slightly to the side, and crossed neatly at her slim ankles—were all noted by Xante.

She wasn’t a hotel guest, of that he was now sure. There was no laptop at her side, either, and she wasn’t checking her watch as if to meet anyone. In fact, she took the proffered menu, and when Xante heard her crisp, well-schooled voice order tea and a sandwich he realised she intended to eat alone.

His phone bleeped. The call was an important one, as it always seemed to be these days, so he took it, speaking in Greek with his broker. He instantly forgot about the blonde, his mind back on business now—until she stood up. It was a move that unwittingly cost Xante an inordinate amount of money, and he ended the call telling his broker that he would deal with the fallout himself, before promptly switching off his phone.

She was wandering around the room, staring intently at the small memorabilia-display on the far wall. She’d lost weight recently, Xante surmised. She was wearing a smart, charcoal suit, but her skirt hung just a fraction too low on her slender hips and her jacket was too wide for her shoulders. Still, she was generously curved where it mattered. At the top of those slender legs was a pert bottom, and as she undid her jacket she unwittingly revealed a glimpse of cashmere bosom. It had been unwitting, as there was a slight prudishness to her that appealed to Xante—because, from his extensive experience, there was no greater pleasure than feeling the uptight come undone.

Yes, prudish described Karin Wallis perfectly. She wore little make-up to accentuate her fine features; her thick, blonde hair sat on the nape of her neck, coiled into a low bun. Her cashmere jumper was worn high on her neck, her skirt low on her knees, and her shoes were just a little too flat and heavy to really set off such magnificent legs. But still she was stunning. Still Xante had to look away, reaching for a newspaper and pretending to read for a full five minutes before it could be considered decent to stand.

Busy or not, Xante decided as he crossed the room, there was always time for a beautiful woman.

Karin didn’t actually know what she was doing here, or even what she was going to do now that she was.

It had been four weeks since she’d realised the rose was missing. She’d confronted her brother Matthew and had found out that he’d sold it. She’d agreed to sell off yet another painting, an ornate dresser and her late mother’s favourite earrings to pay for their sister’s final year of schooling—not realising that when she had signed the documents he’d deliberately beguiled her and had added the jewelled rose to the document too.

The ruby-encrusted rose that had been awarded to her grandfather the year the England rugby team had won every game they had played was so much more than a trinket. It had been her grandfather’s prized possession—Karin’s too. So many times she had escaped the chaos at home to go and spend some time with her widowed grandfather at Omberley Manor, the home she and Matthew now lived in. There had been many afternoons spent listening to the wonderful tales of his glory days, and Karin remembered each one with love. By the time Karin was fifteen, her grandfather had long since washed his hands of his wayward son and wife, and had told Karin that the rose would be hers on his death. For Karin the rose was the last link to her grandfather and to the great man he had been. It also represented everything her family could have been. And, if she protected her sister from the truth just a little while longer, it was a symbol of everything Emily might one day become.

Karin had been frantically searching for the rose for weeks. Next week she had a formal function to attend at Twickenham to celebrate her grandfather’s achievements, and it was assumed she would bring the jewel with her, but every attempt to trace it had proven futile. All she knew was that the rose had been sold to an anonymous bidder—the buyer, apparently, had insisted on anonymity—and Karin didn’t even know if it was a he or she.

Till this morning.

Karin had been taking her morning coffee-break, sitting in the library-staffroom and reading an article in the newspaper about the start of the Six Nations rugby tournament that was due to begin the following February. A small piece about the lavish hotel in Twickenham where the England rugby team would be for a charity event had caught her eye. It would seem that the owner, a Greek shipping tycoon, had an impressive display of sports memorabilia, she’d read—his latest acquisition, the bespoke ruby-rose.

Karin lived a rigid and ordered life. She chose to; it was better that than succumb to the reckless, gluttonous gene that had ultimately killed her parents and was now wreaking havoc on her brother. She rarely acted on impulse.

But an hour ago she had.

Pleading a sudden migraine, she had grabbed her coat and hailed a taxi—and now here she was, in a place where she could barely afford a sandwich. Appearances to the Wallises were everything, so Karin had ordered refreshments and had sat to draw breath and try to form a plan. And then she had seen it, locked behind glass, just a few metres from where she sat.

It had been cleaned.

As she walked over to examine it, for a moment she wondered if it was her rose, but of course it was. In fact, glittering, sparkling and lovingly restored to its pristine glory, it was just as she remembered it from her childhood. Long-ago days when she would press her face to the glass and ask to hold the ‘fairy wand’, as she had called it. Bending her knees slightly and peering closely into the cabinet, she realised she was practically doing that now.

‘My rose is very beautiful, yes?’ A low, heavily accented voice reminded her of her surroundings, and Karin quickly straightened up.

‘Very,’ came her rigid response, her teeth grinding together as this man, who introduced himself as Xante Rossi, dared to tell her some more about it, dared to give her its history. Her head turned in confrontation, especially when he dared to refer to the rose as his.

‘Actually…’ When finally she faced him, Karin only managed a single word. So violent was her reaction to this man, she felt as if she’d been side-swiped. His black eyes slammed into hers and it felt as though she was falling into a dangerous spin. She wanted desperately to slam on the brakes, to swerve, to do something, but instead she stood for a telling moment, just too stunned to react.

