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A band played at the far end of the gardens. A dance floor had been laid out next to tables covered in white cloths and laden with crystal and silverware that sparkled in the torch light. A gazebo festooned with fairy lights and flowers sheltered the couples who were already making the most of the entertainment, dancing to the bass beat of the music. She dismissed the thought of dancing with Jared Caine, something she’d dreamed about often as a confused nineteen-year-old when she’d been looking for any distraction.
She didn’t need distractions now.
But the whole scene looked foolishly romantic. And stupidly date-like.
Why hadn’t she thought this through? She should have refused to accompany Jared tonight. And why had he wanted her to escort him, anyway? They were stuck together here because of his work—and his loyalty to Dario. But something had shifted when he had ordered Barton off the premises. Something she didn’t know how to shift back.
She swung round as he came to stand beside her, his big body radiating tension. He lifted the empty champagne flute out of her hand and deposited the glass on the tray of a passing waiter. She felt the weird spell intensify, making them invisible to everyone.
“You don’t have to hang out with me,” she said. “I’ll be fine on my own, if you need to mingle.”
* * *
Why did she have to look so damned exquisite, and so vulnerable, while she was giving him the brush-off?
Jared watched Katherine’s gaze flicker away. The glittery powder on her lids shimmered. He could see the flutter of her pulse through the skin of her collarbone, her cleavage drawing his eye as the slopes of her breasts pressed against the bodice of the beaded gown.
The feeling of connection was only made more disturbing by the visceral blast of longing.
He’d tried to convince himself he’d only escorted her to this event, so he could keep an eye on her while dealing with the hundred-and-one details that still needed his attention before the full press launch tomorrow. The hundred-and-one details he should have dealt with this afternoon instead of constantly checking with the villa staff that the styling team was keeping his uninvited guest occupied.
After she’d agree to accompany him, he’d left the villa this afternoon determined to keep things strictly impersonal this evening.
But the memory of her slender body wearing nothing but a bathrobe had continued to torment him throughout the day.
And then she’d stepped out onto the terrace this evening and the sight of her—her subtle curves accentuated by the glimmer of silk, her sultry eyes bright with bravado and provocation—had made the pulsing ache plunge straight back into his abdomen.
And he’d known the real reason he’d asked her to tonight’s event—because every thought bar one had been incinerated by the firestorm of lust.
I want her, no matter what the consequences.
His groin had been keeping the faith ever since, the longing to rip off the silk gown and lick every inch of what lay beneath taking this afternoon’s torment to a whole new layer of agony.
But he’d managed to yank himself back from the edge by repeating the same tired mantra to himself during the drive here.
Katherine Whittaker was a spoiled gold digger who didn’t deserve a moment of his time. His irrational hunger now was simply a hangover from the unrequited need that the first taste of her had triggered five years ago.
He enjoyed sex. He was an accomplished lover. Not the boy he’d once been with desires he couldn’t control.
He had destroyed that wild, feral kid years ago—buried him deep, while building a multinational business.
But he’d seen the blind panic flash in her eyes when that jackal had stuck a camera in her face. And the first tenet of his mantra—that Katherine was a spoiled gold digger—had collapsed.
She’d looked terrified. But instead of defending herself she’d blamed herself.
The next tenet of his mantra had soon followed suit.
Why did it matter if his hunger was triggered by what had happened—or almost
happened—five years ago, if it was still as real and vivid today?
And now the third tenet was close to becoming toast too, because the driving need to touch, taste and torment her was telling him that while he might find it easy to control his need with other women it had never been easy with her.
“I don’t need to mingle,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You can trust me not to run off. I doubt I could run anywhere in these heels.”
“Can you dance in them?” he asked.
