pressed down on her.
Oh, God, what a hypocrite she was. She could rant away all she liked about men thinking that dinner meant bed-and-breakfast, as well, and get on her high horse that Xavier Lauran was no better than any of them. But she knew, as she swallowed through the tight, stricken cords in her throat, that, berate him all she might, the truth was that she was a hypocrite. A one hundred per cent, fully paid-up hypocrite.
She made herself say the words. Say them clearly and plainly in her head.
I would have said yes.
If she could have, she would have said yes.
She closed her eyes, sinking down her head. She would have done it. She would have let him take her by the hand, lead her upstairs, let him take her into his arms, slide his mouth across hers to take the possession of it the way she had wanted right from the very first moment she saw him, let him take possession of her body.
For however long he wanted. For a single hour, a single night—however long he wanted her.
That was his power. That was the power she had felt flowing into her, through her, unstoppable, unavoidable. The power of an emotion that she had never felt before, but which she now felt more intensely, more overwhelmingly than she knew she would ever feel about any man again.
The power of desire.
Her eyes shadowed, and she lifted her face from her hands.
Desire she could never fulfil.
Because it was impossible, just impossible. Nothing in her life made it possible for her to say what she had longed to be able to say, that simple, sighing yes.
She stiffened her spine. Well, it was just as well she hadn’t, wasn’t it? Just as well she’d said, ‘I can’t.’ Because that had unleashed a side of Xavier Lauran he’d hidden from her all evening, ever since he’d denied buying her time for what the casino had sold it to him for.
Anger spurted through her. She was glad of it. Grateful. It helped to scour out the stupid, naïve mush that was making her hide herself away like this. It was as well she’d got the measure of the man, so she could see the ‘magic’ for what it was. For him nothing more than a ritual to be gone through before moving on to the main event of the evening. And when he was denied it he’d turned nasty.
With a heavy, hard heart, she got to her feet. She had to get out of here. She had to get changed and go home, back to her real life. She went out into the washroom area, collecting her bag of clothes from the cloakroom, then retired back into the cubicle to change. The jeans were still damp, but tough. Her jacket would keep her warm enough, and it was still early enough to travel by Tube, which would be warmer. She’d go straight home, not back to work. She couldn’t face it—not tonight. Would Xavier Lauran complain about her to the casino manager? Consider himself short-changed because she hadn’t come across for him, even after all the soft soaping he’d given her? Well, too bad. She’d assumed she was out of a job when she’d left the casino this evening—so if she was, she was.
Leaving a tip for the attendant she could ill afford, she headed out of the Ladies. The beautiful silk dress was folded back into its tissue paper, the shoes nestling in the base of the bag, stockings neatly wrapped. No one would want to wear them, obviously, but they belonged to Xavier Lauran. He’d paid for them, and he would get them back, along with the rest of what he’d dolled her up in.
She glanced warily around as she marched towards the concierge’s desk, but there was no sign of him. Good—he’d left.
She clumped heavily on the marble floor, and didn’t care. She reached the concierge and hefted up the boutique bags.
‘For Mr Xavier Lauran,’ she said shortly. ‘I don’t know his room number.’
‘Certainly, madam,’ the uniformed concierge said, and lowered the bags behind his desk. She nodded her thanks, and headed to the main entrance of the hotel. The revolving doors opened on to a portico where taxis and cars could draw up. Was Xavier Lauran’s chauffeured car still waiting for her? She didn’t care if it was. She wasn’t getting into it anyway. There was a Tube station quite near here, and the rain had stopped finally. It was chilly, but dry. She wanted to go home.
She hovered on the exterior concourse a moment, getting her bearings. She was somewhere in Mayfair, on the corner of one of the grand Georgian squares, but for a moment her orientation was awry. She glanced around.
And there was Xavier Lauran. Tall, hands plunged into the pockets of his cashmere overcoat. Immobile. Waiting.
He walked up to her. She tried to walk past him. He blocked her instantly, hands slipping from his pockets and catching her by her elbows.
‘Lissa—please. If you do nothing else, let me apologise.’
She stared up at him.
‘I behaved like a brute. An oaf. And I’m sorry—truly sorry.’
How he did it she didn’t know, but he guided her to the far end of the concourse, where there were no people, no cars, no doorman.
He looked down at her. There was an expression in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. It made him look … different. She didn’t know why. Could only know, right now, that her heart had started to thump. With hard, heavy slugs.
And that her throat was tight, so tight.
‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said again, and his voice was different, too, though she couldn’t tell why.
He was speaking again, and she forced herself to listen over the pounding of her heart.
‘If there is someone else in your life, then I understand. And I respect you for being honest with me—and I am sorry, truly, for having placed you in this position in the first place. Making you feel that you had to accept my invitation or risk your job—even though it’s a job I wish you didn’t have.’ He took a breath. It seemed ragged to her ears.
‘I told you I was merely inviting you for dinner, and you have my word that at the time that is all I intended. Nothing more. But—’ He took another indrawn breath. ‘When I saw you, dressed as your beauty should be dressed, I was simply blown away. I have no other excuse. And I thought …’ his eyes washed over her, and she felt her legs weaken. ‘I thought you were responding to me in the same way, for the same reason.’ His mouth pressed minutely, then released. ‘Which is why I made the invitation that I did. I did not mean it insultingly or cheaply.’
His hands around her elbows eased upwards, and without her realising it he was drawing her closer to him.
‘You are so beautiful,’ he said softly. ‘Even now, knowing as I do that you are not free, even with that knowledge I still want for this one, single time—this. Allow me, please—for it is all I can have of you.’
He lowered his head to hers.
His kiss was heaven. Soft, and lingering and exquisite. She gave herself to it, gave herself with all the yearning she was filled with to the magic in his lips, his touch, taken for those few precious moments to a paradise she had not known existed.
And then, even as her heart soared, he was drawing away from her, letting go of her.
‘Goodbye,’