Usually she wore her frozen shield well, but, so focussed had she been on the rose, for a moment she had dropped her guard and utterly lost her aloof facade. Her face was flaming, as in one lingering second she took in the raven hair and the straight Roman nose. But it was the black eyes that continued to hold hers for a fraction longer than was decent, his full, sensual mouth curving into a slight smile as he gauged the intensity of her reaction.

This would take no time at all!

‘Here.’ He unlocked the display cabinet. Xante did not need to show off, to impress, but somehow he did want to impress her. He was quietly pleased with his latest acquisition, the ruby rose the perfect accessory for his top-class hotel. He took no real pleasure in the actual possession of it, or the rest of his memorabilia. It was more that he thrived on the drive it had taken to succeed. But the rose really was exceptionally beautiful, and represented the lion-hearted men of England. Opening the cabinet, he pulled out the trinket.

‘It deserves closer inspection; you are welcome to hold it,’ Xante said, and Karin blinked, watching as long-fingered, olive-skinned hands unlocked the cabinet. A heavy, expensive watch was revealed beneath the pristine white cuffs of his shirt, the sharp cut of his immaculate suit moving to accommodate wide shoulders as he bent to retrieve the jewel. Even the back of his head was sexy. Jet-black hair, without a single hint of grey, was superbly cut into a delicious point at the back of his neck. As he stood to his impressive height her guard shot up. Hypervigilant now, Karin deliberately didn’t look at him. He was flirting, and Karin knew it. She didn’t usually look at men like that, didn’t invite them in, and with good reason. If he hadn’t been handing her the rose, she’d have paid her bill and left, would have terminated contact there and then. Except she could feel the familiar, cool weight of the trinket in her hand.

‘Excuse me, sir…’ The hotel manager brought welcome diversion for Karin, but not Xante. ‘Another player has just arrived.’

‘Thank you.’ Xante had to go. It was right that he go, but he also wanted to return. It would be rude to take the jewel from her now and lock it up; she was staring at it so intently, enjoying its beauty, just as Xante was enjoying hers. She had the most exquisite eyes, the only flash of colour in her pale face, a rich turquoise-green, a colour that reminded Xante of the Aegean Sea of home… Dangerous seas, Xante simultaneously reminded himself and discounted. She was a lady; Xante was sure of it. In an instant he’d made up his mind. ‘Enjoy…’ He gave her another devastating smile. ‘I shall be back in just a moment.’

CHAPTER TWO

HE’D left her with it.

As Xante walked off, Karin stood reeling at the turn of events. She’d walked in here with no notion or plan, and the owner had just handed the rose to her and left her with it.

It was a sign surely that it was hers to do with as she wished.

Karin had never stolen a thing in her life. Not once had such a thing entered her head. But it entered it now. She had come here on impulse, to plead with the buyer just to see it… She truly didn’t know. She had no money to buy it back; her brother Matthew had spent it before Karin had even realised the rose was missing.

And now here it was, in her hands, and this man had no idea who she was…

Her heart was pounding, her head whirring with indecision.

It belonged in her family, Karin frantically reasoned. It had been her grandfather’s most treasured possession, and this Greek billionaire with his bags of money had just bid for it! Had just assumed his money gave him the right to own it, to display it… Well, it wasn’t his!

There was a fire-escape door to her right, but her coat was at Reception.

It was a coat, for heaven’s sake… Her mind was racing, sweat beading on her forehead and running between her breasts, as slowly she wandered nearer the door, sure everyone knew what she was contemplating. Glancing around the room, she saw the world appeared to be carrying right on as normal—men laughing, couples chatting, the chinking sound of china as afternoon tea was taken. And, with one last, furtive glance to the lobby, impulse took over for the second time that day.

Pushing open the door, Karin stepped out. The air felt cold and delicious on her burning cheeks, and she ran. Guilt and shame chased her as she dodged people, colliding with them at times, dirty water splashing her stockinged legs; her lungs felt as though they were bursting. Then stars that had been exploding in front of her eyes suddenly went black as her forward movement was rapidly halted by a huge wedge of flesh. Arms wrapped around her from behind as she was expertly tackled and brought down to the floor.

The brute of a man who had felled her, yet who had also partly cushioned her landing, spoke. ‘Going somewhere in a hurry?’

Karin recognised him as the England rugby captain, and prayed, just prayed, that he wouldn’t recognise her at that moment. She lay in stunned silence, her stockings laddered, her knee grazed and her face muddied as, less than gracefully, he hauled her up to embark on her walk of shame. Karin felt sure that her grandfather must be turning in his grave, as the granddaughter he had so proudly adored was frogmarched back to the hotel by one of his beloved England team.

It was the most humiliating walk of her life, but because it was Xante Rossi’s hotel at least the incident was dealt with discreetly—even a common thief was treated with dignity at Xante’s establishment.

She was spared the shame of being dealt with in the lobby; instead she and the captain were guided to the manager’s office. She could hear the distant sound of police sirens as the door closed; the manager stared at her grimly, the captain eyeing her with utter distaste.

‘It’s not how it looks,’ Karin croaked, still clutching the rose, holding it in her hands, the evidence irrefutable.

