It startled them into turning their attention to her.
‘It’s also supposed to be accompanied by chocolates and petits-fours. Are they ready to go?’ she ran on, reminding them of what was expected, then adding a sensible warning. ‘You don’t want to lose your good reputation with these people. They always remember delays like this.’
One of the temperamental chefs threw up his hands and glared around at the motionless staff. ‘Move! Move! Get on with it!’
Satisfied she had made her point, Daisy returned to the VIP marquee, intending to assure the model that coffee was on its way. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Ethan Cartwright chatting to her. Venomous thoughts exploded in her head. Nothing but the best for a man like him! She’d known—of course, she’d known—he wasn’t really interested in a little brown cow. This was reality—birds of a feather flocked together.
No doubt the magnificent model had taken his advice to bet on Midas Magic, too. The two high-flyers were both beaming with the pleasure of victory, making Daisy’s stomach churn from the terrible injustice of it all.
Ethan felt it again, his whole body tingling from a blast of electric energy. He turned his head, his gaze instinctively homing in on the source—Daisy Donahue, her eyes blazing at him with feral animosity, stirring the urge to do battle with her, catch her, cage her until she was tamed to his satisfaction. The weird, exciting thoughts raced through his mind, swiftly followed by Mickey’s catch-cry—seize the day.
He’d looked for her without success when he’d reentered the marquee after the race. Now here she was a few metres away, within easy reach, the challenge she threw out drawing him like a magnet. He automatically started to move towards her, their eyes locked in a duel of sizzling passion.
‘Ethan?’
The full-of-herself model he’d been talking to was calling him back. He’d forgotten his manners. ‘Please excuse me, Talia,’ he swiftly tossed back at her. ‘Someone I have to see.’
In that brief moment of disengagement with Daisy she’d taken flight, dodging behind groups of people, apparently intent on hiding from him. It spurred Ethan on to catch up with her, force a face-to-face confrontation. He sliced through the throng, his interest aroused to an intensity that surprised him, his heart beating like a battle drum as he intercepted her attempted escape, making it impossible for her not to acknowledge him.
‘Hello, again,’ he said, revelling in the flush of angry frustration that flooded into her cheeks, giving her pale, flawless skin a peaches-and-cream vivacity, making the eyes that warred with his in flaming fury even brighter.
His abrupt appearance in front of her had shocked her into stillness, but it was the stillness of a tightly coiled spring, nerves twanging at the suppression of movement away from him. Her chin jerked up belligerently. The brown pill-box hat slid slightly from its perch on top of her head. He barely restrained himself from reaching up and straightening it for her. He wanted contact—intimate contact—with this woman.
‘Mr Cartwright…’ she bit out, obviously hating being trapped into this encounter.
He smiled, intent on pouring soothing balm over whatever was making her bristle in his presence. ‘Let’s make that Ethan.’
She sucked in a quick breath, her eyes flaring a denial of any familiarity between them. ‘Congratulations on your win,’ she said tersely. ‘I didn’t place a bet on your horse. As I told you before, I don’t gamble, so there’s nothing more to say, is there? We have nothing in common.’
Ethan was not about to let his feet be cut out from under him before he’d even started to make inroads on getting to know her. He turned his smile into an ironic grimace. ‘I need some assistance.’
She raised a disbelieving eyebrow, offering him no encouragement to spell it out.
‘That is your job, isn’t it? Assisting any of the guests here who have a problem?’ he pushed.
‘What is your problem, Mr Cartwright?’ she demanded, her eyes glinting open scepticism.
‘You are, Daisy Donahue.’
She frowned, her certainty that he had no problem shifting into a flicker of fear. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have the curious sensation that you’re shooting mental bullets at me all the time. I’d like you to tell me why.’
For a moment her face went totally blank, as though a switch had been thrown and defensive shutters had instantly clicked into place. He watched her labouring to construct an apologetic expression—a sheer act of will, against her natural grain. Her eyes took on a pleading look, begging his forgiveness. Her mouth softened into an appealing little smile. She spoke in a tone that mocked herself.
‘I’ve just had to deal with some trouble in the catering tent and it may cause more trouble. I’m sorry if I’ve channelled my own angst onto you, Mr Cartwright. I didn’t mean to attract your attention. In fact, you’ll be doing me a great favour if you’ll walk away from me right now. My boss won’t like it if she sees you talking to me.’
‘Surely as a guest I’m entitled to speak to whomever I like,’ he argued.
‘I’m not a guest and I’m taking up your time—time Miss Twiggley would prefer you to spend with her,’ she said pointedly.
‘I’ve said all I intend to say to Lynda Twiggley.’
‘That’s not my business. If I don’t stay clear of you, my job might very well be at risk. So please excuse me, Mr Cartwright.’
‘Be damned if I will!’ Frustration fumed through him. His hand snaked out and grabbed her arm as she turned away to escape him again. ‘This isn’t the Dark Ages!’ he shot out before she could voice a protest.
‘Oh, yes, it is!’ she retorted with blistering scorn, the defence system cracking wide open at being forcibly held. Wild hostility poured into wild accusation. ‘You’re acting like a feudal lord manhandling a servant girl who can’t fight back.’
The image was wrong. She could fight back. She was doing it with all her mental might. But for once in his life Ethan wanted to be a feudal lord, having his way with this woman. He knew he should release her yet his mind had lost all sense of civilised behaviour. Imposing this physical link with her was arousing a host of primitive feelings that demanded satisfaction.
‘You’re denying me the assistance I asked for,’ he argued.
‘With good reason,’ she hotly returned.
‘Nonsense! It’s totally unreasonable!’
‘What is the matter with you?’ she cried in exasperation. ‘Why bother with me when—?’
‘Because you bother me more than anyone here.’
‘What? Because I’m not seeking your attention? Are you so used to women hanging on your every word, your high and mighty ego is pricked by one who doesn’t?’
‘You did want my attention, Daisy Donahue,’ he slung back at her in burning certainty. ‘You were looking at me.’
She tried to
