‘Did you hear me, Tristan?’ she prompted, her glorious eyes flashing with unconcealed irritation. ‘I won’t let you bully me like you did once before.’
Tristan cast her the withering glance that he usually reserved for the seediest of his courtroom opponents.
Oh, he’d heard her all right, but she had no choice in the matter, and the sooner she got that through her thick, beautiful skull the better.
‘Don’t push me, Lily,’ he grated warningly, and saw her teeth clench.
Her hands were fisted by her sides and he knew she probably wanted to thump him. Despite himself he admired her temerity. Most women in her position—hell, most men—would be grovelling or backing away, or both. Instead this little spitfire was arguing the toss, as if she might actually choose jail over him.
‘Then don’t push me!’ she returned hotly.
He looked at her and tried to remind himself that he was a first-rate lawyer who never let emotion govern his actions. ‘You signed the contract. Deal with it,’ he said curtly.
She slapped her hands on her hips, the movement dragging her oversized cardigan open and bringing his attention back to her full, unbound breasts. ‘I told you—I didn’t know what I was signing,’ she declared, as if that might actually make a difference.
Yeah, yeah—just as she didn’t know how the drugs ended up in her bag. He had yet to come across a criminal who actually admitted any form of guilt, and her vehement denial was boringly predictable.
He noticed that the two businessmen who earlier had been deep in conversation were now stealing surreptitious glances at her. Not that he couldn’t appreciate what they were looking at: tousled pearl-blond hair, soft, kissable lips, a mouthwatering silhouette, and legs that went all the way into next week.
They’d looked even longer coming down his parents’ staircase at Jo’s eighteenth party, in a tiny dress and designer heels. And just like that he was back at Hillesden Abbey, the family estate, at the precise moment she had approached him.
‘Hey, wanna dance?’ she’d invited, standing before him in a silver mini-dress that clung in all the right places, hip cocked, bee-stung pout covered in war paint.
He’d declined, of course. Just looking at her had stirred up a dark lust inside him that, at seventeen, she had been way too young to handle.
‘But you danced with Jordana,’ she’d complained, fluttering ridiculously long eyelashes like a woman on the make. ‘And the girl with the blue dress.’
‘That’s right.’ His friend Gabriel had elbowed him. ‘You did.’
‘So? What about it?’ Lily had shifted her weight to her other hip, her dress riding up just that tiny bit more, head tilted in artful provocation.
He’d been about to refuse again, but Gabriel had interrupted and said he’d dance with her if Tristan wouldn’t, and for some reason that had got his back up.
He’d thrown his friend a baleful glare before focusing on Lily. ‘Let’s go.’
She’d smiled her now famous million dollar smile at Gabriel and Tristan had gritted his teeth and followed her onto the dance floor.
As if on cue the music had turned dreamy and he’d almost changed his mind. Then she’d turned that million dollar number his way, stepped into his arms, and he’d no longer had a mind to change.
‘It’s a great party, isn’t it?’ she’d murmured.
‘Yes,’ he’d agreed.
‘This is nice,’ she’d prompted.
‘Yes,’ he’d agreed.
‘Are you having a good time?’
Not any more; not with his self-control unravelling with each breathy little question.
He remembered he’d been so focused on not pulling her in close that he failed to notice when she had moved in on him. Then he’d felt the slide of her bare thigh between his jean-clad legs and the thrust of her pert breasts against the wall of his chest and self-control had become a foreign concept.
His hand had tightened on her hip to push her back, but she’d gripped his shoulder and looked at him with such unguarded innocence his heart had skipped a beat, and almost of its own accord his hand had slid around to the sweet indentation at the small of her back.
Her breath had hitched and when she’d stumbled he’d caught her against him. Her body had instantly moulded to his as if she was unable to hold herself upright. And he’d been unable to hide his physical reaction from her. His body had been gripped in a fever of desire: heart pounding, body aching and warning bells clanging so loudly in his head it was a wonder he’d been able to think at all.
He’d stupidly danced her into a secluded corner, with every intention of reprimanding her and telling her he didn’t do girls barely out of nappies, but she’d quivered in the circle of his arms, lips delicately parted, and he’d fused his mouth with hers before he’d even known what he was about.
The bolt of pure heat that had hit his groin at the contact had almost unmanned him.
Before he’d known it he’d had one hand tangled in her golden mane, the other curved over her bottom and his tongue deep in her mouth, his lips demanding a response she had been more than happy to give.
He’d completely lost all sense of where he was, and hours could have flown by before a hand had circumspectly tapped him on the shoulder.
Thomas, the family butler, had stood behind him, seemingly mesmerised by the imported mirror balls suspended above the dance floor.
Apparently his father required his presence most urgently.
For a second Lily’s dazed disappointment had only been outweighed by his own. Then he’d realised what he’d nearly done and been appalled at himself. She was his little sister’s friend, and the erotic images playing through his mind were highly inappropriate.
He remembered he’d abruptly released her and curtly told her not to bother him again, that he wasn’t interested in babies. And then she’d punished him by attaching herself to some Armani suit for the rest of the night like ivy on a brick wall.
One of the businessmen hooted a laugh, and the sound broke Tristan’s unwanted reverie.
He closed his eyes briefly to recompose himself, and then made the mistake of glancing into the mirror behind the bar—where his gaze collided with Lily’s.
For a split second something hot and primal arced between them, and then the pink tip of her tongue snuck out to douse her full lower lip and just like that he was hard again.
Damn. Had she done that on purpose? Had she known what he’d been thinking about?
He blinked slowly and turned his gaze as hard as his groin. He wasn’t an idiot, and he wasn’t going to let her use that come-hither look she’d probably learned in the cradle to manipulate him. The sooner she figured that out, the better for the both of them.