‘I’d say it’s exactly how it looks,’ came the captain’s surly response.

‘Let’s just wait for the police,’ the manager said politely.

For Xante, most of the event had gone unnoticed. Chatting to his staff and guests, he had been mildly aware of some activity in the lounge, but Albert’s well-oiled crisis machine meant that even he hadn’t noticed the drama. He had looked over, frowning, when he realised that she wasn’t there. His mind was not on the jewel, but the woman; he was more than ready to commence from where he had left off.

And then Albert discreetly told him what had just occurred.

He was incensed.

Not just about the trinket, not just with her, but with himself.

He read women. Apart from making an obscene amount of money, that was what he did best. He had grown up on it, thrived on it, and after his bitter breakup with Athena he had honed his skill and perfected it, determined he would never be beguiled again. Yet Karin Wallis just had.

He would press charges! Xante’s face was as black as thunder as he walked unannounced into the manager’s office. He would have her prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Let’s see how ladylike she looks being loaded into the back of a police car, Xante thought as he slammed into the office.

And then he saw her face.

Drained of colour, streaked with mud, her green eyes pleaded with him. Her legs nervously bobbed up and down as she sat, and he took in her grazed and bloodied knee. It was then that Xante remembered where he knew her name from.

Wallis.

The rose he had purchased had been awarded to the late, great Henry Wallis—and now, here before him, was the greedy seller. Even Xante had been taken aback by the high reserve-price that had been placed on the rose, but his appetite had been whetted, and he had paid the inordinate sum. Now it seemed the little vixen had decided she wanted it back.

She made him sick!

‘I saw her leaving with it,’ the captain explained. ‘I chased her.’

‘What were you thinking, Karin?’ He saw the flash of question in her eyes as to how he knew her name. Xante’s mind was working overtime. Henry Wallis was a legend, a legend who deserved protection. His intention had been to press charges, but with the England rugby team staying at his hotel he could do without this type of publicity. No. He stared into Karin’s curious eyes and decided he would deal with her himself.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her teeth were chattering so violently she could barely get the sentence out. ‘Please, I’ll do anything…’

Which was something to work with, at least!

‘My apologies, officer.’ He flashed his charming smile to the police officer present. ‘We appear to have wasted your time. There’s been a misunderstanding.’

‘She was caught stealing…’

‘We were arguing!’ Xante interrupted. ‘This is her grandfather’s jewel; Karin does not like the fact that I have it on display, do you, darling?’ He watched her nervous swallow and smiled his black smile at her. ‘She feels it cheapens his memory.’

‘You’re Karin Wallis?’ The England captain winced in recognition. ‘Of course you are. I’m so sorry…’

‘You were not to know,’ Xante assured him, rapidly clearing things up as Karin sat there reeling. ‘Come.’ He offered her his hand, his face smiling; only she could see the dangerous glint in his eyes. ‘We’ll go upstairs and sort this out.’

She didn’t have much choice, but for an instant Karin actually considered calling the police back and confessing; anything was preferable to going up to this man’s room. She could sense his anger, sense danger, and for Karin it was terrifying. As they stood in the lift, his black eyes bored into her. She stood rigid, refusing to look at him, fingering the scar on her wrist and wondering how she could possibly extricate herself from this mess. Thinking of her sister Emily at boarding school, and the very public humiliation she would have suffered had Xante Rossi pressed charges.

‘Sit down,’ he ordered when they reached their destination, but not unkindly. He poured her a large glass of water from a jug and watched as she drank. He refilled her glass, before taking himself to his desk and sitting directly opposite her.

‘Are you okay?’

Funny, given the circumstances, that he cared enough to ask. But Karin was strangely touched that he had. ‘I’d like to apologise.’ She tried to look him in the eye, except she couldn’t. ‘For the misunderstanding.’

‘Karin.’ Xante halted her there. ‘We both know the truth, remember? You came here with every intention of stealing the rose.’

‘No.’ Karin pleated the hem of her skirt with her fingers, wondering how to possibly explain the moment of madness that had come over her. ‘I came here to talk with you. I’m supposed to be attending a function on Saturday at Twickenham to honour my grandfather. It was his rose, and I’m expected to bring it—only it was stolen from my home; I’ve been trying to track it down…’ Karin knew that if she were strapped to a lie detector it would be smoking now. Could almost see the needle waving frantically as she spoke, and, worse, she knew that Xante knew she was lying. ‘I never intended to steal it, it was…’ His black eyes just stared and she willed him to halt her, but he didn’t. ‘It was just on impulse. I’m probably not making much sense.’

‘Take your time.’ Xante gave her a thin smile. ‘I’m not in any rush.’

‘I’m sorry, okay?’

‘For lying or for stealing?’

‘I’m telling the truth.’

‘Could I just say something here?’ Xante stared at the top of her head as she lowered her burning face. ‘I believe handling stolen goods is an offence—have you heard of that, Karin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which is one of the reasons I am extremely careful in all the acquisitions I make. This is all rather worrying; my buyer is normally meticulous with his background checks.’ He stood up and headed over to a filing cabinet, chatting politely, but all the while twisting the knife. ‘You reported the theft of the rose to the police, I assume?’

Bastard!

