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Strangely, the knowledge quelled at least a little of his fury.
He would have hated himself if he had responded to Darcy in that way. If she were really dead, he certainly felt no regret. But then he registered what else the girl had said. She was Darcy’s sister, and still peddling the same damn lie her sister Darcy had used four years ago to extort money from Alexei.
So was his attraction to this girl really any better?
He shouldn’t have touched her, certainly shouldn’t have kissed her. But the compulsion to teach her a lesson had become mixed up in a host of unbidden and unwanted desires as her fresh, subtle scent had engulfed him and her body had surrendered to his during the steps of the dance.
One look at those damn lips as they’d finished dancing, her panting breaths making her full breasts rise and fall against the bodice of her gown—and all he’d wanted to do was feast on her mouth.
He didn’t like it. He mastered his urges. Controlled them. Unlike his brother, he had learned at an early age that impulse and need were a weakness, and dangerous if you indulged either one. But he’d never had that control tested until about five minutes ago, when he’d spied her in the crowd. Instincts beyond his control had taken over at that point. It was something he would have to examine carefully after he was finished with her—because he did not intend to let it happen again.
‘Please, you have to listen to me,’ she begged, even though the flash of defiance in her eyes told a different story.
He felt a certain admiration for her. She might be as much of a gold-digger as her sister, but she had none of Darcy’s acting ability—her enmity towards him was plain on her face.
‘I have to do no such thing,’ he said. But he didn’t let go of her arm. Instead he walked towards the staircase, hauling her with him—the crowd already closing in on him.
‘Mr Blackstone, the police are on their way.’ Jack Tanner, the head of his security team for Blackstone’s Manhattan, fell into step on his other side, looking ill at ease.
And well he should.
‘Find out how she got past security,’ he barked, fuming at that oversight. ‘I want a full report on my desk in an hour.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Tanner replied. ‘Do you want us to take her off your hands?’ he offered, two of his security detail following close behind as they mounted the stairs.
The girl hadn’t objected to being marched out of the ballroom, but he felt her stiffen at the suggestion.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, he could see the paparazzi firing off shots from behind the security cordon and Dex Garvey having a microphone shoved in his face. The eyes of the guests were on them. This little incident was going to be all over the gossip columns in the morning and would already have started hitting the celebrity blogs and websites. He’d helped with that—by not resisting the foolish urge to dance with her, and then kiss her—but the icing on the cake would be the girl’s fatuous claim about Alexei having a child.
The pulse of loss hit him hard. And then fury reverberated through him. He’d make sure she paid for that piece of theatre. He had no doubt at all she’d been waiting for an opportunity to announce the lie at a moment when it would get maximum exposure—to increase the price of her silence and her bargaining position. That he’d gifted her the perfect photo op with that kiss only made him more furious, with himself as much as her.
This girl was about to find out that he could not be as easily manipulated as he had been four years ago, when he’d parted with fifty thousand dollars simply to save Alexei the embarrassment of having to make a public announcement that he was not responsible for Darcy’s so-called condition.
Well, Alexei was gone now—the car crash that had killed him while he was out of his head on cocaine and champagne a direct result of Darcy O’Hara’s lies, to Lukas’s way of thinking. So Lukas had no reason and certainly no incentive to pay another cent. But this girl needed to be taught a lesson. Once and for all.
He wasn’t leaving that task to the police or anyone else. He owed it to Alexei.
‘I wish to talk to her in private,’ he said to Tanner. ‘Keep the police busy until then. And get rid of the press.’ He would speak to Garvey tomorrow about a press release to quell any rumours arising from this evening’s events. Alexei had always wanted to avoid just such a necessity, but Alexei was gone now. And the truth could no longer hurt him. If anything, it ought to stop any more gold-diggers like the O’Hara sisters coming out of the woodwork.
He felt the girl’s body sag, no doubt with relief. As he marched her down the corridor towards his private suite he felt an answering surge of satisfaction. She thought she’d just got what she wanted. He was going to enjoy proving the opposite.
He entered the suite and hauled her in after him, then let her go. As she stumbled to a stop in the centre of the room, he slammed the door and clicked the lock.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, angered anew by the pulse of heat in his crotch which hadn’t subsided since that ill-advised kiss.
She wrapped her arms around her midriff, the tremors racking her body a nice touch, he thought, as she lifted her chin and faced him, the leap of defiance still sparkling in the green depths of her irises. Her freckles stood out against the vivid flush of exertion on her cheeks—but he noticed for the first time the shadows under her eyes.
He ruthlessly quelled the prickle of sympathy.
Maybe she was an even better actress than her sister, after all. From the look of her, anyone would think she was an avenging angel on the verge of collapse, not an accomplished little blackmailer.
His gaze roamed over her, and he let every ounce of his contempt show. In the brighter light, the dress looked considerably less impressive. It didn’t even fit her properly, the soft mounds of her breasts pressed indecently against the satin. His gaze snagged on the outline of her nipples. He jerked it away again, before the heat in his crotch swelled.
She’d lost her shoes in the struggle with the security guard, her bare unpainted toes peeping out from underneath the gown’s frayed hem.
His gaze rose to examine her face. She wore no jewellery and minimal make-up. Her dewy skin was as soft and clear as a child’s. He flinched inwardly—exactly how old was she? She looked like a teenager, eighteen or nineteen at the most, playing dress-up.
The Little Orphan Annie look wasn’t one he’d been susceptible to before now—which only made the incendiary effect of having her in his arms, her mouth at his mercy, all the more galling and inexplicable.
