‘So how come you dramatically ripped up the cheque I left you?’

Incredulously, she stared back. ‘You know exactly why. You paid me over double what I was owed!’ she accused.

He raised his eyebrows.'That’s the first time someone’s ever complained that I’ve overpaid them,’ he drawled.

‘Don’t be obtuse, Nikolai—you know exactly what I mean.’

‘No, I don’t. I thought you were good at your job and deserved the extra payment.’

‘What? Or the extra services provided?’

He froze. ‘You think that I’m the kind of man who pays for sex?’

‘Can we keep your ego out of it for a moment? This isn’t about you—it’s about me’, she shot back, swallowing down the intense hurt she still felt at the memory of him waving that wretched envelope at her as if she was some kind of hooker. ‘So why the over-generous gesture, if not for that?’

For a moment he was silent as he battled with his feelings, angry that she was forcing him to offer some kind of explanation—he who never had to explain himself to anyone. ‘I realised that I’d misjudged you,’ he said heavily.'That you were not the woman I thought you to be.’

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Too Proud to be Bought

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To David Small—a true knight in shining armour!

CONTENTS

Cover

Extract

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS like looking at a stranger.

A glamorous, sexy stranger.

Zara blinked in disbelief at the image which gleamed back at her from the long mirror—all curves and shadows and expanses of unaccustomed bare flesh. How long since she had looked like this—like a real woman instead of a drudge? Though come to think of it, she could never remember looking quite like this before.

The acid-green satin dress clung to her body like syrup, delicate fabric pooling to the floor in a silken stream. It was light years away from her usual jeans and sloppy T-shirts—but the differences didn’t stop there. Her eyes looked huge and sooty above carefully highlighted cheekbones and her usual ponytail had been replaced with a slick and grown-up chignon, leaving her bare neck feeling curiously vulnerable. Fake diamonds sparkled at her throat and hung in glittering waterfalls from her ears. She narrowed her eyes. Didn’t she look just a little…ostentatious?

Resisting the urge to chew on her carefully manicured nails, she looked down at her friend, who was kneeling on the floor at her feet. ‘Emma, I can’t,’ she croaked.

‘Can’t what?’ Emma gave the silken hem of the dress a final tug.

‘I can’t gatecrash this party—I’m a waitress, not a socialite! I can’t target some mystery Russian billionaire because you think he’d be good for your business. And I can’t carry off wearing the kind of outfit which makes me feel as if I’m not wearing anything at all. Shall I go on?’

Emma took the pin out of her mouth. ‘Rubbish! Of course you can. You’ll be doing us both a favour. I get to showcase one of my dresses to one of the world’s richest men—and you get your first night out since heaven only knows when. Believe me, Zara, chances like this don’t come along very often. Nikolai Komarov owns department stores in every major city in the world and he’s a connoisseur of beautiful women. He’s itching to have me design a collection for him or to clothe his latest mistress—he just doesn’t know it yet!’

Zara glanced down at the gossip magazine which was open to reveal a black and white photo of the Russian oligarch and more doubts pricked over her skin as his pale and strangely intense eyes seemed to bore straight into her like twin laser beams. ‘And I’m supposed to give him your business card?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because…because it’s like I’m going to be touting for trade at a social occasion.’

‘Nonsense. They’ll all be doing it. It’s what’s known in the business world as networking. It isn’t as if you’re hurting anybody, is it? And anyway, you could do with something like this. How long is it since you had any real enjoyment?’

Enjoyment? Zara’s fingers tightened around the little feathered concoction of a handbag she was holding because her friend’s question had touched a nerve. And maybe the nerve was rawer than she’d thought. It did seem an eternity since she had been out anywhere—unless it was to the grocery store or pharmacy at the end of the road. Her beloved godmother’s final illness had dragged on and on until death had seemed like a release from all the little indignities and sadnesses she had borne along the way.

For months, Zara’s life had been dominated by the sickroom while she had nursed the woman who hadn’t even been a blood relative. But her loyalty to the lady who’d taken her in after the death of her parents meant that she’d dropped her studies to care for her without a second thought. Day and night she had juggled meals, care, bills and medicines—and waitressing for Emma’s mother’s catering company whenever she could squeeze it in.

And when it had all been over, and the last of the all-too-few sympathy cards had been read, Zara had felt lonely and bereft. As if too much had happened for her to ever contemplate returning to the carefree student life she’d known before. There were still debts to be settled, too—and her grim determination not to lose the little house she’d been bequeathed seemed to dominate her thoughts. An unknown future lay ahead of her, and it was scary.

‘So why not have a little fun, Zara? Why not be a Cinderella for the night and dance all your cares away? You know you’ll be doing me a huge favour.’