The word boiled inside her. Sitting up in the chair, she lifted her head, her chin set in defiance; she refused to let him see her shame.

He handed her a sheet of paper, but Karin didn’t take it. She didn’t even look at it; she knew exactly what was written there. ‘Is that your signature?’

‘I thought I was signing just for the painting,’ Karin attempted, but she knew it was hopeless. What would he care that Matthew had duped her? Why sit and shame herself further by admitting that she was trying to run a stately home on an assistant’s wage, and that they’d agreed to sell the painting to pay for Emily’s school feels because there was no money left?

‘So it wasn’t, as you earlier said, stolen?’ Xante persisted.

‘Clearly not.’

‘So it is mine?’

She ground her teeth together. It wasn’t his; technically, legally, it was his, but still she couldn’t bring herself to admit it.

‘It is mine, Karin,’ he answered when she didn’t. ‘You sold it, and just because you’ve suddenly changed your mind, just because you’re a spoilt little rich girl used to taking whatever she wants and getting her own way, it doesn’t alter the fact that the rose now belongs to me. Had you chosen to discuss this rationally, then maybe we could have come to some agreement.’

Xante stared at the rose on his desk, and wondered what had possessed her to part with it in the first place. He couldn’t believe the beautiful, elegant woman that had walked into his hotel less than an hour ago had so easily fooled him.

‘I made a mistake today.’ Her voice was as clear as a bell now. Karin was frantically trying to regain control, to salvage what she could from this appalling situation, but she refused to bow to tears. She was sitting straight in the chair, her hands neatly in her lap, staring back at him as if she were the one conducting the interview. ‘The rose means a lot to the Wallis family; there is a lot of history behind it. I don’t expect you understand.’

‘Why?’ A small coil of black smoke seemed to be rising inside him. Any sympathy that had doused his anger evaporated, as so coolly she stared back at him.

‘There’s a lot of tradition.’

‘Karin.’ He halted her there and then. ‘Greeks have tradition and history too, but in any culture a thief is a thief.’

‘Will you press charges?’

‘I am not going to waste the police’s time again.’

‘What about the rose?’ Karin asked, but Xante just smiled.

‘Ah, that’s right, you have a function next Saturday.’ He appeared to think about it, his shrewd eyes narrowing for a moment, and then he merely shrugged. ‘I will make a deal with you. You give me your number, and if it goes back on the market you’ll be the first to know.’

It was pointless, because she couldn’t afford it anyway, but rather than admit that she duly wrote her number down.

‘Well, thank you.’ She couldn’t believe she was getting away so lightly, but even as she made to stand she soon realised her mistake.

‘I haven’t finished yet, Karin.’

‘I don’t see that there’s anything else to discuss…’

‘Oh, but there is.’ There were several women waiting for Xante’s summons, all vying for their place on his arm tonight—but Xante suddenly felt it appropriate that he arrive tonight with Henry Wallis’s granddaughter on his arm. He told himself it had nothing to do with the instant flare of approval he had seen in the England captain’s eyes when he had realised who Karin was.

‘There is a formal dinner here tonight in aid of charity.’ He watched a frown deepen between her brows—a rare pleasure to observe these days compared to the botoxed dates that usually graced his arms. ‘Given I have just implied to everyone that you are my mistress, there is no other way.’

‘You want me to go to dinner with you?’

‘No,’ Xante corrected. ‘There was someone I wanted to take to dinner tonight, but due to the circumstances, unfortunately, it now has to be you.’

‘But why would you take me? I tried to steal…’

‘You would have to be extremely stupid to try again. Anyway, you have left me with no choice. There is no question of my going alone and, thanks to your performance downstairs, it is now assumed we are an item.’

‘And it’s just dinner?’ Karin checked.

‘In a moment you will no doubt go to tidy yourself…’ Xante mocked her with a black laugh. ‘And, when you do, please consider my vantage point when you posed that question. I can assure you, dinner will more than suffice!’

‘I’ll go home and get ready.’

He halted her as she stood. ‘Forgive me if I appear mistrusting, but you will get ready here, I think.’

‘I didn’t exactly come dressed for a five-star ball!’

‘There is a beauty salon downstairs; I will have some clothes sent over from a boutique.’ He gave a thin smile at her raised eyebrows. Clearly, she thought, this man was used to grooming women. ‘I will take you to my suite.’ He must have seen her tense, because he answered her unspoken thoughts straight away. ‘I will shower and change in here. I will come for you at seven.’

As easy as that, he sorted it. He took her along the corridor, and she entered a vast, luxury suite. One of the perks of living in a five star hotel, Karin realised, was that one was always ready for unexpected guests. Her heels sank into the thick carpet, her eyes taking in the gleaming furnishings. Karin was used to being surrounded by nice things, and shouldn’t really have been so overwhelmed, but it only highlighted what her home was lacking. These things were tended to and lovingly polished; the thick, heavy drapes no doubt didn’t shoot a layer of dust when drawn, like the ones at home.

‘I’ll ring the boutique; they will send someone over. If you don’t mind organising your appointment at the salon?’

‘Will I get a booking?’ Karin glanced at her watch. Four p.m. on a Friday afternoon wasn’t exactly the ideal time to book in for a complete overhaul.

