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He’d been avoiding her for three days now. Ever since their impro
mptu breakfast meetings had given him a burning desire that had nothing whatsoever to do with mining her extensive knowledge of Calhouns’ strengths and weaknesses.
How could he still want her so much? Even more now than he had the night of the ball? Why was the hunger only getting worse? And why couldn’t he control it?
Almost as if he’d conjured her up by magic, his fiancée appeared at the tented opening to the event. He blinked several times. Was he hallucinating now? This was intolerable—weren’t the dreams of her every damn night since she’d arrived in his home enough?
But as his gaze locked on her slender, willowy figure and high breasts, displayed to perfection in a floaty, fluid sundress the same rich, striking green as her eyes, it became clear she was not an apparition.
The moment of relief though—that he wasn’t going totally insane—was followed by the brutal shaft of heat. He tensed, furious with the unbidden and uncontrolled reaction.
What was she doing here? He certainly had not requested her presence, for precisely this reason. Because she distracted him. A lot.
But even knowing he ought to fight the disturbing effect she had on him, he found himself tuning out Devereaux’s small talk as he watched her pick her way across the grass in her heels. She kept her head down, and her hands gripped the auction brochure she had been handed when she entered. She declined the offer of a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, pausing to look around.
He resisted the urge to go to her immediately, attempting to swallow down the ball of lust… Not very successfully.
Calm down, dammit. She’ll spot you in a minute and then you can demand to know what she is doing here.
Looking too eager was not his style, and having a domestic dispute in full view of everyone would hardly keep up the pretence that he was in love with this woman.
But as he battled the desire to storm through the crowd—and reignite the rumours about his being a hothead where this woman was concerned—a young man in a designer suit waylaid her. Orla paused, clearly disconcerted by the attention, especially when her admirer began to flirt with her in that way the English aristocracy had of being loud and annoying and thinking it was charming.
The possessive rage that had blindsided him at the ball a week ago surged.
And he had the answer to a question he hadn’t even acknowledged… Avoiding her hadn’t worked, if anything it had only made the hunger, and the inexplicable emotions that went with it—jealousy, envy, need—all the more volatile.
He made his excuses to Devereaux, dumped his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and headed towards his fiancée, ready to extricate her from the attentions of that obnoxious toff who had his eyes glued to her cleavage.
‘So you’re Irish? I should have guessed from the charming accent. And the red hair.’ The young man grinned flirtatiously as his gaze finally lifted from Orla’s breasts to her face. ‘Are you dating one of the Irish breeders, then?’ he said, putting enough emphasis on the word breeders to be less than charming.
She tried not to be insulted. While racing had always been a male-dominated sport, women were making their mark as both breeders and trainers, so this idiot’s assumption that she was some airhead who knew nothing about the sport had just given away his ignorance.
‘No, I’m Orla Calhoun, of the Calhoun stud…’
‘Orla, you’re here.’ Her explanation of who she was dried up as Karim appeared from nowhere. Dressed in a grey linen suit, he looked dominant and powerful and stupidly gorgeous. So what else was new?
Heat suffused her cheeks, and sank deep into her sex, as he clasped her elbow in strong fingers. ‘This is a surprise,’ he said, the edge in his voice unmistakeable.
He didn’t sound too pleased to see her, but before she could reply he pressed his lips to her cheek in a fleeting but somehow possessive kiss.
Fire ignited in her belly and spread up her collarbone.
It was the first time he had touched her since the ball. His dark gaze seared her skin, the intensity so vivid and compelling it felt as if they were alone—cocooned by the live-wire chemistry that flared between them so easily.
The jiggle of nerves she had tried to explain away during the drive to West London became turbocharged. Why did she feel as if she had just been branded? How did he do that? Make her feel as if she belonged to him? When she knew she didn’t?
‘Um, Karim, hi,’ she managed, clearing her throat while desperately trying to get her bearings again—and remind herself that she was here to prove to him she could be useful. ‘I heard you were at the auction and thought you could use my help with the bidding,’ she managed, desperately trying not to get derailed again by his disapproval. He should have invited her, why hadn’t he?
The young man beside her cleared his throat obviously waiting for an introduction.
‘Karim, this… This is, um…’ She turned to the young man, but even though he had introduced himself to her less than five seconds ago, his name totally escaped her.
‘Miles, Miles Johnson at your service,’ he said and offered his hand to Karim, managing to collect himself quicker than she had.
Karim merely glanced at the offered hand, which was hastily withdrawn. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘I’m honoured to meet you, Your Highness,’ the boy continued—for he suddenly seemed like a boy rather than a man as his confidence visibly disintegrated under Karim’s focussed disdain. ‘E-everyone’s t-talking about y-your acquisition of Quinns,’ he stammered. ‘What a bold move that was. And how you’re set to be the most exciting thing to happen to racing in years…’
