why shouldn’t they enjoy each other for an evening? She couldn’t possibly be that inexperienced. She was twenty-four, well-travelled, and she’d dated at university in the UK, according to the background check he’d had done by his friend Jared Caine, the owner of Caine Securities. And he’d felt the way she’d stretched against the palm he’d rested on the slope of her back as they’d left her apartment—like a cat desperate to be stroked.
She wasn’t an accomplished flirt, but her instinctive response to a simple touch suggested a rare chemistry. What if she was as wild and vibrant as that russet-coloured hair if he got her into bed?
He hadn’t had such a basic reaction to a woman in years, maybe never. He liked sex, he was good at it, but something about Megan had sunk claws into his gut, tearing at his self-control, which he was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore.
He’d sensed her nervousness in the car, so he’d backed off when they’d arrived at the ball, deciding to observe her, and give himself time to figure out what exactly he was supposed to do about the driving need inside him.
But that had obviously been a mistake, because all it was doing was frustrating him more. Truth was, he hadn’t expected the avoidance tactics, but as he watched her pause to strike up a conversation with Garson Charters, the senile old judge who seemed to be as fixated on his date’s cleavage as every other man in the place, Dario knew that was exactly what her frequent trips to the powder room were about. She was wary of him, not all that surprising if her father had told her to come on to him.
The conniving old bastard probably expected her to wheedle information out of him about their business dealings.
So now he had two choices: he could escort her home, or play with the fire between them regardless of her father’s ulterior motives. Whatever happened, though, backing off wasn’t an option, because it went against every one of his natural—and a few unnatural—instincts.
He heard the string orchestra in the adjoining ballroom start up a waltz as he marched through the throng of guests sipping champagne and whispering loudly, and made a beeline for his date.
Her head popped up as he approached, almost as if she had a radar ready to alert her to his presence at a ten-metre radius. Her gaze locked on his for a millisecond and then flicked away, but not before he saw the jolt of awareness cross her features.
Her hunger was as real as his.
She said something to the elderly judge, who still had his beady eyes focused on her cleavage, then began to edge past the guy, heading back towards the bathroom.
No way, not this time.
He caught up with her in a few strides and hooked her wrist, drawing her to a halt. ‘Not so fast, cara. Where are you going?’
The colour in her cheeks deepened, her eyes widening like those of a startled deer. The smoky perfection of her make-up and the hint of glitter on her eyelids did nothing to mask the unguarded sparkle of awareness in the emerald-green gaze.
‘Hi, Dario,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I think I left something in the restroom.’
‘What did you leave in the restroom?’
She scraped her teeth over her full bottom lip, for less than a second, but it sent a shot of heat straight to his crotch.
‘Um...my...’ She paused, obviously casting around for something.
Unlike her father, she wasn’t an accomplished liar.
He stowed the thought. She might be Whittaker’s daughter, but he’d seen little evidence this evening of any deviousness on Megan’s part. She couldn’t even seem to flirt with any degree of sophistication—her desire for him as blatant as her nerves whenever he got within a few feet of her. He could feel the slight tremors in her arm and the pounding beat of her pulse beneath the fingers he had on her wrist.
‘Whatever it is, it will be fine in the restroom until after this dance,’ he said, linking his fingers with hers as he made his way towards the dance floor in the adjacent ballroom.
She followed behind him as they weaved their way through the crowd, her reluctance palpable. Almost as palpable as the quiver of reaction in her fingers. He clasped her hand harder, not sure why he was seeking to reassure her.
‘What dance?’ she gasped. The confusion in her voice was almost as much of a turn-on as the tremor in her fingers.
He drew her into the ballroom and swung her into the crowd, deftly joining the other dancers as he lifted her arm high and then placed his other hand at the dip of her waist. ‘This dance.’
She matched her steps to his instinctively. He gave her waist a light squeeze, leading her effortlessly into the turn, and dragged her closer. ‘Put your hand on my shoulder, Megan,’ he ordered, pulling her easily into his body, until the length of her pressed against him from shoulder to hip. Those impressive breasts plumped up against his chest.
She did as she was told.
He swallowed around the renewed jolt of lust, willing his crotch to behave itself. At least until they were off the dance floor and he could get her somewhere private. His decision had been made.
Playing with fire it is, then.
MEGAN WAS IN TROUBLE. In big, broad, six-foot-three trouble. And she didn’t have any viable strategies left to get her out of trouble.
Because her first and only strategy, of hiding in the bathroom until she came up with a better strategy, had just gone down in flames, even though De Rossi had been surprisingly co-operative at first.
But now that strategy had crashed and burned. And she was far too aware of him to come up with another. The deliberate beats of the waltz reverberated in her ears, the sprinkle of light from the chandeliers dazzling her as he swung her around with practised ease.
With his body plastered against hers, she felt overwhelmed by the heat coming off him, the bunch and flex of his shoulder muscles as she clung to the fabric of his tuxedo; and the flare of arousal in his darkened pupils—all proof she wasn’t the only one caught in this maelstrom.
His big body surrounded her, his heady scent frying the few functioning brain cells she had left and sending her hormones into meltdown. She could hardly breathe, let alone think.
The hard planes of his chest pressed against her breast as he whisked her round again. And she stumbled. His muscular forearm braced across her back, lifting her off the floor for a beat.
‘Steady,’ he murmured against her hair as her heels clicked down on the polished parquet. ‘Follow my lead.’
She surrendered as he propelled her round the dance floor, past the envious stares of the women around her. He looked magnificent, lean and graceful in the tuxedo but with that air of raw, rugged masculinity that made the other men stand back.
She felt light-headed, her caution and control obliterated under the tractor-beam gaze she’d felt on her all evening, even when she was busy scurrying off to the bathroom for the umpteenth time.
The music swirled around them, the
