if of its own volition, she felt her hand take his. Felt the coolness of his fingers, the strength in them. A door seemed to be opening—a door that beckoned enticingly, alluringly.
‘Talia.’ She smiled.
Quite deliberately she used the name she had adopted as her own. Her father always called her Natasha, in place of her given name, Natalia, which was preferred by her mother. But ‘Talia’ was neither her father’s dutiful imprisoned daughter nor her mother’s protective guardian. ‘Talia’ was herself—and tonight…oh, tonight, on this brief, rare opportunity to be herself, it seemed fitting.
‘Talia…’
She heard it echoed in a way that made it sound somehow more exotic, more sensual. His low voice had the trace of an accent in it, a timbre that seemed to set her vibrating at some subliminal level.
The dark glint of his eyes came her way again, and that knowing tug at his mouth. He took a considered mouthful from his glass, then set it back on the bar, letting his forearm rest on the surface. His stance altered, became relaxed.
But he wasn’t relaxed. The thought flickered in her head. He was like a panther, trying not to startle its prey before it was ready to pounce.
‘So, Talia, tell me about yourself.’
The invitation was casual, merely a gambit to continue the exchange. An exchange that was based, as she was so electrically aware, not on who they were but on the current that was running between them.
She paused a moment, taking another sip of wine. Should she go along with this, considering the powerful physical impact this man was having on her? Because of it?
Yet even as she hesitated, hovering between habitual caution and that intoxicating glimpse of freedom, she heard her own voice answer. ‘I’m an interior designer,’ she said.
Her voice was quite composed, she was glad to note, which was so at odds with what she was actually feeling as she sipped again at her spritzer. She saw him lift one questioning eyebrow towards the stark interior around them.
‘This place, for example?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No, this isn’t my style at all!’
She glanced around the bare brick walls, the industrial RSJs exposed across the lofty roof space, the reclaimed floorboards and the spotlit modern art adorning walls.
Her eyes shadowed momentarily. Though this starkly modernist interior was not to her taste, it was true, her own style was not something she was ever allowed to express. Her father dictated exactly what he wanted her to do: produce flashy interiors that looked as if they cost a lot of money. And she was expected to produce them on a miniscule budget in order to maximise her father’s profit on resale.
She hated everything she produced for her father.
No!
She would not think about her father now, nor about anything to do with the prison she lived in. Not when this amazing man was focusing on her, making her pulse quicken, making her eyes want only to gaze on him, drink him in…
‘And what about you?’ she heard herself asking, absorbing the way the planes of his face accentuated his looks, the way his dark eyes matched the sable of his hair—absorbing everything about him…everything…
He gave a slight shrug. ‘Investments,’ he replied.
He had said the word carelessly, but there was something in the timbre of his voice that was edged like a blade. Talia’s eyes flickered uncertainly.
‘You must be good at it,’ she observed, her eyes slipping to the custom-made watch around his lean wrist.
He saw her glance at it. ‘A present to myself today,’ he said dryly.
‘A very nice one!’ Talia murmured, even more dryly. ‘Is it your birthday?’
‘Better,’ he replied, taking another mouthful of his drink. ‘I’ve just achieved something I’ve worked towards for more than ten years, and it’s going to be a sweet, sweet moment.’
There was that same edge to his voice again, but it was more intense now. Almost…unnerving.
Not a man to cross.
‘You sound very driven,’ she heard herself say.
His expression stilled. ‘Driven? Oh, yes…’ For a moment he seemed to be looking far away, then abruptly his gaze refocused on her. ‘So, what brings you here tonight, Talia?’
The unsettling note in his voice had gone and now there was only…invitation. Invitation in the sweep of his lashes, the slight but distinct relaxing of his pose as he helped himself to another mouthful of his drink.
She shrugged. ‘What brings anyone to a party?’ she countered.
That sweep of his lashes came again, as if her answer amused him. ‘Do you want me to answer that?’ he challenged.
Unspoken between them was the answer already. The reason so many people went to parties was to see and be seen. And to hook up…
She gave a little shake of her head, dipping it slightly to take a sip from her glass. Then, as if the wine had emboldened her, she glanced back at him. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
This time his lashes did not sweep down. This time his gaze was level on her. ‘Perhaps,’ he murmured.
His gaze lingered, telling her just why he had said that. She felt heat flush through her. Heat she was not used to. Heat that might burn her.
This is going too fast! I should back away, mingle…
But he was speaking again, draining his glass and setting it back on the counter. His eyes washed over her, and as they did so all the caution in her evaporated. She felt her pulse surge, her cheeks flush, her lips part. A heady sense of freedom—of what that freedom might offer her—was vivid within her. What this man had she didn’t know. She only knew that never, ever in her life had she encountered it or experienced the impact he was having on her.
And she could not—would not—resist it.
Whatever is happening, I want it to happen!
‘But one thing I am certain of,’ she heard him say, and there was that glint in his eye that told her just how certain he was, ‘is that tonight calls for champagne!’
He turned to the barman and instantly two flutes were presented to them, sparkling gently. Talia took one, feeling again that heady surge in her veins.
‘Is this a toast to your “sweet, sweet moment”?’ she asked, lifting her glass to him, a smile flashing in her own eyes now, as they met his boldly.
For a second his hand stayed, and then he lifted his own glass to her.
‘To even more,’ he said.
The message was unmistakable,