‘You are ringing from my room,” Xante said. ‘Nothing will be too much trouble.’

And then he left.

Karin half-expected a puff of smoke to linger in his absence. If only she had three wishes!

Well, not spending the night in jail might count as one, Karin conceded as she rang down to the salon and was told that someone would be with her within the hour.

The boutique was just as rapid to cooperate, despatching a choice selection of clothes, along with an assistant. Karin declined the assistant’s help, and tried on the dresses in the privacy of the spacious bathroom, selecting a heavy, blush-coloured velvet that fitted like a glove. When Karin’s hair had been blasted into submission, her face, hands and feet all painted and pretty, she accepted that, given how frugally she’d tried to live these past couple of years, she’d just maybe unwittingly got her second wish.

The beautician held up her gown. She was now coiffed and made up; time was moving on. ‘Let me help you into your dress.’

‘I can manage from here, thank you,’ Karin said primly.

‘But the zip…’

‘I’ll be fine.’ Karin’s crisp voice was non-negotiable. Finally alone, dressed in the hotel’s bath-robe, Karin stared at her reflection and hardly recognised herself. She’d always been more into books than make-up, and her dress style was usually conservative at best. With good reason.

But she knew tonight she’d attract stares. She always had, in some respects. That wasn’t vanity talking; her face and name were recognisable even when she made no effort. But with her hair so spectacularly pinned, and her make-up skilfully applied, she was honest enough with herself to know that she looked good. Attractive, even. Sexy, perhaps…

It wasn’t the stares that worried her, though, it was Xante.

She’d never had such a violent attraction to a man; even David, who she had been with for months, had never affected her in that toe-curling way Xante had. In that instant, when he had first come over before her foolish actions, there had been this shock of attraction, which now as the hour approached she couldn’t erase from her mind.

Karin swallowed down a rush of nerves that swarmed like butterflies in her throat as she peeled off her dressing gown.

Trying not to look in the mirror, she pulled on the French-lace panties and lacy, strapless bra she had chosen. They were beautiful, the black lace against the sheer pink, the little beads in the centre. But Karin loathed them. Their beauty and fragility only accentuated the unsightly thick scarring that laced an ugly network on her lower chest, thick bubbles of skin where the hot metal of the car wreckage had seared her flesh. The surgeon had told her, when her wounds had settled, that something possibly could be done to disguise them—only nothing ever had been.

Her parents had been loath to discuss the circumstances of the car accident and push for further treatment, and in turn Karin had been reluctant to show her body and live the nightmare again. It had been far easier just to cover the scars and pretend they didn’t exist.

Except they did exist.

And, no matter what the self-help books had said about the topic—that she should love herself and the rest would follow; that a loving man would accept her, faults and all—it actually didn’t work like that. Because she’d trusted David, had told him her past when he’d insisted on hearing it, had shown him her scars when he’d assured her it wouldn’t change anything. Only it had.

Over and over, despite repeated, desperate attempts, he had rejected her in the most intimate way possible.

Karin and her dashing army captain, society’s rising golden-couple, had, as the papers had said, ‘amicably’ parted. Yet there had been nothing amicable about the fresh batch of scars David had left her with—emotional scars, that were as deep and as raw as the ones on her body.

A thick, mascara-laced tear slid down her cheek, and Karin quickly dabbed at it. No one must ever guess that for now her life was anything but perfect.

For Emily’s sake.

So she pulled on the dress and stood, seemingly resplendent, draped in full-length blush-velvet that hugged her curves, the heavy halter-neck jacking up her bosom. Her cleavage was only slightly revealed, but with bare arms too it felt as if acres of flesh were on show; all Karin felt was exposed.

Hearing the knock on the door, Karin took a deep breath and held it as Xante entered the room. She stared into those black eyes and felt a flutter of something unfamiliar deep inside. Her own arousal unnerved her. She’d never found it easy to look a man in the eye, only with Xante she wanted to, and that was what scared her. His dark, brooding good looks did nothing to soothe her; she could almost smell the testosterone in the air that surrounded them. Karin knew that, despite the luxury suite and the designer suit, despite all the trappings, Xante was a bad boy made good. Instantly she was on the defensive. She picked up a small, jewelled bag and dropped her lip gloss in before giving him a brittle smile.

‘Right; let’s get this over with.’

‘Karin…’ His low voice, his thick accent, seemed to stroke her inside, turning her into a mess of nerves. But she hid it well, meeting his eyes with icy defiance. ‘We can have a long, miserable night exchanging barbs, resenting every minute we are together, or we can try and enjoy this evening.’

She gave a terse nod.

‘You look very beautiful.’

‘Thank you.’ How clipped and formal she sounded, compared to his languorous ease. Utterly comfortable dressed to the nines, he was a man completely at ease with his potent sexuality, and Karin would have killed for just an ounce of his confidence. ‘So do you.’ Her words were wooden, her smile forced, and, closing her bag, she crossed the room and walked out to the mirrored lift.

Even if it was more for the guests’ benefit than hers, she was rather grateful when his hand found hers. Hot and warm, it closed around hers, and she gripped him back.

‘You’ll be fine.’ Just as the lift hit the lobby, he turned and smiled at her, and offered her reassurance— the same smile that had greeted her when they’d first met, a smile that wasn’t mocking or superior, just welcoming.

