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He turned, and those moss-green eyes locked on her face, making her breath squeeze in her lungs. His gaze skimmed down—insolent, possessive—to take in the sleek, shimmering gown which suddenly felt completely transparent.
Her breathing stopped altogether, making her lightheaded, and suddenly she was that artless, innocent girl again, trapped in the laser beam of Brandon Cade’s attention, yearning for his approval, her heart thundering so hard against her ribcage she was surprised it didn’t leap out of her chest.
His eyes narrowed as his gaze lifted to her chignon.
‘What happened to your hair?’ he asked. ‘It looks as if it’s grown several feet in a few hours.’
The offhand comment released the breath she’d been holding. She forced herself to drag in another.
‘It’s magic,’ she said. ‘Courtesy of Gigi, my new hairstylist. And several feet of someone else’s hair.’
He let out a gruff chuckle, then offered her his elbow. ‘I guess we better get to the ball, then, before they ask for it back.’
She placed her fingertips on his forearm, her breathing accelerating all over again as a muscle tensed under the suit fabric and she captured his scent—clean soap and spicy cologne, an aroma she remembered far too vividly from five years ago.
He tugged her towards him until she could feel the hard line of his body against hers, then led her to the hotel lift as her heart attempted to punch its way out of her chest again.
Fabulous.
How had she ended up at the mercy of this hard, indomitable man a second time? And how on earth was she going to keep her secrets—and her unruly senses—safe from him for an entire night?
Cinderella, hold my beer.
‘Your date tonight istrès belle, Cade, but also a surprise,’ Maxim Durand, the billionaire vintner hosting tonight’s ball to celebrate the spring bud-burst in his vineyards, murmured in Brandon’s ear.
Brandon let out a harsh laugh as he stared at Lacey, who had been chatting with Durand’s British wife Cara and his four-year-old son Pascal ever since they had arrived.
Durand was so damn proud of his family, it seemed he couldn’t resist showing them off at every available opportunity. Brandon had to admit the guy’s kids were pretty cute, although the way the toddler in Maxim’s arms had been staring at him all night was starting to unnerve him.
He knew nothing about kids, except what he could remember about being a child himself—not a feeling he wanted to revisit.
‘Why a surprise?’ he asked absently, although he knew why—more than a few people had commented on his decision to invite a feature writer from a celebrity magazine tonight. This was the sort of exclusive event where the press stayed outside. But, then again, Lacey didn’t seem to be taking advantage of the opportunity he’d given her... Which only made him more uneasy. Why hadn’t she?
He’d heard her staggered gasp as he had guided her into the palatial ballroom. Once attached to the private opera house next door, the hotel’s historic event space had been built during the reign of Napoleon III, when pomp and circumstance had been a way of life in Paris. Gold chandeliers hung from a ceiling decorated in artwork depicting a host of Greek deities. Marble columns, sculpted statues—of yet more naked Greeks!—and bronze busts adorned the ballroom’s hidden alcoves and added to the gilded splendour.
The sound of a chamber orchestra echoed off polished marble but was drowned out by the chatter of conversation and the clink of glass wear and fine china from the lavish buffet ofcordon bleucuisine laid out in the adjacent banqueting hall. Once the reception was over, there would be a performance from Paris’s premiere ballet and then dancing of a very different kind to an A-list band who usually filled stadiums.
Everyone who was anyone in business, politics and entertainment was here tonight, presenting a smorgasbord of the kind of celebrities who guarded their privacy almost as fiercely as he did.
He’d been waiting for Lacey to sneak off, so he would have an excuse to think the worst of her, but she’d seemed subdued and tense, unwilling or unable to make the most of this golden career opportunity.
‘Don’t I always date beautiful women?’ he added. But, even as he said the words, he couldn’t help being far too aware of the unfamiliar hitch in his heartbeat which he’d been struggling to control ever since he’d turned in the hallway upstairs to see his date in that damn evening gown.
The sight was still playing havoc with his control even now. Lacey Carstairs wasn’t just beautiful, she was stunning—but in a wholly unconventional way. Those cat-like eyes had seemed even more sultry and alluring thanks to the glittery gunk on her lids. The shimmering fabric of the gown skimmed over her curves like a second skin, accentuating her coltish beauty and highlighting her pert breasts. When he added in the glossy sheen on her lips, which had made the desire to kiss her all but unbearable, was it any surprise he couldn’t take his eyes off her? He even found himself mesmerised by that elaborate hairdo, his fingers itching to pluck out the pins and sink his fingers into the short cap of curls hiding beneath.
The need to touch, taste and torment every inch of her until she begged had been driving him nuts all evening, even though he’d begun to question the decision to invite her tonight as soon as they’d boarded the helicopter in London.
‘Yes, but you don’t usually date celebrity journalists,mon ami,’ Durand clarified, the wry amusement in his tone suggesting he wasn’t so much irritated by Cade’s choice of guest, more intrigued. ‘I thought you had learned your lesson with the last one.’
Misty hadn’t been a reporter, she’d been a self-publicist on social media, but he got Durand’s point. He wasn’t an impulsive guy, so where the hell had the decision to bring Lacey to this event even come from? And why had he only been more determined to get her here when she’d tried to put him off?
Had he fallen for the oldest trick in the book—a woman playing hard to get? And why couldn’t he shake the feeling her reticence, her nerves, were one hundred percent genuine—and had nothing to do with the event and everything to do with him? He was used to women finding him intimidating, but he’d never been so aware of their feelings before now, so attuned to every tiny indrawn breath, every tensed muscle.
His awareness of her had only made him more determined to find out every damn thing he could as soon as he’d escorted her to her suite. So he’d spent an hour earlier checking her out on the Internet. Only to discover precisely nothing. How come a celebrity journalist didn’t have any kind of Internet footprint—not one single social media account? Almost as if she’d appeared from nowhere two years ago when she’d got her first by-line atSplendour.
And how come her mysterious past hadn’t done a damn thing to stem his desire? He didn’t like secrets or surprises. And recklessness wasn’t one of his go-to emotions either. But the desire to take her to bed was becoming more intense, the more unsettled he became, rather than less so.
Not good.