Zara gave a wry smile as Emma’s voice butted into her thoughts. Could she? If only cares could simply be danced away—how much simpler the world would be. Yet maybe her friend was right. What was stopping her from having a little light-hearted diversion? Unless she was secretly yearning for the alternative scenario of yet another night spent worrying about the stack of unpaid bills, which wouldn’t seem to go away …

‘Okay,’ she said, drawing her shoulders back and taking one last look at her reflection. ‘I’ll go. I’ll enjoy wearing this exquisite gown you’ve created and try to enjoy being on the other side of a tray for once—drinking the champagne instead of handing it out! And I’ll walk up to this Russian oligarch of yours and give him your card. How’s that? ‘

‘Perfect! I’ve primed the other waitresses about it and they think it’s a wonderful idea. I guess they can’t really object, since my mum is the one who’s employing them and she’s not even in the country! Now go! Go on—go!’

Clutching the crumpled money her friend had thrust at her, Zara walked out of the small studio in too-high heels and hailed the welcoming light of a black cab before she had time to change her mind about a scheme which seemed to be growing crazier by the second.

The summer evening was still light and every flower in the capital seemed to be in bloom, but as the taxi drew up outside the Embassy her heart began to race. What if she was discovered—a humble waitress masquerading as a bonafide guest? An imposter who had no right to be there. Wouldn’t they throw her out and kick up the most tremendous fuss in the process? Yet the man who collected her ticket at the door did nothing other than flick her a quick, admiring glance and Zara drew a deep breath as she walked into the gleaming ballroom.

The vast room looked spectacular. Glittering chandeliers threw diamond lights over tall vases of scarlet roses and a string quartet was playing on a raised dais in front of a shiny, bare dance-floor. She glanced at the other guests and thought how amazing they looked.

Especially the female guests. Their diamonds were the real thing and surely that stood out by a mile. Was the rich Russian really going to be impressed by what she was wearing—a hand-crafted gown made by an ambitious young fashion student—when there was so much screamingly expensive couture in this room?

She could see a couple of men turning round to glance at her and their women partners following suit. Could they guess that she was operating outside her comfort zone—that she was actually trespassing? Suddenly, Emma’s mad scheme seemed destined to fail and, nervously, Zara grabbed a glass of champagne from a girl she’d worked with on countless occasions and took a mouthful of cold wine. The alcohol relaxed her a little—especially when a couple of the other waitresses she knew winked and murmured hello in passing.

But something was making her feel uncomfortable—some sixth sense, which told her she was being watched.

Now you’re just being paranoid, she told herself.

Yet the sensation persisted as she moved through the glamorous throng until she found her eyes being drawn unwillingly to a man who was standing at the far end of the ballroom.

And suddenly, she couldn’t stop looking.

It was like seeing a drop of blood on virgin snow—because he stood out from everyone else in the room. His hair was the colour of beaten gold, his eyes were glacially blue and he possessed a hard and arrogant mouth, which spoke of experience and sensuality. Zara realised that the man’s high, sculpted cheekbones and piercing eyes were oddly familiar—and then she realised why. She felt a shiver whisper over her skin. It was Nikolai Komarov—the Russian oligarch, and the man she was supposed to be targeting.

Her first thought was that his photo hadn’t done him justice—on the page he had been appealing but in the flesh he was perfect. And her second thought was that he was the most intimidating man she had ever seen. His face made her think of a diamond—with its hard, sculpted angles and those cold, glittering eyes. And as for the rest of him …

Zara swallowed down an unfamiliar kind of hunger. Powerful, wealthy tycoon he might be, but, more than anything, he was pure and unbridled masculinity.

A beautifully cut suit moulded his body, emphasising wide shoulders, solid torso and narrow hips, which tapered down to long, muscular legs. He held himself tall and very straight, and stood so still that for a moment Zara thought he might almost have been made from wax, rather than from flesh and blood. But waxen eyes did not gleam like that, did they? And nor did they focus with unmoving scrutiny on their subject—the way he was doing with her. It felt like having all the breath punched from her body as she found herself captured in his cold yet searing gaze.

From his position at the far end of the room, Nikolai saw the woman glance over at him and felt his body tense, although a woman looking at him was nothing new. Women looked at him all the time. Though not usually like that, he conceded. Like a startled little deer who’d just spied the big, bad hunter deep in the forests …

Who the hell was she? He’d noticed her the moment she’d walked into the ballroom in that clinging green gown and he had been watching her ever since. His expression grew thoughtful. Something about her made her stand out from the crowd of overdressed women and he couldn’t work out what it was. How come she’d ignored everybody in the room except to smile rather nervously at the waitresses?

