Pascal wasn’t moving.
She took a hesitant step forward. ‘What, what is it? Is it really that bad?’
Alana tried to look back at the mirror self-consciously when she heard something suspiciously like a grunt coming from Pascal.
He’d taken his hand down and was laughing. Then he stopped and walked towards her. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. It was the shock of seeing so much exposed flesh at once.’
Alana all at once felt like laughing and angry. She picked up a small cushion from the chair beside her and threw it at him, but he caught it deftly and kept coming. Dressed in a tuxedo, with his hair still damp from the shower, he was magnificent.
She had to speak to try and negate the effect he had on her, the way his teasing wound through her and impacted a place that was so deep, so vulnerable.
‘I’m going to change right now; I knew this dress was a mistake.’
She went to undo the zip that was under her arm, and Pascal reached her and captured her hand. ‘Don’t you dare. That dress is beautiful.’
Alana’s face flamed. ‘It’s not. It’s too—’
‘So why did you bring it, then?’
She couldn’t answer. He walked her over to the full-length mirror and stood her in front of him. His hands rested on her hips. She could feel him, tall and hard and lean behind her, and it was so seductive.
‘Look at yourself.’
Alana closed her eyes, her cheeks still scarlet. She shook her head. ‘I hate looking at myself.’
‘Alana, look at yourself.’
Something in his voice made her open her eyes, and she immediately looked at him through the mirror. She could feel him sigh behind her.
‘Not at me, at yourself.’
With extreme reluctance, she did. She saw the black silk dress that was cut on the bias and fell to just below her knees in an asymmetric line. She saw one shoulder, pale and bared, and just a hint of a curve of her breast. She saw the strap that held the dress up over her other shoulder with its flamboyant red-silk flower, a splash of vibrant colour.
‘Now, what’s wrong with this picture?’
Alana groaned inwardly. This was so embarrassing. She would bet a million dollars that not one of his previous lovers had had to be reassured about a dress before.
She tried to turn. ‘Look, it’s nothing, I’m sorry. Let’s just go, shall we?’
He wouldn’t let her. He held her fast, and something in the air changed. It became electric.
‘You’re beautiful, Alana. This dress is beautiful on you. It’s not too revealing. In fact,’ he growled with mock lasciviousness, ‘it’s not revealing enough.’
He turned her then to face him, his hands warm on her shoulders. She could feel her breasts peak against the silk of the dress.
He tipped up her chin so she couldn’t avoid his eyes. ‘What did he do to you, Alana? I bet you weren’t always like this.’
Alana struggled not to let the tears brighten her eyes, but there was a lump in her throat. She shook her head. ‘No, I wasn’t. He just … he just made me feel cheap. That’s all.’
She pulled free of his arms and looked at her watch. ‘We should really go.’
He heard the emotion in her voice and watched her precede him out of the room, the dress emphasising her gently curved shape, the jut of her rounded bottom. He could recall only too clearly the thrust of her breasts against his chest.
He stalled a moment before following her out. She was so totally different from any woman he’d known before that he couldn’t quite begin to rationalise how she made him feel. Physically, he burned for her. Earlier at the match he’d quite literally had to see her, touch her at half time or he’d felt he would have gone insane. She’d been preoccupied. First of all, he wasn’t used to any woman being preoccupied around him, and secondly, he wasn’t used not to being in complete control with his lovers. They turned him on, yes, that was what he chose them for, but never to the extent that he felt with this woman. This was something different.
He straightened his cuffs before walking out, uncomfortably aware of his near-constant state of arousal. She was just different because she wasn’t one of the polished socialites that littered his social scene, who threw themselves at him, that was all. It was still just an affair, and he’d no doubt that he’d soon look at her and wonder what he’d been hot and bothered about.
A little later, in the exclusive hotel which was hosting his bank’s lavish charity-ball, Pascal felt extremely hot and bothered. Alana was generating a veritable tsunami of attention in her sexy dress. After having spent the last two weeks trying to get her out of her buttoned-up uniform, now he wanted to march her right out of there and make her change back into it.
Clamping her to his side was a need born out of a violent emotion that he’d never felt before as acquaintance after acquaintance came up under the pretext of talking business, whereupon they did nothing but stare at Alana. She seemed oblivious, but Pascal was too inured to women and their wily ways. And he was all too aware of how beguiling her natural beauty was to these men, who were jaded and cynical. As jaded and cynical as he was. Was he no better than these men? He’d just seen her first. All sorts of conflicting, unsavoury thoughts were being unleashed within him. Not least of which was the sensation that perhaps he’d been fooled, fooled by her act, her apparent vulnerability. How could she really be so different?
He dragged her attention back from where she was looking in awe at the room around them, and muttered something about getting drinks. He saw a flash of uncertainty in her eyes and ignored it, and the feeling it generated through him. He needed space.
Alana looked to where Pascal was cutting a swathe through the glittering crowd. She couldn’t help but notice the intense interest he generated among every cluster of women in the room, who also followed his progress with avid attention. Some of them turned then to look at her, and she felt extremely self-conscious. Trying to shrug off the immediate insecurity that their looks generated, she walked to where ornate doors led out to a small, idyllic garden. Even though it was cool, one or two people mingled outside. The hotel was pure opulence, one of the oldest and grandest in Rome, situated with a view of the Spanish Steps.
She couldn’t help but think of similar situations with Ryan. He’d always dumped her as soon as they got in the door and made straight for the bar. Invariably she’d be left on her own all evening and would return home alone, only to wake up in the morning and find that he hadn’t even returned. She’d stopped worrying about his whereabouts soon into the marriage when it had become clear he’d never seemed to miss her.
She rubbed her arms distractedly, as she had that sensation of someone walking over her grave.
‘Bella.’
Alana jumped and turned to see a tall man standing beside her, looking her up and down. She looked nervously over his shoulder back into the room, but couldn’t see Pascal. She smiled tightly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian;
