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‘You are a man of considerable patience, Monsieur Khan,’ the former jockey, whose name Karim had forgotten, remarked wryly.
‘How so?’ he asked, his gaze still fixed on Orla as she disappeared into the ballroom.
‘If I had such a woman, I would want to keep her in my bed, rather than spend hours allowing other men to admire her charms.’
Karim swung round, the older man’s comment making the heat—and frustration—he had been trying to control all evening surge. His fingers curled into fists, so he could resist the urge to punch the smile off the much smaller man’s mouth.
‘What did you say?’ he snapped.
‘There is no need to look so indignant, monsieur.’ The jockey lifted his hands—palms up—in the universal sign of surrender, but the mocking, almost pitying, smile remained. ‘I meant no offence to you or your fiancée.’
‘Then what did you mean?’ he growled, knowing he was overreacting, but not quite able to stop the outrage.
‘Only that Mademoiselle Calhoun is exquisite—not just fresh and beautiful but also intelligent and accomplished. I am an old man, and I am jealous of you, for having so much to look forward to with such a woman by your side for the rest of your life.’
Karim frowned at the hopelessly romantic statement.
Not exactly, she will be gone as soon as she has outlived her usefulness.
Thanking the man through gritted teeth, he made his excuses and walked away, still furious at the presumptuous comment and the surge of frustrated desire it had caused.
His annoyance increased as he acknowledged the twist of regret in his stomach at the thought that Orla wasn’t his. He headed towards the ballroom—where the dance floor was packed with people. Maybe Orla wasn’t his. But he didn’t want to watch any more men ‘admiring’ her charms. As soon as she reappeared they would leave.
Then perhaps he could calm down enough to figure out how his fake fiancée had managed to complicate a perfectly simple business arrangement, tie his guts in knots, and turn him into a man he hardly recognised, in less than one night.
‘Orla, dance with me…’
Orla barely had a moment to acknowledge the request before a damp palm clamped on her wrist and she was staring into a flushed freckled face she recognised.
‘Patrick…!’ She stiffened and reared back, as her former fiancé’s now paunchy belly pressed into hers. But before she had a chance to extricate herself he had locked his other arm around her hips, like an iron band, and manoeuvred her onto the dance floor with him.
‘Hello, Orla, don’t you look good enough to eat…’ His pale blue gaze dipped lasciviously to her breasts and his nostrils flared. A drop of sweat rolled down the side of his face to land on her shoulder. Funny to think that look had once made her feel special, when all it did now was make her flesh crawl.
She struggled, refusing to move her feet as he tried to sway with her in his arms.
‘Patrick, let me go, you’re locked,’ she said, the stale scent of beer and whisky underlying the unpleasant smell of sweat.
She’d seen Patrick earlier in the crowd and had been beyond grateful he hadn’t spotted her. But the truth was, she’d given him no more thought whatsoever, all her energies expended on dealing with the much bigger issue of not messing up the role she was playing for Karim tonight. And not letting any more of the destructive emotions that had assailed her in the car get the upper hand again.
As it happened, that hadn’t been all that easy. Karim had
remained by her side all night, which had only made her giddy, misguided reaction to him all the more intense and unpredictable. She’d tried to sound smart and authoritative when talking to racing industry figures she knew Karim had hired her to impress, her goal to persuade him she could do the job she’d begged him for the day before. But as the night had worn on and his unsettling effect on her had increased, she’d found it more and more difficult to string anything like a coherent sentence together.
Their dances together had been nothing short of excruciating. She didn’t know how to dance, she hadn’t socialised at all for five years and he had the smooth, easy grace of a man who was entirely in tune with his own body. The fact she had been far too aware of every spot where their bodies touched had only made her more clumsy. As a result, he’d called a halt, not once but twice in the middle of the dance.
Not only was she failing at the job he was paying her for but the more attentive—and intense—he became, the more difficult she was finding it to remember this was a job at all.
The suggestion they leave soon should have brought some relief, but instead it had increased the melting sensation between her thighs and the pulse of panic that they were about to be alone again.
‘Don’t be so high and mighty, Orla,’ Patrick said, bringing her sharply back to the present. He squeezed her so tightly she realised he wasn’t just locked, he was loaded too, the outline of an erection pushing against her belly. Nausea rose up her throat, and she began to struggle in earnest to get away from him.
Sure she didn’t want to create a scene, but Patrick was and had always been a jerk, and it humiliated her to think she had ever fancied herself in love with him.
Unfortunately, the more she struggled, the more he tightened his grip.
‘Patrick, this isn’t funny, you need to let me go.’
‘Ah, shut up, now, Miss Priss,’ he said. The old nickname, which she had once thought was affectionate but had become aware was just another way to belittle her, had the spike of temper igniting. ‘Just because you’ve nabbed some foreign royal now.’ His eyes narrowed to slits and his fleshy lips quirked, the cruel smile one she recognised, because it had once had the power to cut her to the quick. ‘Does he know you’re frigid yet?’ he sneered. ‘Or did you finally put out for someone?’