With the practised look of the connoisseur, his eyes swept over her in lazy assessment. Unlike most of the women here tonight, her face wasn’t stiffened with Botox and her hair had the natural shine of youth. But it was her body which was the real showstopper. He felt a sudden flare of lust as he acknowledged that her body was absolutely amazing. All curves and seductive hollows and none of the gaunt look of the over-dieted. He let his gaze drift downwards over her bare shoulders—at skin which gleamed as softly as silk—to where her pert and luscious breasts formed a cleavage which was like an open invitation to a man’s lips.

He put down his barely touched glass of champagne onto a passing waitress’s tray. Nikolai’s interest was piqued. He quirked her a smile he only ever used sparingly, and waited for the inevitable. Any minute now and she would start walking towards him with a hopeful little look of expectation on her face.

She didn’t.

Nikolai’s eyes narrowed as the woman seemed to hesitate, before turning away and beginning to walk in the opposite direction. And for a moment he couldn’t quite believe it.

She had turned her back on him!

Now his interest was definitely alerted. All the hunter instincts which usually lay dormant—made redundant by modern women who preferred to do the chasing—rose to heat his blood. Was she playing games? Had she turned away simply to give him the opportunity to feast his eyes on the delectable swell of her buttocks? Nikolai’s gaze was drawn irresistibly to the twin satin-covered globes and he swallowed. Because nobody could deny that it was a very delectable bottom indeed …

Like a puppet who was having his strings twitched by some unseen fingers, he began to tail her.

Zara could feel the little hairs on the back of her neck prickling and the sudden race of her heart as she moved through the ballroom. She wasn’t being paranoid and she wasn’t imagining it. He was following her! The intimidatingly handsome Russian with the icy stare who had been standing as still as a waxwork was now pursuing her across the room with a sure stealth.

She swallowed. Had he rumbled her? Guessed that she was an imposter with no earthly right to be here? In which case, wouldn’t it just be best if she headed for the door, grabbed a bus and then phoned Emma with the news that her idea had been a disaster and that they should never have entertained it for more than a second? Because suddenly, the idea of waltzing up to him and presenting him with a business card seemed the height of crassness. What had given her the idea that she would have the nerve to do something like that?

Risking a quick glance over her shoulder, she could see that he had been swallowed up by the crowd and she speeded up as much as her impractical shoes would allow. Shielded by a cluster of guests, she ducked behind a huge marble pillar and stayed there for long enough to convince herself that she’d shaken him off. And when she came out, there was no sign of him. That rather daunting presence and those piercing eyes were nowhere to be seen. Quashing down an unmistakeable pang of disappointment, she glanced around, realising that she could make her escape, and …

‘Hey.’

Zara froze as a deep accent she’d never heard cut through the jumble of her thoughts, some bone-deep instinct telling her that it was him. It could only be him. And reflecting how unfair life could be—that a man who looked like some sort of golden and dangerous god should have the kind of voice which sent tingles down a woman’s spine just by uttering a word which managed to sound like both a command and a question. Ignore him, she told herself. Pretend you haven’t heard him and carry on walking.

She made to take a step forward but he spoke again and she found her feet frozen into immobility by his silken question.

‘Are you trying to run away from me?’

Short of being rude and causing a scene, Zara knew that she had no choice other than to brazen it out. Pinning what she hoped was a confident smile to her lips, she turned to face him, her heart hammering beneath the thin silk of her dress. ‘Why, do you think I should run away from you?’ she questioned calmly.

‘Well, that rather depends,’ he murmured as his eyes drifted over her body.

Yet even as Zara felt her skin tingle in response to his unashamed appraisal she knew that this was dangerous. Very dangerous. He was flirting with her—and in a way which was completely outside her comfort zone. Yet what could she do other than to play the part of the sophisticate she had been dressed to look like—even if inside she suddenly felt like a scared little girl who was out of her depth? She tried to remember the kind of things which seasoned flirts said on television programmes.

‘Really?’ She widened her eyes. ‘On what?’

Nikolai’s lips gave a flickering curve of satisfaction. This was better. Much better. For a moment back then, he had thought she meant it—that she was actually giving him the brush-off. And when had that last happened? Never, he reflected sagely. He might have been described as the world’s biggest commitment-phobe, but he was a master at getting women into his arms. He felt the quick beat of pleasure as he realised that up close she was just as delicious. ‘On whether you’re any good at dealing with difficult and demanding men,’ he mused.

It was such an outrageous thing to say that for a moment Zara forgot that all she was supposed to be doing was showcasing her friend’s dress. She found herself remembering all the fantastic people in the caring professions she’d met when she’d been nursing her godmother and all the difficult conditions they had to endure every day. And then she compared their stoicism with the arrogance she saw written on this man’s handsome face.

She found herself studying his costly black dinner suit—the price of which could probably have fed a family of four for at least a month. She thought about the pile of medical bills she’d been left with, and some rogue streak of rebellion made itself known. And besides, wasn’t it better to concentrate on indignation rather than acknowledge the dizzying effect he was having on her senses?

