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He stared at her in silence, his gaze skimming over her light curves, his body twitching with a hunger that had nothing to do with the food his chef Marco was preparing at the end of the deck by the teppanyaki grill.
Taken individually, her delicate features were mathematically perfect. But as a whole the effect was breathtaking. Add in the pearl-blonde hair and she was as flawless and untouchable as a goddess. His breath felt suddenly hot and heavy in his throat as his brain reminded him where to kiss her neck, so that her eyes would flutter shut and she would stir restlessly against him, blindly seeking more contact—
‘Would you like an aperitif, Mr Silva?’
He turned towards Hélène. ‘No, I think we’ll sit down. Ms Cavendish, will you join me?’
Dove gave him a smile that could only be described as glacial and nodded. ‘Of course.’
Settling into the chair at right angles to her, he watched her reach for a water glass. ‘Would you like wine?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘How is your suite?’ he asked softly. ‘I hope everything is to your satisfaction?’
Her grey eyes lifted to meet his. ‘It is—thank you.’
Her voice was soft and cool, like newly fallen snow, but the way she was sitting told a different story. Every line of her body suggested tension and distance, almost as if she was behind glass, and he knew that she was counting down the seconds until she could leave.
He stared across the table, his teeth suddenly on edge, a tic of irritation pulsing down his spine. Earlier, when she tried to get out of eating with him, he had reacted instinctively, harshly, wanting and needing to demonstrate to her thathewas in charge this time.
So instead of skulking in her room she was here, sitting at his table, being faultlessly polite.
Only strangely he hated that more.
But why?
His heart thumped against his ribs, but before he had a chance to think too deeply about how to answer that, or why the question even needed to be asked, the stewardess reappeared.
‘Today, we have a starter of broad bean, rocket and pecorino cheese salad with a champagne vinaigrette,’ she said, carefully sliding plates onto the table. ‘Enjoy.’
‘Thank you.’
As Dove looked up at the stewardess her face softened, the guarded tension leaving her eyes, and she smiled a smile so genuine, so warm, and of such irresistible sweetness, that for a moment he just stared, transfixed.
And then, remembering the cool, careful smile she had directed at him, he felt as if he had been kicked by a horse. He stared at her in silence, momentarily off-balance, unsure of what to do with the feeling of envy rolling through him. It didn’t matter how Dove smiled at him—he knew that. And yet, inexplicably, he wanted her to smile at him like she’d used to.
As if he was everything to her.
Not just a man who used his wealth and power to get what he wanted.
That feeling was another of those things he hadn’t anticipated back in New York. But then, back in New York everything had seemed cut and dried, black and white. His eyes locked with hers.Not grey.
‘So why did you change your mind?’ he asked.
Her chin jerked up. ‘About what?’
He leaned forward to pick up his glass and caught a whisper of her light floral perfume. ‘You wanted to become a barrister. What changed?’
She bit into her lip and then stopped, shrugged. ‘I grew up. To be a barrister you need to enjoy arguing your point. You have to get a buzz out of confrontation. And I’ve had—’
Now she broke off, glancing away to the fragile paper moon that had replaced the setting sun.
‘What I’m trying to say is that I worked out that the kind of law I like—the part I enjoy—is the problem-solving, the attention to detail, the academic rigour that goes into crafting an acquisition.’
Crafting.His pulse twitched. Interesting... And certainly not a term you’d find in the average corporate lawyer’s word cloud. Should he be surprised, though? Dove had always been a whole lot more than just a pretty face...
Eventually they were drinking coffee, and the stewards had retired to the crew’s lounge.