As the lift door opened and they stepped out as a couple, Karin was careful not to make her third wish.

Xante Rossi was no doubt used to dating the world’s most beautiful women. If he’d known her past, if he knew her present, he would never truly want her.

It was imperative she keep her distance.

Removing her hand, she turned her attention to the guests and did what she always did when duty called— she sparkled.

CHAPTER THREE

BY THE time seven p.m. came round, Xante was seriously questioning his decision to have Karin escort him tonight.

He had looked her up, of course. Xante had already known about her grandfather’s achievements—Henry Wallis’s stunning rugby-career was legendary—but he had found himself reading further on and discovering more. Henry had an only child—a son, George—who’d had a charmed life too; attending the best schools, studying and attaining a law degree, then being called to the bar. The Wallis name had continued to shine brightly; George had married the stunning society-beauty Sophia, and together they had produced three ravishing blonde children. They had been the talk of London. Sophia had been a high-profile patron of many charities, quietly supporting her husband’s non-existent career—to Xante’s trained eyes, anyway. An invitation to a famous Wallis party had been, Xante had read with an ironic smile, an invitation to join the elite of London society.

Yet even fairy tales had their dark side. There had been the odd salacious article that had always been quickly refuted by the Wallis family’s spin-doctors. George Wallis had been furthering his studies, or working on an international case, not drowning in alcohol and debt. But the occasional chink had certainly appeared in the solid Wallis armour. Still, all had been forgiven when two years ago their charmed, golden lives had come to an untimely end as the result of a boating accident. Their only son Matthew had taken it badly but, given the circumstances, the press had forgiven his errant ways. Karin, it would seem, had dealt with her grief by roaming the globe in search of freezing winters or searing summers, skiing in Switzerland or lying on a beach in the south of France, as the youngest Wallis, Emily, completed her studies at boarding school.

The Wallis family’s debauched ways had once briefly impinged on Xante—it had been one of his company’s boats that the Wallises had died in. It had taken less than five minutes to access their files to find that, in the aftermath of the accident, insurance investigators had questioned the mechanical safety of the boat. His lawyers in turn had accessed the coroner’s report and uncovered a few other salient facts, and in no uncertain terms his team had informed the investigators of the boating company’s impeccable safety-record. It had also been pointed out that both the boat’s occupants’ blood and drug-alcohol readings would have rendered a walk in the park dangerous.

Ah, yes; reading between the lines, as Xante always did, Karin’s appalling behaviour this morning now made sense. The whole Wallis family had feasted like pigs in a trough on her grandfather’s success—had stuffed themselves till the table had lain bare—and still Karin was greedy for more.

Yes, Xante had been irritated and less than impressed as he had sharply rapped on the door to his own suite, eager to get this night over with and to relegate Karin Wallis to the past.

And then he saw her, and again rationale was lost.

Her slender, willowy figure was draped in blush-pink velvet, her pale arms and creamy décolletage mocking, laughing, spitting a hundred times over at the fake-bronze limbs that usually embraced him. She wore no jewellery, except for two diamond studs; she needed nothing else. Her long blonde hair was piled high, sleek and elegant, and all Xante wanted to do was take it down, to unravel it clip by hidden clip.

Kneed in the groin with longing for a moment, all he could do was stay still, to compose himself for a quiet moment as he acknowledged her beauty. He remembered in that moment all that had first captivated him about Karin, and chose to forget their sullied meeting for this one night, to push aside all he knew of her—to just revel in the woman she was.

Walking to the lift, he could feel her tension, despite the cool demeanour. And when his hand located hers Xante expected her to sharply pull away. Instead he was rewarded with the sweet feel of the pressure of her fingers, and then everything changed.

Karin Wallis was his guest this evening, and with every unfolding moment Xante was discovering the difference that made. Her company was engaging, quietly informed; she chatted easily with the most esteemed guest and their partners. And, when the players realised who she was, she was accepted into the fold in a way Xante could never be.

For a while it irked him—it was his hotel, but not his night, and the seating had been arranged so that the players and elite guests were seated at the top table. Only a quiet word must have been had because, with Karin Wallis as his date, suddenly he was sitting amongst the elite now with Karin beside him. Suddenly he was the toast of the table, accepted in a way he never had been before. Still, it was hard to remain irritated with such a rich tapestry of guests, and almost easy to dismiss the part she’d played in his acceptance.

To just enjoy the night, as he had instructed her to do.

Karin declined the wine, taking Xante’s word for it that it was excellent, but asking for sparkling mineral-water instead.

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Never?’

‘Never.’ Karin nodded, accepting her mineral water and blowing out a small breath, realising that she actually was enjoying herself. Oh, she was exquisitely aware of the man sitting beside her, could feel his hand on her arm occasionally, could feel him invade her personal space when he leant over as she spoke—more demonstrative, more expressive, than David had ever been. But here in the bright lights of the ballroom, here surrounded by fellow diners, Karin knew she could keep him at arm’s length, and safe in that knowledge she had allowed herself to relax.

‘The food is amazing, Xante.’

It was. The roast beef was so tender you could have cut it with a butter knife; trays of roasted vegetables were spread before them, and Yorkshire puddings as fluffy as clouds, which Karin smothered in thick, rich gravy.