‘Most people don’t confess to their faults on a first meeting,’ she commented drily.

Icy blue eyes glittered with mischief. ‘Aren’t you rather taking it for granted that there’s going to be a second meeting?’ he questioned softly. ‘And isn’t that a little presumptuous of you, or is that what you’ve grown to expect from men—their instant capitulation and desire to see you again?’

Her experience of men was so small that Zara wanted to laugh—and the idea that someone like her should have men capitulating was even funnier. Especially a man as gorgeous as this one, who was clearly living in a parallel universe. ‘Actually, I never take anything for granted,’ she answered. ‘And I certainly try to avoid generalisations about the opposite sex.’

Nikolai’s eyes narrowed as he heard a note in her voice which he couldn’t quite define. Something which sounded a little like…censure? Once again, he felt a stir of interest. ‘You know, I get the distinct sense that you don’t approve,’ he observed softly.

Now Zara sensed an even greater danger. Instinct told her to move away and yet another instinct—one which was much more powerful—kept her rooted to the spot. She stared up into the icy glitter of his blue eyes and her heart missed a beat. ‘Of what?’

‘Of me, milaya moya. Of me.’

‘How can I possibly have an opinion about you, when we’re complete strangers?’ she questioned.

‘Yes, we are,’ he agreed. ‘But that is something which is easily remedied.’ He gave a brief smile as he watched closely to see whether his name might stir any sign of recognition. ‘My name is Nikolai Komarov.’

Zara felt her throat thicken, knowing that now was the time to look at him and to say, very calmly: Actually, I already knew that. I also know that you are a hugely influential man with your own department stores as well as innumerable gorgeous girlfriends—and my friend happens to be a very talented designer. Do you like the dress I’m wearing? Actually, it’s one of hers. Perhaps I could give you one of her cards and you might think about looking at her collection? But as those palely intense eyes studied her she knew that she couldn’t go through with it. She couldn’t. Was that because she was enjoying the fantasy of flirting with him? Of pretending she really was the person she was dressed up to be instead of some broke little waitress who was doing a friend a favour? ‘You’re…you’re Russian,’ she said slowly.

‘How very perceptive of you.’ But Nikolai felt his mouth tighten with an odd kind of disappointment. So it had not been an instant eyes-across-a-room thing after all. She had heard of him—he would have staked his fortune on that. He had seen the signs of suppressed recognition too many times in the past and he had seen it flare in her eyes. But he didn’t know why he should be either surprised or disappointed—because women always played these games, didn’t they? They lied. They indulged in subterfuge. They would open their pretty eyes very wide and insist that black was white—and sometimes he suspected they even ended up believing it themselves. ‘You know many Russians, perhaps?’

‘No. None at all.’

‘Until now, of course.’

‘Until now,’ she agreed, with a slightly nervous smile. Would he be appalled if he knew who she was—an imposter who had no right to be here? She searched for clues in his face. Good guy or bad guy? Or just a wickedly hot guy who was used to getting whatever he wanted from a woman?

‘And you are?’ he prompted.

His icy eyes were cutting through her defences as he waited for her to respond and for a moment Zara was half tempted to give him a false name. A bogus identity to go with her one-off appearance—until she told herself how stupid that was. She would never see him again after tonight. A name like hers meant nothing to a man like this.

‘I’m…Zara,’ she said falteringly. ‘Zara Evans.’

‘A beautiful name,’ he mused softly, observing that cute tremble of her lips. ‘To go with a very beautiful woman.’

The throwaway compliment made her skin glow—it seemed like for ever since someone had paid her one, and nobody had ever called her beautiful before. But Zara told herself that she mustn’t fall for his charm. He probably came out with statements like that every minute of every day—slick, perfectly timed statements, which were guaranteed to have women falling under his spell. She opened her mouth to say something smart and instead it came out as a breathless little ‘th-thank you’ and she could have kicked herself.

‘Can I get you a drink, Zara?’

She shook her head. ‘No, thanks—I’ve already had one.’

‘Oh, I think you’re allowed more than one.’ He stared straight into her eyes. ‘Though no more than two.’ He smiled slightly to show he was teasing her.

He was making it sound as if the two of them were involved in some kind of conspiracy and the thought of that made Zara draw herself up short. What the hell did she think she was doing? This wasn’t why she was supposed to be here—and if she had lost her nerve about foisting one of Emma’s cards on him, then she ought to make herself scarce.

Because this man was dangerous—hadn’t he told her so himself? ‘Actually, I’d better go.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’ Her words tailed away as she tried to think of a good reason why she might wish to leave a party when she had only just arrived.

‘You don’t really have a reason, do you?’ he questioned as he saw her bite her lip in a moment of indecision, which was oddly appealing. ‘Not when there is music playing and I’m being plagued by an urgent desire to dance with you, which simply won’t go away. So come here.’

