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His gaze jerked away from her breasts to see the flush of embarrassment on her face. Smoky make-up had been deftly applied around her eyes and her full lips given a coating of something glossy, which only made the yearning to taste them again all the more compelling.
But beneath that, he could see the devastating combination of embarrassment and awareness in her expression.
He forced himself to move across the foyer, attempting to dial down his overreaction each step of the way. He’d seen other women wearing far less at the sort of society functions he attended. Hell, women he’d actually been dating had worn gowns that were a great deal more revealing, and he’d never had a problem with it.
Was this something to do with the fact she was his fiancée? But that was insane—this wasn’t a real engagement. And even if it were, since when had he ever been possessive about a woman?
In truth there was nothing wrong with the dress, he tried to tell himself, as his gaze lingered again on the shimmering material. No doubt it was the height of fashion, probably made by some much-sought-after designer who charged a fortune to display his new fiancée’s lush, coltish physique for everyone to see. In fact, it did exactly what he had asked the stylist to do: made the most of Orla’s assets. Unfortunately, he had not realised when he requested such an approach quite how many assets she had, or how much he would not want to allow everyone else to enjoy them.
‘It’s okay, Orla, the dress is good,’ he managed past the lump of lust forming in his throat.
Far too damn good.
He touched her elbow, her instinctive shudder of awareness reminiscent of the livewire moment he’d touched her for the first time that morning.
As she turned into the light, he became momentarily transfixed by the sprinkle of freckles across her cleavage and the glimpse of her naked breast visible at the edge of the gown. Her pulse pounded visibly against the hollow in her neck, giving him a lungful of her scent. The intoxicating aroma reminded him of a country garden, the subtle perfume of wild flowers and the earthy scent of freshly mown grass. He bit down on the urge to nuzzle the translucent skin and nibble kisses along the delectable line of her collarbone.
‘Are you sure the dress is okay, Mr Khan?’ she said, forcing him back to the present. ‘The stylist might have another if you don’t like it…’ Small white teeth tugged on her bottom lip.
Was she really as sexually experienced as she claimed? he wondered, not for the first time. And why the hell did her guilelessness only intoxicate him more?
‘I like it,’ he said, which had to be the understatement of the millennium. ‘You don’t have time to change. And stop calling me Mr Khan. My name is Karim, Orla. Use it.’
Cupping her elbow, he led her out of the door to their waiting car. He needed to get this night over with, so he could think. He wasn’t making any more rash decisions where this woman was concerned.
When was the last time a woman had affected him to this extent? The truth was his affairs had become jaded and dull in recent years, and while this livewire attraction was inconvenient, even unwanted, it also had the potential to be pleasurable for both of them.
But before he renegotiated the terms of their liaison, he needed to be sure his new fiancée wasn’t going to spring any more unwanted surprises on him.
He held open the passenger door of the convertible he’d selected to drive to the venue tonight. As Orla climbed into the low-slung car, he noticed the split in the gown’s skirt, revealing a generous glimpse of pale, toned thigh.
He cursed inwardly as the wave of heat shot straight back into his groin.
He slammed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. First thing tomorrow, he was firing the damn stylist.
Mr Khan… Karim was angry with her, and she didn’t know what she’d done wrong.
She’d done everything he’d asked. The dress had made her feel exposed and foolish—she’d never worn anything so skimpy before, or so beautiful. But the stylist had insisted it was perfect for her figure and would turn her new fiancé into her ‘slave’—the stylist’s words, not hers. Of course, the stylist—like the rest of Karim’s employees—didn’t know this wasn’t a real engagement… And that even if she danced naked in front of him it wouldn’t turn him into her slave.
But the minute she’d heard the gruff whisper behind her, and turned to see Karim standing staring at her in the vestibule, that intense gaze making her skin prickle and pulse beneath the sheer fabric of the glittery gown, she’d known something was terribly wrong. Because he didn’t look pleased, he looked… Volatile.
His movements and his demeanour had been stiff and formal ever since, as if he were trying to hold onto his temper. The shock of seeing him in a tuxedo, his dark good looks somehow even more compelling and dangerous in the formal wear, hadn’t helped.
She sat in the car, trying to gather her thoughts and figure out what she could do to make things better between them. If only she had more experience of intimate relationships she might have more of a clue.
He climbed into the car beside her, slammed the door, then pressed a button on the expensive car’s state-of-the-art dashboard.
As the engine purred, he reached into his trouser pocket and produced a velvet box.
‘Put this on,’ he said, as he handed her the box.
She opened the small container. Her breathing slowed, the well-oiled vibrations of the powerful car amplifying the thundering in her ears.
Nestled in the box’s black satin lining was an exquisite ring of interwoven rose-gold and silver bands, studded with diamonds but crowned by an emerald. The misty green of the gem reminded her of the colour of the fields in Kildare when the sun hit them for the first time on a summer morning.
‘It’s stunning,’ she managed, round the strange swelling in her throat, as it occurred to her how different this moment was from the day Patrick Quinn had given her an engagement ring. Back then, of course, she’d believed Pat loved her, because she’d been a child with foolish romantic notions, instead of a woman with debts she couldn’t repay.
Her heart hurt as the impact of what she’d done that morning—become engaged to a man for money—hit her solidly in the solar plexus.
