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As she made her way on Simon’s arm several people stopped to greet him and chat innocuously. Dutifully she paused, making whatever responses were called for. Their progress was slow, however, and at one point she realised they had become stalled just beside the table occupied by the man she had intercepted looking her over. A faint prickle of unease went through her and she felt herself tensing, then becoming irritated by her own reaction. She risked a brief glance towards the table.
His place was empty, and she felt an irrational spurt of relief. Then, as her eyes swept back to Simon, engaged in conversation with a man who appeared to be a former colleague at another brokers, she stiffened abruptly.
He was talking to two other men. One was slightly built, with a narrow, fox-like face she didn’t like. The other was in his sixties, portly, smoking a cigar and red-faced. She heard the narrow-faced man call him ‘Sir Edward’ in obsequious tones.
The man who had been looking her over said something. It was deep and laconic, with an accent that sounded more American than anything else, though there was definitely something foreign about it. English, even American English, was not his first language, she guessed.
He was tall, all right. Easily over six feet, with broad shoulders. He made the narrow-faced man look like an unhealthy weasel, and the older man like an overweight bear.
But then, Portia found herself thinking, he would make any man look disadvantaged.
For all his height, and breadth of shoulder, there was an innate grace about him. As if his body were under perfect control.
It was certainly in good shape, that was for sure. His torso was lean, his legs long and muscled…she could see how the material of his dinner suit was pulled taut over his thighs.
What on earth am I doing? she suddenly thought. She tried to drag her eyes away, but they swept over his face as she did so. She wished they hadn’t, because all over again it had the same impact on her as it had before. The deep, curving lines from his nose to his mouth drew her eyes, the high cheekbones, the plane of his jaw. Those hooded eyes…
Suddenly, and without warning, his eyes flickered to hers.
The hot wire jerked through her.
For one long, unbearable moment he held her gaze.
Heat flushed her skin, and she was suddenly vividly aware of her bare arms and shoulders. Even though her dark blue evening dress was not in the least décolleté she suddenly felt hideously, horribly exposed.
She wanted a shawl, a wrap—a blanket!—anything to cover herself up under that gaze.
But she had nothing. Nothing to conceal herself with.
Automatically, unconsciously, her chin went up and she looked away, back to Simon.
Three feet away from her, Diego Saez smiled.
Seducing Portia Lanchester was clearly going to be an amusing enterprise.
And different, very different, from his usual affairs.
Typically, the women he selected for his bed required nothing more than an indication on his part that he found them desirable. His problem was getting rid of them, not getting them in the first place.
Not that he envisaged any serious problem with Portia Lanchester.
Her reaction to him demonstrated that amply. She was aware of him, all right, and that was the first step of the journey for her. The journey that would end in his bed.
Not tonight, however. There was no point hurrying her. He wanted to take his time over this one. Enjoy every stage of the seduction. By midday tomorrow he’d have a complete dossier on her, courtesy of his security agency, and then he’d take it from there. For now, he would just enjoy contin
uing to make her aware of him.
He flicked his attention back to what Sir Edward Porter, a former but still influential chairman of a major bank, was saying about the current level of merger and acquisition activity in the City, and made some appropriate comment.
With more animation that she was feeling, Portia joined in the chit-chat with Simon and the other man. Then, as she recovered her composure, she decided enough was enough. Taking ruthless advantage of a momentary pause, she spoke up.
‘Simon—my cab?’ she prompted.
Reluctantly he moved off, or tried to, but suddenly, and she didn’t quite see how, her way was blocked. The trio ahead of her seemed to have shifted somehow, and now the man who’d been looking her over was right in her path.
‘Excuse me.’
Her tone was clipped.