To Zara’s horror, he reached out and laced her fingers with his and began to lead her through the throngs of people. Well, maybe horror wasn’t the right word, she conceded as people began to part to let them through. Excitement might have been more accurate. She could feel hot colour flaring at her cheeks as she became aware of heads turning to watch them and the pulse at her wrist began to hammer wildly beneath his fingertips. But it wasn’t until he had halted by the small space of floor directly in front of the musicians that she tipped her head up to gaze at him.

‘We can’t dance!’ she whispered.

‘Why not?’

‘Because—’

‘Stop saying “because”. Come and dance with me instead.’ His icy eyes glittered out a cool challenge. ‘You know you want to.’

And the awful thing was that he was right. She did. There was a melting, yearning pool in the pit of her stomach, which was longing for him to pull her into his arms—and when he did she gave an instinctive intake of breath, which caused his fingers to tighten around her waist.

‘You see?’ he murmured. ‘It’s what you wanted all along.’

Zara felt dizzy. What could she do? His hands had moved down and were now lying on her hips, the fingers splayed against the silk of her dress with a lazy and proprietary ease so that for a moment it felt as if he were touching the bare flesh beneath.

‘Relax,’ he instructed softly.

‘How can I relax when everybody is looking at us? ‘

‘You should just ignore them—or get used to it. The men are looking at us because they envy me, and the women because they wish they were standing where you were standing, milaya moya.’

It was an arrogant assessment, though Zara doubted that the first part was true. Why would the men envy Nikolai? Especially when there were loads of women in the room who were more attractive than her—rich, titled women who would probably be dancing confidently instead of worrying that they were going to spear his foot with one of their lethal heels.

Yet the soft music was very seductive and more seductive still was the way in which he pulled her towards him—almost before she realised he’d done it. She could feel the jut of his hips against hers and suddenly she became aware of the formidable heat of his hard body pressing into hers and could sense the desire which radiated from his powerful frame. Zara swallowed.

‘Relax. You seem rather uptight,’ he commented as an irresistible tug of desire shot through him.

She felt the almost careless caress of his thumb at her waist. What could she say—that the last time she’d had a slow dance with a man had been at some awful, noisy club, and it had felt nothing like this?

‘I’m not used to dancing,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

Her face inches away from his shoulder, Zara wondered how best to answer him. Even if she hadn’t been tied to the sickroom for the past however many months, she still couldn’t have imagined herself whirling around a formal ballroom like this. It seemed rather old-fashioned.

She risked a glance up at his hard-boned face. How old was he? Difficult to say, but certainly a lot older than her. He had experience written on every sculpted angle and there were faint lines of cynicism etching the sides of his mouth. Yet there was nothing old-fashioned about the way he was holding her, or the way it was making her pulse rocket. It felt elemental. As if dancing were something far too intimate to be doing in front of a crowd of people…‘Because—’

‘There you go. That wretched word again.’ He pulled her closer and felt her soft flesh yielding to his as he bent his head to her long neck and, closing his eyes, he inhaled her subtle scent. Was it roses he could smell? ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that repetition is boring?’

‘You asked me a question and I was answering it,’ she protested.

‘I know I did. But suddenly I’m much more interested in the language of your body.’

‘That’s outrageous!’

He bent his lips to her ear. ‘I know it is. But you’re making me feel outrageous. Don’t you feel a little outrageous, too, Zara?’

‘No.’

‘Yes, you do,’ he demurred softly. ‘Go on. Be brave. Admit it.’

End the dance, she told herself fiercely as she began to feel even more out of her depth. End it now. Walk out of the ballroom and don’t stop until you’ve reached the street. If you do it firmly then he’s not likely to risk a scene by trying to stop you.

But it was difficult to do anything other than to let the sweet strains of the string instruments lull her and the power of his touch wash over her senses. Zara could feel the slide of silk over her skin as she moved in time to the music, and she could feel the barely touching sensation of his fingers pressing against her flesh. A shiver of longing rippled over her flesh, a sensation so unexpected and unwanted that she felt the sudden thunder of her heart. Did he feel it, too? Was that why he positioned himself so that they were fractionally closer and her body seemed to be silently screaming that it wanted to be closer still? She had to stop all this—she had to, before she made a complete and utter fool of herself.

She pulled away from him with the reluctance of someone who was being forced to leave a warm fire to face a freezing blizzard outside. ‘I really must go,’ she said.

He nodded, knowing that if he stayed on the dance-floor with this rapidly escalating sense of arousal, then soon any kind of movement might prove impossible. And yet her abrupt ending of the dance made him reluctant to let the evening end—and he wasn’t quite sure why. Because he was the one who usually called all the shots, who made the decision when to leave and when to stay?