‘You would not believe the thought that has gone into this menu,’ Xante admitted, relieved at the reception of the simple fare. ‘I have a very highly strung, but genius French chef—Jacques.’

‘Oh?’ Karen’s fork, laden with very English fare, paused midway to her mouth.

‘Last year we hosted the team. The food was superb; Jacques had spent days preparing. I found him in tears the next morning when he found out most of the team had ordered club sandwiches from room service. This year we will make sure no one goes to bed hungry.’

They certainly wouldn’t; the sumptuous roast was followed with a selection of puddings—upside-down cake smothered in golden syrup or spotted dick—all washed down with the most delectable custard.

‘My grandmother used to make this…’ A flood of warm memories bathed her, her cheeks pink as she closed her eyes and took a bite.

‘You were close to your grandparents?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And your parents?’ He shook his head in apology. He knew that he’d crossed the line and was cross with himself that he’d actually forgotten, as they’d dined together, the real reason she was here.

Karen gave a bright smile, and tried to resurrect the conversation. ‘Will you go to any of the Six Nation matches next year?’

‘One or two, I hope.’

‘Surely if they’re staying in your hotel…?’

‘I am not often here.’

‘Oh.’

‘I own many hotels—though this one,’ Xante admitted, ‘is my favourite. But the hotels are only a part of my business.’ He chose not to add ‘a small part’, chose not to add that he was the most successful shipping tycoon in modern times and that he employed more people than the hotel staff just to count and track his vast wealth.

‘Your parents must be proud.’ It was Karin that tipped the conversation into the personal this time.

‘My father died when I was nine. In a boating accident.’

‘The same as mine,’ Karin said. ‘More recently, but they died in a boating accident too.’

No; he bit on his tongue rather than say it. His father had died working; his father had been sober; his father had died because the company had sent him out in a badly maintained vessel. It had been nothing like Karin’s parents’ amoral end. Instead of saying it, though, he gave a gracious nod.

‘How about your mother?’ Karin asked.

‘There is only one thing that will make my mother truly proud: it is about this big.’ He held his hands a foot or so apart, his smile so devastating Karin found she was smiling too. ‘It makes a lot of noise and smells. I am back there next week for a christening. My cousin Stellios—he is also my best friend—has just acquired one.’

‘A smelly, noisy thing?’ Karin checked, and Xante nodded.

‘So I will suffer the weekend being reminded that I should be settling down with a nice Greek girl and producing babies instead of wasting my time with sport and work and nonsense like that.’

‘Do you have many brothers and sisters?’

‘Just me.’ Xante rolled his eyes.

‘Oh dear!’ Karin smiled, really starting to enjoy herself now. Xante Rossi up close and personal, apart from being seriously gorgeous, also had this rather dry humour that appealed. ‘Well, good luck next weekend.’

There was something on the tip of his tongue—right there on the very tip—the ludicrous suggestion that she come with him. But thankfully formalities took over; the MC stood, the lights dimmed, and Xante breathed out a small sigh of relief.

Since his break-up with Athena, he had never brought a woman back to his island, and if he suddenly were to now the implication would be huge to his family. It had been but a moment of madness, Xante decided. Karin Wallis might have all the attributes of a lady, but under that dress she had a grazed knee where she’d been tripped up stealing. At that moment she leant over to say something, just an observation about the speeches, and Xante caught a scent of her perfume. A stray curl just dusted the edge of his cheek, and he was so lost he had to ask Karin to repeat herself.

The speeches and formalities went on for ever, but neither Karin nor Xante seemed to mind. Sitting together, listening, occasionally talking, they truly appeared a couple. Only, just as Karin truly started to relax, the highlight of the night started—the charity auction. Everything seemed to be auctioned, from Caribbean holidays, a luxurious winter retreat at Lake Como and baubles from Tiffany’s that Xante had acquired at a preposterous price for his godchild. And yet all it did was make Karin feel sick. The copious spending, the haemorrhage of money, was all too familiar to her.

But the lavish spending had been just a pale precursor. When the auctioneer silenced the room, the major prize was announced—for a group of up to twenty to train alongside the English rugby team for a week at Twickenham and have access to the top coaches, trainers and masseurs. A headmaster of a grand all-boys school opened the bidding, and Karin watched as the fever in the room mounted. She could feel that there was more than a desire to obtain the ultimate prize—there was the boast of wealth that she abhorred. Like her parents, like Matthew, who’d thrown money away on things they neither wanted nor needed just because it had to be seen that they could. And when Xante trumped the biddings, when the room burst into applause and congratulated him on the obscene amount he had paid for something he would probably never use, Karin was hard pushed to play the part of the dutiful partner and smile at his excess.

That she was less than impressed was blatantly obvious; as Xante pocketed the golden ticket he saw her tongue roll in her cheek.

‘You don’t seem too pleased.’

‘It’s not my concern,’ Karin said tartly.

‘No,’ he smiled. ‘It’s not.’

They sat in tense silence—tense because Xante wasn’t the only one realising how much a partner could change one’s status. Aware of her Ice Queen reputation, usually Karin stood apart at this sort of function, unable to relax and enjoy herself, rigid and awkward. It just compounded the rumours. But just walking in the room tonight she had felt the shift.

