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She’d tried it once—to play it their way. She’d dated a guy who was more approved of by her own family than she was herself. What a disaster that had been. They still didn’t believe that she’d been the one to end it. Of course, there were reasons for that. But none Bella felt like dwelling on now. Tomorrow was going to be bad enough.
After she’d finally hung all the ribbons on the white-shrouded chairs, she’d headed straight for the bar inside the main building of the hotel. She’d celebrate herself. Toast in another year. Raise a glass to the success of the last. Even if no one else was going to. Even if there wasn’t that much success to toast.
There had been talk of a family dinner, but the preparations had run too late—drinks maybe. She was glad. She didn’t want to face the all too inevitable questions about her career and her love-life, the looks of unwanted sympathy from her aunts. There’d be time enough for that the next day, when there was no way she could avoid them as much as she had today. For today was her day and she could spend the last of it however she wanted to.
Now, as she sat and waited to be served, she avoided looking around, pretending she was happy to be there alone. She pushed back the inadequacy with some mind games—she’d play a role and fake the confidence. She would do cosmopolitan woman—the woman who took on the world and played it her way. Who took no prisoners, had what she wanted and lived it to the max. It would be good practice for tomorrow when she’d be confronted by Rex and Celia. One of the fun things about being an actress—even a minor-league, bit-part player—was the pretending.
She read through the list again, muttering as she narrowed her choices. ‘Do I want “sex on the beach” or a “screaming orgasm”?’
‘Why do you have to choose?’
She turned her head sharply. There was a guy standing right beside her. One incredibly hot guy whom she knew she’d never seen before because she’d damn well remember if she had. Tall and dark and with the bluest of eyes capturing hers. While she was staring, he was talking some more.
‘I would have thought a woman like you would always have both.’
Sex on the beach and a screaming orgasm? Looking up at him, she took a firmer grip on both the menu card and the sensation suddenly beating through her—the tantalising tempo of temptation.
He must be just about the only person here who wasn’t involved in the wedding. Or maybe he was. He was probably one of her cousins’ dates. For a split second disappointment washed through her. But then she looked him over again—he wasn’t wearing an Armani suit and if he was one of their dates he’d definitely be in Armani. And he’d be hanging on his date’s arm, not alone and possibly on the prowl in a bar. This guy was in jeans—the roughest fabric she’d seen in the place to date. They were wet around the ankles as if he’d been splashing in the water, and on his feet were a pair of ancient-looking boat shoes. A light grey long-sleeved tee shirt covered his top half. It had a slight vee at the neck, exposing the base of the tanned column that was his neck. It was such a relief to see someone doing truly casual—someone not flaunting evidence of their superb bank balance.
Those bright blue eyes smiled at her. Very brightly. And then they looked her up and down.
Suddenly she felt totally uncomfortable as she thought about her own appearance. Not for the first time she wished for the cool, glamorous gene that the rest of her family had inherited. Instead she was hot, mosquito bitten, with a stripe of cooked-lobster-red sunburn across one half of her chest where she’d missed with her 110 SPF sunscreen. Her white cotton blouse was more off-white than bright and the fire-engine-red ribbon of her floral skirt was starting to come loose—but that was what you got for wearing second-hand.
It was one of her more sedate outfits, an attempt to dress up a little, in deference to the ‘family’ and their expectations. She’d even used the hotel iron—a real concession given she usually got at least one burn when she went anywhere near the things. Today had been no different. There was a small, very red, very sore patch just below her elbow. And now, thanks to a day spent on her knees dressing chairs in white robes and yellow ribbons, she knew she looked a sight.
As she took in his beautifully chiselled jaw, she really wished she’d bothered to go to her room and check her face or something on the way. There’d been some mascara on her eyelashes this morning, a rub of lip balm. Both were undoubtedly long gone. She was hardly in a state to be drawing single guys to her across a bar. She darted a glance around. She was the only female in the room. And there were only a couple of other customers. Then she looked at her watch. It was early. He was just making small talk with the only woman about. He was probably a travelling salesman. Only he definitely didn’t look the salesman type. And despite the suggestion in his talk he didn’t come across as sleazy. There was a bit of a glint in those blue eyes—she’d like to think it was appreciation, but it was more of a dare. And there was more humour than anything. She could do with some humour.
The bartender came back down to where they were standing. And Bella took up the challenge. Cosmopolitan woman she would be. Summoning all her courage and telling her cheeks to remain free of excess colour, she ordered. ‘A “sex on the beach” and a “screaming orgasm” please.’
She refused to look at him but she could sense his smile of approval—could hear it in his voice as he ordered too.
‘I’ll have two “screaming orgasms” and “sex on the beach”.’
Bella studiously watched the bartender line up the five shot glasses. She didn’t want to turn and look in his eyes again, not entirely sure she wouldn’t be mesmerised completely. But peripheral vision was very handy. She was motionless, seemingly fixated on the bartender as he carefully poured in each ingredient, but in reality she was wholly focused on the guy next to her as he pulled out the bar stool next to hers and sat on it. His leg brushed against hers as he did. It was a very long leg, and it looked fine clad in the faded denim. She could feel the strength just from that one accidental touch.
Silently, shaking inside, she went to lift the first glass in the line-up. But then his hand covered hers, lightly pressing it down to the wood. Did he feel her fingers jerk beneath his? She snatched a moment to recover her self-possession before attempting to look at him with what she hoped was sophisticated query.
His bright blues were twinkling. ‘Have the orgasm first.’
She could feel the heat as her blood beat its way to her cheeks.
The twinkles in his eyes burned brighter. ‘After all, you can always have another one later.’
She stared at him as he released her. He’d turned on the widest, laziest, most sensual smile she’d ever seen. Spellbound wasn’t the word. Almost without thinking, she moved her fingers, encircling the second shot.
‘What about you?’ Why had her voice suddenly gone whispery?
‘A gentleman always lets the lady go first.’
So she picked up the orgasm, kind of amazed her hand wasn’t visibly trembling. In a swift motion she knocked the contents back into her mouth and swallowed the lot. She took a moment before breathing—then it was a short, sharp breath as she absorbed the burning hit. Slowly she put the glass back down on the bar.
His smile was wicked now. He’d picked up the sex shot, pausing pointedly with it slightly raised, until she did the same. She met his eyes and lifted the glass to her lips. Simultaneously they tipped back and swallowed.
Slamming his on the bench, he picked up the next shot. Then he paused again, inclined his head towards the remaining orgasm.
‘You know it’s for you.’ That smile twisted his mouth as he spoke and its teasing warmth reached out to her.
There was no way she could refuse. She couldn’t actually speak for the fire in her throat. So she picked up the shot and again, eyes