‘Okay. I’ll take you home.’ He saw her lips open and he shook his head. ‘And before you go through the motions of protesting, you must realise that I’m not going to allow you to go home on your own.’ Especially not looking like that, he thought. Not with the tight buds of her nipples outlined with such erotic clarity against the gleam of the emerald silk. ‘Unless you have your own car waiting outside?’ he questioned unevenly.

Could she swing it? Zara wondered. Convince him that one of those purring black limos which were clogging the streets around the embassy actually belonged to her? And then what? She could imagine him insisting on seeing her to the car and then the shame of having to admit that she was nothing but a fraud. She shook her head. ‘No, I came by taxi. Um, where do you live?’ she hedged.

‘I have a house on the other side of the park.’

In a moment of real indecision, she looked at him until she realised that she was about to throw away a heavensent opportunity. Why not take up his offer? Mightn’t she get the chance to hand over Emma’s business card before she said goodnight? He had already admired the way she looked, so maybe she could turn round and tell him it was all her friend’s handiwork. ‘Okay, then…thank you—I will. But as I live a little…farther out—the car can drop you off first, and then take me on to my place afterwards.’

Nikolai ran a thoughtful finger over his lips. He thought that sounded like a very abrupt conclusion to an evening he had no desire to see end. At least, not yet. With a sudden ache, he acknowledged the sharpening to his senses which this fresh-faced minx seemed to have provoked. He’d been working so hard lately. Tunnelling all his energy and vision into his latest ambitious project, which meant that sex had been sidelined. And his last mistress had drained him with her tiresome requests that he ‘make an honest woman of her'. Was there an honest woman in the world? he wondered bitterly. If so, he had yet to meet her. He flicked Zara a look which was now speculative.

‘Let’s go,’ he murmured.

CHAPTER TWO

A BLACK limousine was waiting as they emerged from the ambassador’s residence into the fragrant warmth of the evening and Zara felt as if she were stepping into a different world. Smoothly, the chauffeur opened the door for her and she sank onto the back seat and started looking around with a sense of wonder. What a car! The interior looked and smelt of pure luxury, all subtle and intoxicating and soft cream leather. And when Nikolai slid his long-legged frame in beside her and turned his head to look at her she could feel the sudden thunder of her heart. In the dim, enclosed space his proximity seemed even more potent than it had done on the dance-floor and Zara found herself wondering about the wisdom of travelling home with such a devastatingly sexy stranger.

‘You know, it’s still very early,’ he observed slowly, watching the tiny pulse which flickered so frantically at her temple.

Zara found that there was nowhere to look other than at the compelling gleam in his eyes. ‘So it is,’ she observed lightly.

He liked the way that her hair was a woven mass of caramel and sunshine and he wanted to remove all the clips and see it tumble down around her shoulders. He could see the outline of her legs through the silk of her dress—slender, lean legs—and he felt another sharp ache of desire. ‘And we’re very close to my house,’ he said, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. ‘You could always come in for a quick drink, if you wanted.’

Zara’s thoughts were scrambled by the frantically conflicting messages firing between body and brain. A strange man inviting you into his house for a nightcap was a definite no-no. And yet this was not any man—this just happened to be the most devastatingly attractive man she’d ever met. Wasn’t Cinderella allowed a little glimpse of the prince’s palace before her clothes returned to rags?

‘I could.’

‘But you’re not sure?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you want to.’

Zara gave an uncertain laugh. ‘It isn’t always wise just to do what you want.’

‘No? I’ve always thought exactly the opposite. That life is much too short to be dictated to by social etiquette.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What if I give you my word that we’ll have one quick drink and then my car will take you wherever you want to go? How does that sound?’

It sounded like mad-ness—complete and utter mad-ness—and yet it also sounded like the most tantalising offer she had received in a long time. Zara’s world had been coloured bleak and sombre by recent events—could anyone really blame her if she wanted to peek at a more vibrant version of how life could be lived? One where shiny limousines picked you up from fancy parties and silent drivers sat and took you wherever you wanted to go.

But something stopped her and maybe it was the realisation that this was outside her realm of experience on so many levels. Instinct told her she was dealing with a seasoned and experienced man. He was like a lion, she thought suddenly, her eyes straying to his thick mane of hair—deep and lustrous as beaten-gold. And a woman should not go into a lion’s lair unless she was expecting to be eaten …

She shook her head. ‘It’s very sweet of you,’ she said, and drew a breath with the same kind of determination which had seen her successfully battle with the doctors to keep her godmother at home during the final days of her life. ‘But I don’t think it’s such a good idea.’

He could see that she meant it and for a moment Nikolai was surprised. Usually, he had to fight women off and had taken her acceptance as a given—especially when invitations to his home were precious and few. Yet her refusal intrigued as well as surprised him.