Men had looked at her differently—and the women too. She was invited into their circles in a way she had never been before, moving beyond the awkward, polite small-talk that was her usual fare, and chatting, laughing and joking with these acquaintances as if now they were friends, as if now they wanted to know her.

For a while she hadn’t been able to put her finger on why she was being treated differently. But, staring over at him—dark, brooding and restless in the chair beside her, his clean-shaven jaw already dusted with the shadow of the morning, his hands tapping an impatient tune with the coaster—Karin got it. It had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Xante.

Like a rumble of thunder in the distance on a perfect day, there was this dangerous edge to him. His sensual lips barely moved, yet never had a mouth been more expressive. His body was this ripple of energy and tension beneath his immaculate suit, and his eyes when they met hers spoke of sex and sin and wicked, private places—even if his words were supremely polite. And if she were with Xante, if this night were real, then the newspapers had surely misrepresented her and the company tonight had therefore misinterpreted her— because to be with Xante, to be the woman that held him, meant there was surely more to her than met the eye.

It was with trepidation that she walked to the dance floor with him, as if her awkwardness would reveal their lie.

But awkwardness Xante could deal with. His teenage years had, after all, been spent in a virtual playground of tourists—women out for two weeks of fun and romance in the Greek summer sun, which Xante had been only too happy to provide. He’d driven them on his battered scooter around the islands, their thighs gripping him as the delicious scent of arousal filled the air; he’d taken them to secluded spots, swearing he would write, would ring, that they were the one… So convincing was he that in those moments Xante had almost believed it to be true. It was the chase Xante had relished, the prize of the most unwitting surrender he had sought—and Karin Wallis, tense and rigid in his arms, provided the challenge he had for so long craved. Women these days were just too eager, too ready to please.

But not this woman.

Here on the dimly lit dance floor he held her loosely, feeling her slender, fragile form, his hands low and loose on her waist. He was in no rush. Xante knew exactly what he was doing.

Karin didn’t!

All night his eyes had spoken of want, and there had been a raw sexuality to him, this licentious edge that no amount of wealth or trappings could smooth. It had unnerved Karin. Oh, Xante had behaved like the perfect gentleman, and to her surprise he was still doing so now. To her disappointment, perhaps? There was no hint of suggestion in the way he held her; he might as well have been doing a duty-dance with an aunt.

‘It shouldn’t go on much longer now,’ Xante said politely to the top of her head.

‘Good,’ she said to his chest, yet again there was this surge of disappointment within her that didn’t equate with logic. She didn’t want him to want her, and yet she did.

His hands on her waist were warm, the subtle scent of him stronger now they were closer, when Karin made her third wish. She wished that this evening were true—that she was the woman who could hold Xante’s attention, was the woman that he bedded; that the papers and their rumours were wrong. She knew what the press said about her, knew people thought her frozen and frigid. But beneath that cool surface, that brittle shell, was a woman who yearned to be held and adored, and till now it had proved impossible. Yet here in the darkness, here in his arms, somehow she was able to forget. She felt as if she were dancing on the edge of the sun, that with one false move, one trip, she would fall right in, would dissolve to a delicious nothing.

His hands were just a touch lower now, or maybe she was imagining it. But they seemed to have slipped a delicious fraction, warming her lower back, both little fingers just at the start of the curve of her buttocks. She was supremely aware of her body, only not in the horribly awkward way of before. This was different awareness now; the warmth of his hands spread, this swirl of arousal hung heavy between them. Xante’s establishment was way too elegant for something as tacky as a smoke machine, but it was as close as she could come to describing the thick cloak of desire that swirled around them, permeating her skin, her hair, even the air she dragged in. Bubbles fizzed in her veins, little fizzes that buzzed into unfamiliar places. Aware suddenly of her breasts, of their weight peaking in the soft dress, her skin prickling with a need for more contact, low in her stomach she felt an unfamiliar pull, like a string bag tightening. Her body responded as any woman’s would, only as Karin’s surely mustn’t.

She could smell his cologne more strongly now, and as his cheek grazed hers Karin could feel the scratch of new growth just beneath his firm jaw. She felt the subtle nuzzle of his lips in her hair, on her cheeks, and the whispers of breath dusting her ear as his mouth slowly moved towards hers; it would actually be a relief were he to kiss her.

Except he didn’t.

Instead he pulled his head back and pinned her with his eyes, told her without a single word exactly what he wanted to do, exactly the places he would take her to, if only she might come to his bed. The skin felt raw on her cheeks as it burnt with indecent thoughts, wanting so badly to rest her lips on his, to give in to the subtle pressure of his hands and let their bodies mesh. Except to give in now would mean she must reveal herself later, and the glimpse of disappointment that would surely ensue gave her the strength to hold back, to avert her eyes and loosen his embrace.

He’d almost had her. He’d felt her warm beneath his hands, had seen the naked lust in her eyes, and there had been a rare sense of privilege as he’d witnessed the first stirs of her thaw. But all too soon it had faded. Before the music had ended, he had felt her distance. The lights blazed on, farewells being given, cheeks being proffered and the magic ending. And for Xante the challenge was set.

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