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confined space, and the strains of the jazz band lilted in his ears. A charming scene; but one he nonetheless hated.
His self-made fortune dwarfed the bank balance of half the room combined, but how he loathed the trappings of wealth. With an impatient sigh, he pressed his back against one of the stark white walls. To an onlooker, he might have seemed indolent and at ease. Only someone who knew him very well would have noticed that his squared shoulders and knitted brows were signs of total distaste.
Most of the guests were familiar to him, from events such as this, despite the fact he avoided them wherever possible. If it weren’t for his friendship with Davies, he would have avoided this one too. Even his almost brotherly relationship with the host was almost not enough to have induced Luca to waste a perfectly fine Friday night at a stifling society affair.
But Davies and he went back a long way, and there wasn’t much Luca wouldn’t do to show his loyalty for the man. After all, he owed what he’d become to Davies and Davies’s father. He shifted his view sideways, careful to keep any appearance of disdain off his rugged face.
He had the kind of looks that women crossed rooms for. A dark, swarthy complexion; generous, wide lips, an aristocratic nose with a knot halfway down its length from when he’d broken it playing football as a teenager. His eyes were almond shaped and rimmed with thick, dark lashes. His hair, though, was what seemed to confuse and excite the fairer sex. Shoulder length and brown, it had a natural wave, and a wildness to it that was perfect for a man like Luca Abramo. Though he’d climbed to the top of the corporate world, he was anything but tame, and his hair was a none too subtle reminder.
Beneath the five thousand pound tuxedo and hand crafted shoes stood a man both feral and wild, more comfortable in nothing but his own skin and the hills of his native Italy.
His eyes continued to inspect the room, careful not to linger too long on any one person. He did not wish to speak to people; to make small talk with those he privately despised. He had no need. Many of the people assembled at the gallery had come to network and be seen, presumably with the goal of furthering their wealth and status. Luca cared little for social order. Even if he had, his place in society would have left him more than satisfied. At thirty six, he was spectacularly wealthy and highly-sought after. His lack of interest in social affairs gave him an air of mystery that seemed to increase his popularity, rather than having the desired effect of being left in peace.
Two women were talking and nodding his way. One of them, he’d slept with the year earlier, and yet now he couldn’t remember her name. Francine? Fiona? His lips curled in a derisive twist before he continued his lazy inspection. Face after face offered little interest to Luca.
There, by the door though, was one woman he hadn’t yet come across at one of these things. A small frown creased his face as he took the time to properly scrutinise her appearance. She looked like she belonged as well as the next woman. Her hair was so pale it was almost silver, cut short and shaped around her pixie-like face. She was small. Not just slender, but short too. She was not so skinny that she lacked any appeal, though, he credited dispassionately. The buttery lemon yellow dress she wore was cut just low enough to show the hint of her cleavage, and it was fitted to her knees, leaving him in little need of employing his imagination. Yes, an eleven out of ten for figure. That was nothing new. The women in this room did whatever it took to maintain their physical appeal. Surgery, absurd diets, gruelling work-outs. Lifting a book, though, and reading it from cover to cover was beyond most of them.
The color of the dress shouldn’t have suited her. She was fair. So pale her skin seemed to glow beneath the bright halogens of the gallery. Even at a distance, he could see that her nose had been kissed with a smattering of dainty freckles. He found himself leaning forward imperceptibly, trying to get a better look at her face. She was talking to someone, though. A man he had met once or twice. Connor someone or other. A middling banker who fancied himself the next Donald Trump. A rather ambitious aspiration given Connor’s obvious lack of aptitude for investments.
His lips twisted in a snarl of cynical amusement. Better and better. If he was to take a woman from someone, who better than an arrogant piece of work who had only gained a mild degree of success in life by employing every ounce of nepotism available to him?
Not that he was going to take her, was he? He was done with spoiled brats who wanted little more than to lounge about in one of his luxurious hotel rooms, and beg trips on his private jet. Sure, it had been fun at first, but he’d grown up in the last few years. Women like this were high maintenance. Always more trouble than they were worth, in the end.
At that exact moment, she angled her head to admire a piece of art hanging just to his left. He’d looked at the painting himself for some time. It was a confronting work of art. The blonde’s expression was filled with rapt awe as she swept her eyes over the broad brushstrokes and angry use of color.
Fascinating.
The painting had nothing on her, though. Far better than any of the canvases on display, he was lost in the endless depths of her eyes. They were green like the ocean, and they seemed to glow with the strength of her emotion. Her lips were soft and pink, full and naturally pouted, and in her chin, there was a little cleft that deserved to be tickled by tongue. If he hadn’t sworn off women like her, he would have crossed the room and channelled the full force of his intent on her.
But he was done with demanding socialites.
At her neck, she wore a thick, golden chain, and in her ears, diamonds that sparkled like stars in the night sky. As he watched, her date put a possessive arm on her elbow. She tilted her head to him, straining to hear his words. She laughed, then, and the sound carried across the crowded room to him. It was musical and natural. Completely unforced. He felt himself harden a little, in immediate response.
He willed her to look in his direction. To look at him. And yet, when her mossy eyes landed on his face, he was surprised. He felt a sharp tug of awareness as her face registered him, and scanned him in detail. Almost as much detail as he’d used to observe her.
With a small curl of his lips, he looked away.
He would not waste his time on another society princess. Life was too short. Even for petite vixens who could make his body ache with a single look.
“So, what do you think?” Davies’s smooth, cultured voice broke through his fog of contemplation.
“The art?” Luca grunted, pushing up from the wall and thrusting his hands into his pockets.
“The art. The soiree. The women.” Davies’s grin held the boyish mirth that Luca recalled from their school days. “The whole shebang.”
Luca lifted his brows, wanting to enthuse for the sake of his friend. “The art is accomplished,” he agreed, finally, nodding towards one particularly impressive abstract canvas on the opposite wall.
“High praise from you,” the fair-headed man said with a laugh. He beckoned a waiter and retrieved two flutes of Cristal from the almost over-flowing tray. “Here. Loosen up. The room is pumping. The wine is flowing. Go. Have fun.”
Luca’s expression was bland. “What makes you think I am not?”
Davies laughed, slapping Luca on the shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe the way you’re glaring at my guests?”
Luca’s gaze was unwavering. “I do not mean to glare. You know I find these occasions… oppressive.”
“I do indeed. Could you perhaps just try to look like you’re having fun? You’re my A-list guest, after all.”
Luca lifted his brows, though he wasn’t really surprised. When he’d first met Davies, he, Luca Abramo, had been the slightly uncertain, certainly inexperienced, boy of the pair. But more than two decades had passed since then, and now Luca was in command of his life, his businesses, and everyone he met. Despite the fact he loathed attention, his endless success in the business sphere had made him a household name.