‘Are you sure?’ he questioned.

‘Quite sure,’ she said, with more conviction than she felt.

‘Well, in that case …’

There was a heartbeat of a pause as he leaned across the space and stared down into her widening eyes and soft lips. ‘I’ll just have to kiss you goodnight right here—won’t I, milaya moya?’

Her fingers gripped the soft leather seat. ‘And do you always kiss women you hardly know goodnight?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘Not always, net. But you have been tantalising me all night—ever since you started running away from me at the party. And I can’t remember the last time I had to chase a woman, quite literally in your case.’

If only he knew why she had been running! Suddenly Zara felt stricken with guilt. ‘But—’

‘Shut up,’ he said, almost gently as he bent his mouth to hers.

Afterwards, she blamed the champagne—and his experience—because she did nothing to stop him. But it was more than cold wine on an empty stomach. It was hunger and it was curiosity. It had been a long time since Zara had been kissed. And no man had ever kissed her the way Nikolai Komarov proceeded to do in the back seat of his chauffeur-driven limousine.

All it took was one careless graze of his mouth and she began to tremble in response, causing him to make a small sound of assertion underneath his breath as he pulled her closer. And perhaps it was the comfort of being held like that which made Zara want to melt against him. The warm human contact which made her feel normal again, instead of the person who had become invisible and isolated from the rest of the world by sickness. How long since she had been cuddled—or felt any kind of security? With a hungry little cry, she lifted her fingers and tangled them in the thick, beaten gold of his hair and lost herself in the sweetness of his kiss.

Nikolai gave an unsteady laugh as his hand slid across her back, the rawness of her response startling him a little. He had expected sophistication—an erotic routine which she had gone through many times before. And yet the helpless trembling of her body did not go with her smooth, sleek image. Not at all. And wasn’t there more than a little tenderness about the way she held him? He swallowed as he drew his mouth away and smoothed a fallen strand of hair away from her cheek—because tenderness wasn’t something he encountered very often and it was curiously persuasive.

‘You have great passion, I think,’ he murmured.

‘Do I?’ she breathed.

‘Da. Beautiful passion.’

His mouth sought hers once more and it was then that the kiss began to change. Zara gasped as his lips suddenly became more seeking and she found her own opening beneath them. She could sense the tension in his body as his hands splayed over her back, where her flimsy evening dress was cut away to reveal a large keyhole in the material. She could feel his fingers kneading against her bare skin as time slowed and she felt as if she had entered an intimate little world. One where Nikolai’s tongue inside the warm cavern of her mouth made her feel as if she were being dragged down into some dark and erotic vortex.

‘Nikolai—’

‘What?’ he growled.

‘This is—’

‘Amazing,’ he purred, briefly lifting his head so that his eyes glittered out their unashamed desire, before tracing his finger over the fleshy trembling of her bottom lip. ‘Da. Da. I know it is.’

She had been about to say that it was wrong—and yet her body was telling her otherwise. Could something be wrong when it felt so right? she pondered distractedly. When his fingers were now tiptoeing down her neck towards her breasts, before skating with practised ease to alight on the aching swell of one silk-covered nipple.

Zara swallowed down the dryness in her throat. ‘This is cr-crazy,’ she gasped as his mouth bent to one aching breast.

Nikolai flicked his tongue over the thin silk, which was the only barrier between him and her bare nipple, as he heard her whispered little gasp. Did it make her feel better if she let herself protest about what they were doing, he wondered cynically, even though she clearly wanted him just as much as he wanted her?

But women were contrary creatures—he knew that. Often they liked to disguise their own earthy desire for fear that a man was judging them for being too ‘easy'. Should he reassure her now that he didn’t give a curse about convention and that she could be as ‘easy’ as she liked.

He drifted his hand down over one slender hip, his mouth briefly leaving the now-moist material of her gown and noting that he had left a darkened ring over her breast. ‘You do realise that you have the most fantastic body?’ he questioned. ‘And that your dress shows it off quite beautifully.’

She shook her head, only dimly aware that she was blowing the opportunity to talk about the dress. ‘St-stop it,’ she whispered.

‘Stop complimenting you? I thought all women liked to be complimented.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ she breathed. ‘I meant, that you shouldn’t be doing…that.’

‘But you like me doing that.’ He felt her little squirm of acquiescence. ‘And you don’t want me to stop it, do you?’

‘I…do.’

‘No, you don’t. You want me to move my hand down to your ankle, don’t you? Like this.’

‘Nikolai!’ Zara swallowed as his index finger made a provocative little circling movement there.

‘And then I think you want me slowly to slide it up underneath your dress. Like this, da?’

‘Nikolai,’ she breathed as she felt the brush of his hand resting on the curve of her calf.

