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Because if he was gorgeous in jeans and a T-shirt, in a tux he was absolutely mesmerising.
With his height and his broad build, his scarred face and the electric blue of his eyes, the formality of the clothing seemed only to enhance the raw masculinity of him, a kind of untamed earthy energy that had made my breath catch the moment I’d seen him in it.
He held out his hand to me now as I got out of the limo, the warmth of his fingers closing around mine as I took it. The reassurance of that warmth made something I hadn’t realised was nervous inside me settle.
Back at the hotel, we’d talked a little about what our cover story as a couple would be and had decided that we’d go with meeting at a charity event a couple of months ago and keeping our relationship on the down-lo
w to avoid any media nonsense. No, we hadn’t been dating long, but we already knew that it was going to be something that would last. Yes, we were contemplating marriage, and kids were a definite possibility.
His gaze was intense on mine as I stepped from the car, attention turning to us, the paparazzi already gathering.
Except I wasn’t thinking about the paparazzi. I was thinking about what he’d said earlier, about his father and Dumont, and about how he was a petty bastard. He’d flung that at me almost like a challenge, daring me to contradict him, and I’d wanted to.
Because the man who’d reached out and held my hand, who’d talked to me about how I should have had someone when my mother had died, who’d told me my father should have protected me against Mark, wasn’t petty in the slightest.
But I knew he’d argue if I tried to contradict him and it wasn’t the right moment for an argument. I didn’t understand what made me want to convince him he was wrong, anyway. After all, why did I care whether he thought he was a petty bastard or not?
He was certainly a grumpy one, that was for sure, though his temper didn’t bother me. It only made me curious as to why he was like that. Because he struck me very much like a bear with a sore paw, swiping at people who came too close.
Do you want to get close?
Maybe I did. I was curious about the bitterness in his voice when he’d mentioned his father. The throwaway line about him not being good enough.
But it wasn’t a throwaway line, was it? And it kind of explained why he was so driven to succeed and why he was so uncompromising that people had to take him as he was. Why he was so bluntly honest about himself.
He really was afraid he wasn’t good enough.
But I didn’t like that thought and I didn’t like how it hurt him, because it did hurt him. He just covered that hurt with anger.
It made me want to help him in some way, though how I didn’t know. It wasn’t my place to do so anyway.
Well, you are supposed to be his girlfriend, so...maybe it is tonight?
The emerald gown swirled around me as we walked towards the entrance, a reminder of my role: Ash Evans’s girlfriend.
I didn’t know how to be a girlfriend—hell, I was barely used to being a lover, and we’d only been lovers for a single night. Was I even going to be convincing? I could talk about cars for ever, but anything else? Plans for the future and weddings and perhaps a family?
I hadn’t thought about those things. I wasn’t really interested in those things. My life was all about Australis.
What about after this is over? What are you going to do about him?
That, at least, was easy. I would do nothing about him. He’d been a lovely and unexpected interlude while I’d been in Europe, but that was it.
In the meantime, I’d have to play the part I’d promised and hopefully do it well enough that he’d get his precious islands.
‘Don’t look so nervous,’ he murmured in my ear as we turned towards the entrance of the hotel, curling one arm possessively around my waist and drawing me close. ‘Just stick to our story and you’ll be fine.’
I leaned into the heat and hard muscle of his body. ‘I feel like an imposter,’ I murmured back. ‘I don’t know how to be anyone’s girlfriend, let alone yours.’
People stared at us as we entered the hotel, flashes going off as the paparazzi swarmed. Not used to it, I tried to ignore the attention.
‘You don’t have to know.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a matte black card that he flashed at the doorman. ‘All you have to do is act like you can’t wait to rip my clothes off. That should do it.’
My mouth went dry at the thought of ripping off his clothes. Or rather, of pulling open his white shirt and touching the warm skin of his chest, sliding my hands over all that hard muscle.
God...
‘Yes,’ he rumbled softly and approvingly as the doorman pulled open the door and we went inside. ‘That’s exactly the look I mean.’
