yourself a drink, Mr Derenz,’ she told him sweetly. ‘You look like you could use one!’
She turned on her high heel, stalking away back into the hotel, not caring about his reaction. If she never saw Marc Derenz again it would be too soon! A man like him could only be bad, bad news.
A man who, like no other man she’d ever met, could turn her into melting ice-cream with a taunting wrist-kiss and a veiled glance from those dark eyes—and who could equally swiftly make her mad as fire with his imperious manner and rock-like personality.
Yes, she thought darkly, definitely bad news.
On so many counts.
* * *
Behind her, stock-still on the pavement, knowing the doorman had been covertly observing the exchange and not giving a damn, Marc watched her disappear from sight, the skirts of her gown billowing around her long, long legs, that glorious chestnut hair catching the light. In his memory he could still taste the silken scent of the pale skin at her wrist, the warmth of the pulse beneath the surface.
Then, his expression still mask-like, he turned away to climb back into his car, and be driven to his own hotel.
As if mentally rousing himself, he reached for the crumpled note in his breast pocket. He slipped it back into his wallet, depleted now of the four hundred and fifty pounds that were in her possession. As his wallet held his gaze, he felt as if the contents were reminding him of something important to him. That he would be wise not to forget.
How much he had wanted to silence that acidly saccharine mouth of hers, taunting him in a way that right now, in the mood he’d been in all evening, had not been wise at all… Silence it in the only way he wanted…
No. Tara Mackenzie was not for him—not on any terms. All his life he’d played the game of romance by the rules he’d set out for himself, to keep himself safe, and it was out of the question to consider breaking them. Not even for a woman like that.
After all, he mused, had it not been for the wretched Celine he would never even have encountered her. Now all he wanted was to put both of them behind him. For good.
It would be less than a fortnight later, however, that he would be forced to do neither. And it would blacken his mood to new depths of exasperatedly irate displeasure…
* * *
Tara was looking at kitchens and bathrooms online, trying to budget for the best bargains. However she calculated it, she still definitely needed at least another ten thousand pounds to get it all done. And even living in London as cheaply as she could—including staying in this run-down flat-share—it would take, she reckoned, a good six months to save that much.
What I need is some nice source of quick, easy dosh!
She gave a wry twist of a smile tinged with acerbity. Well, she’d made that five hundred pounds quickly enough—just for keeping the oh-so-charmless Marc Derenz safe from Blondie.
Memory swooped on her—that velvet touch of his mouth on the tender inside of her wrist…
A rasp of annoyance broke from her—with herself, for remembering it, for feeling that tremor that it had aroused go through her again now.
He only did it to taunt you! No other reason.
With an impatient resolve to put the wretched man out of her thoughts, she went back to her online perusal. Moving to Dorset—that was important to her. Not some obnoxious zillionaire who’d put her back up from the very first. Nor some man who could set her pulse racing…a man who was so, so wrong for her…
A thought sifted across her mind. Would there ever be a man who was right for her, though?
Yes, she thought determinedly—one day there would be. But she wasn’t going to find him here in London, in her life as a model. No, it would be someone she’d meet when she’d started her new life in the country. Someone who didn’t know her as a model at all, and who didn’t see her as a trophy to show off with. Her thoughts ran on. Someone who was, oh, maybe a vet—or a farmer, even—at home in the countryside…
She pressed her lips together, giving a smothered snort. Well, one thing was for sure, it would not be Marc Derenz. And, anyway, she was never going to set eyes on him again.
A sharp rapping on the front door of the flat made her jump. She gave a sigh of irritation. Probably one of her flatmates had forgotten her keys.
She put her laptop aside, padded to the door, and opened it.
And stepped back in total shock.
It was the last person on earth she’d ever expected to see again.
Marc Derenz.
MARC’S MOOD WAS BLACK. Blacker even than it had been that torturous evening at the fashion show, with Celine trying to corner him. He’d hoped the brush-off he’d given her would mean she’d give up. He’d been wrong.
She was still plaguing him—still set on inviting herself to the Villa Derenz on the blatant pretext of house-hunting. It had been impossible to refuse Hans’s apologetic request—and now he’d been landed with them arriving this week.
Marc’s reaction had been instant—and implacable. He’d blocked her before—he would just have to do it again. However damn irritating it was to have to do so.
His eyes rested now on the means he was going to have to use. Tara Mackenzie.
He knew her name, and it had been easy enough to find out where she lived. He cast a disparaging eye around the dingy apartment. The front door opened on to the lounge, which was cheaply furnished and messy—belongings were scattered on battered settees, and a rack of washing was drying in front of the window.
His gaze swept round to the woman he’d tracked down.
And he veiled it immediately.
Even casually dressed, in jeans and a loose shirt, Tara Mackenzie was a complete knockout. Every bit as stunning as he remembered her. The same insistent, visceral response to her that he’d felt at that fashion show, that he’d been doing his damnedest to expel from his memory, flared in him again. Deplorable, but powerful. Far too powerful.
He crushed it down.
She was staring at him now, with those amazing blue-green eyes of hers, and had opened her mouth to speak. He pre-empted her. He wanted this sorted as swiftly as possible.
* * *
‘I need to talk to you. I have a business proposition to put to you.’
His voice was clipped to the point of curtness. Just as it had been before at the fashion show. Tara’s hackles rose automatically. She was still reeling from seeing him again—still reeling from the overpowering impact he was having on her, that seemed to be jacking up the voltage of her body’s electricity as if she’d suddenly been plugged into the mains.