‘Why, you’re not even wearing any stockings,’ he observed unevenly. ‘Just bare legs. What a very wicked young lady you are. No wonder that dress was clinging so provocatively to you as you walked into the ballroom.’

‘Oh!’ She could feel the sudden spring of her body in response to his feather-light touch—as if it had been woken from a deep, deep sleep and all her senses had suddenly come to urgent life.

‘Listen, we’re really very close to my house,’ he said unevenly as the car slid to a halt at some traffic lights. He was so aroused by their encounter that he could barely get the words out and only supreme self-control stopped him from continuing what they were doing. But he really couldn’t make love to her in the middle of a busy London street, could he? Not with his chauffeur sitting behind the darkened screen and the possibility of some damned traffic warden rapping on the window. ‘Why don’t you change your mind and come up for a drink?’

Zara stilled. Perhaps it was the blatant falsehood about having a drink when they both knew what was really on his mind—and on hers—which made common sense crash into her mind like a dark spectre. That and the fact that she was making out in the back of a car with a man she barely knew—and she was risking ruining her friend’s precious dress along with her own reputation!

Her heart thudding, she pushed his hand away and slithered to the far end of the seat, her trembling fingers groping for her feathered handbag, which lay beside her like a wounded bird. ‘No!’

His eyes narrowed but he felt the unmistakeable flicker of irritation. ‘Isn’t it a little late in the day for game-playing?’

‘I’m not playing …’ But the words died on her lips because she was. She was playing games. Dangerous games.

Pretending to be something she wasn’t. Masquerading as his wealthy equal. Maybe that kind of women did make easy love to men they’d just met at a party—but she wasn’t one of them. She amended her choice of words to allow her to extricate herself with a modicum of dignity. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s very late—and I’m tired.’

Nikolai felt the sharp spear of disappointment. Saw from the look on her face that she meant it—and he bit back his frustration. Of course she was playing games, probably in the mistaken belief that her refusal would make him think more highly of her. His mouth hardened. Did he have the time or the inclination to go through the necessary number of dates which she decreed obligatory before she let him take her to bed? Was she, he asked himself brutally, worth it?

His eyes drank in the wide green eyes, the flushed cheeks and the kiss-bruised lips and he felt a pulse begin to flicker at his temple. Yes, she was worth it—for novelty value as well as her curiously fresh-faced appeal. Because when was the last time a woman had actually turned him down?

‘Well, I think that’s a pity,’ he said softly, reaching for his jacket pocket. But before Nikolai could extract one of the business cards he kept there he saw that she was pushing open the car door and swinging her shapely legs out and his brows knitted together in disbelief.

‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

‘Home.’

‘I told you that my driver would take you wherever you wanted to go.’

Zara shook her head. ‘And I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want a lift, thank you.’

‘You don’t?’ His eyes narrowed incredulously. ‘Why not?’

Zara shook her head as she tried to calm her frantic thoughts. Before she had been ashamed and worried that he might judge her humble little home if he saw it, but now it was much more than that. There was still shame, yes—but the overriding sense of shame was directed at her own appalling behaviour. She had behaved wantonly with a man she barely knew, displaying a fierce sexual hunger which was slightly terrifying. And Nikolai Komarov was the man who had made her feel that way. She didn’t want another thing from him—and she certainly didn’t want his driver reporting back where she lived.

Why not? questioned a rogue voice inside her head. Are you afraid that if he turned up unexpectedly on your doorstep, you might not be able to turn him away?

‘I think we both know why,’ she said quietly. ‘We hardly know one another and we’ve just behaved in a way which was very…inappropriate.’ She gazed into the ice-blue eyes and steeled herself against their sensual impact. ‘And in view of that I think it’s probably better if I make my own way home. It was nice to have met you…Nikolai.’

Stepping onto the pavement and taking a moment to steady herself on her high heels, Zara tugged down the silk-satin of her crumpled dress and turned to dart through a gate which led straight into the park, determined that this time he should not follow her.

For a moment Nikolai didn’t move, frustration warring with admiration at her unexpected display of independence and feistiness and, yes, downright prudishness. She had walked away without taking his details and she had left him wanting more. She had walked away. He felt the drumming acceleration of his heart and the hot rush of blood to his groin. Now his hunter instincts were screaming to be satisfied and he slid his cell-phone from the pocket of his jacket and dialled up one of his aides.

Speaking rapidly in Russian, he clipped out the facts.

‘Her name is Zara Evans,’ he said, tasting her name as if her lips were still open beneath his, fingers of his free hand tapping impatiently against one hard, tense thigh. ‘No, no—I don’t know where she lives. In fact, I don’t know a damned thing about her.’ Except that he wanted her with a hunger he hadn’t felt in a long time. A speculative smile curved the edges of his mouth as he stared up at the leather ceiling of the car. ‘Just find her.’

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