more than occupied—and lovers who’d been only too warm and willing, making it easy to shut out the frosty indifference of one woman. Seeing Kate just once or twice a year had hardly been conducive to stoking the embers of a latent desire.
But just a few weeks ago … at the baptism … she’d turned and looked at him and that cool façade had dropped for the first time. She’d looked at him with such naked blatant need in those fathomless blue depths that he’d felt as if a truck had just slammed into him. For the first time Tiarnan had seen the heat of her passion under that all too cool surface. It was a heat he hadn’t seen since that night, when it had combusted all around them. It could have ended so differently if he hadn’t found a thread of control to cling onto.
In one instant, with one look, Tiarnan had been flung back in time, and all attempts to keep her off limits had been made redundant. It was almost as if he’d been put to sleep after that night, and now, with a roaring, urgent sucking-in of oxygen, he was brought back to painful, aching life.
She’d clammed up again after a few moments, but it had been enough of a crack in her armour …
Blood heated and flowed thick through his veins as he took her in now. She was dressed in a dark pink silk cocktail dress, strapless, showing off the delicate line of her shoulders and collarbone, her graceful neck. Her long, luxuriant blonde hair—her trademark—hung in loose waves over her shoulders, a simple side parting framing her face. And even though he was right at the back of the room those huge blue eyes stood out. Her soft rose-pink lips were full, the firm line of her jaw and straight nose transforming banal prettiness into something much more formidable. True beauty. There was fragility in the lines of her body, and yet a sexy lushness that would have an effect on every man in that room—something Tiarnan was very aware of. Uncomfortably so.
He felt a proprietorial urge to go and sweep her off that stage and out of everyone’s sight. It only firmed his resolve, strengthened his sense of right.
His eyes drifted down with leisurely and very male appreciation, taking in slender shapely legs, it was clear why she’d become one of the most sought-after models in the world. She was, quite simply, perfect. She’d become a darling of the catwalks despite their predilection for a more emaciated figure; she was the face of a well-known lingerie company among countless other campaigns. Her cool, under-the-surface sensuality meant that people sometimes described her as cold. But the problem was he knew she wasn’t.
He had the personal experience to know that she was very, very hot.
Why had he waited so long for this?
Tiarnan clamped down on looking again at what had made him suppress his desire for so long—apart from the obvious reasons. He dismissed the rogue notion that rose unbidden and unwelcome that she’d once touched something deep within him. It must have been an illusion, borne up by the fact that they’d shared a moment in time, imbuing the experience with an enigmatic quality.
She’d displayed a self-possession at the age of eighteen that had stunned him slightly. He had to remind himself that he’d overestimated her naivety. She’d known exactly what she’d been doing then, and she was a grown woman now. Tiarnan’s body tightened in anticipation. She was a woman of the world—the kind of woman he could seduce. She was no longer an innocent … A sharp pain lanced him briefly. It felt awfully like regret, and Tiarnan crushed it back down. He didn’t do regret. He would not let her exert this sensual hold over him. He would not let her bring him back in time and reduce him to a mass of seething, frustrated desire with one look because of a kiss! He would seduce her and sate this lust that had been burning for too long under the surface. It was time to bring it out into the open.
All he could think about was how urgently he wanted to taste her again, touch her. She had once tried to seduce him. Now it was his turn. And this time they wouldn’t stop at a kiss.
His attention came back to the proceedings. He saw Stephanides bid again. He had no intention of letting that man anywhere near Kate’s lush mouth. But the Greek was stubborn and out to prove a point—especially now that he’d been informed who it was bidding against him. He and Stephanides were old adversaries. Tiarnan casually made another bid, oblivious to the gasps and looks directed at him, oblivious to the whispers that came from nearby as people speculated if it was really him.
People’s idle speculation and chatter was of little interest to him. What was of interest was Kate Lancaster, as she stood there now, with her huge doe eyes staring straight at him but not seeing him. She would—soon enough.
Stavros Stephanides finally admitted defeat with a terse shake of his head. A sense of triumph filled Tiarnan and it was heady. He hadn’t felt the sensation in a long time because triumph invariably came all too easily. With no idea as to how much he’d finally bid for a kiss with Kate, and not in the slightest bit fazed, he stepped out of the shadows and strode forward to collect his prize. Not just the kiss he was now due, but so much more. And he would collect—until he was sated and Kate Lancaster no longer exerted this mysterious pull over his every sense.
Kate simply didn’t believe her eyes at first. It couldn’t be. It just could not be Tiarnan Quinn striding powerfully through the seated awed crowd towards her, looking as dark and gorgeous as she’d ever seen him in a tuxedo. Her face flamed guiltily; he’d been inhabiting her dreams for weeks—and a lot longer—jeered a taunting voice, which she ignored. Only the previous night she’d woken shaken and very hot after a dream so erotic that she was sure it must be her rampant imagination conjuring him up now.
Fervently hoping that it was just her imagination, she took him in: the formidable build—broad shoulders, narrow hips and long legs—the loose-limbed athletic grace that hinted at his love for sports, his abhorrence of the gym. His hair was inky black, cut short, and with a slight silvering at the temples that gave him an air of sober maturity and distinction. As if he even needed it. Kate knew his darkly olive skin came from his Spanish mother. She felt weak inside, and hot.
His face was uncompromising and hard. A strong jaw and proud profile saved it from being too prettily handsome. He was intensely male—more intensely male than any man she’d ever met. Years and maturity had added to his strength, filled out his form, and it was all hard-packed muscle. But his most arresting feature was his eyes—the strongest physical hint of Celtic lineage courtesy of his Irish father. Icy blue and utterly direct. Every time he looked at her she felt as though he saw all the way through her, saw through the paltry defences she put up against him. She tried so hard to project a professional front around him, maintain her distance, knowing that if he ever came near her he’d see in an instant how tenuous her control was.
And he had. The memory sickened her. Just a month ago, at Molly’s christening, he’d caught her in that unguarded moment when her naked desire for him had been painfully evident. It had been just a look, but it had been enough. He’d seen it, and ever since then she’d been having those dreams. Because she thought she’d seen a mirror of reaction in his eyes. And yet she had to be wrong. She wasn’t his type—she might have been for a brief moment, a long time ago, but it had been an aberration.
A dart of familiar pain gripped her momentarily. She knew she wasn’t his type because she’d seen one of his incredibly soignée girlfriends at close quarters, the memory of which made her burn with embarrassment even now. She’d been out with a group of girlfriends, visiting her in New York from Dublin, celebrating a hen night. Kate, very reluctantly, had been dressed in a French maid’s outfit, complete with obligatory fishnet tights and sparkly feather duster, when she’d walked slap-bang into Tiarnan as he’d been emerging from an exclusive Madison Avenue restaurant, an arm protectively around a petite dark-haired beauty.
Kate had felt about sixteen and fled, praying
