Deliberately, she turned her back on him and stared into the mirror as she wiped the scarlet lipstick from her lips with a blob of cotton wool. Because in that moment she knew that this man was no impresario. ‘Isn’t it polite to introduce yourself before you march into a woman’s dressing room?’
Titus wasn’t used to people turning away from him, especially not when their eyes had just been devouring him. He frowned. ‘My name is Titus Alexander,’ he said, watching her reflection closely to see if there were any signs of recognition, but no. She just carried on calmly wiping that garish lipstick from her mouth. And suddenly he found himself wondering what those lips might taste like beneath his. Whether they’d be able to inflict as much magic on his body as they’d done with the microphone, when she’d started to sing.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Alexander?’ she asked, in a bored tone.
Titus didn’t bother correcting the fundamental mistake she was making about his title. Past experience had taught him that it was best to keep that particular fact hidden for as long as possible. Especially from women. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘So talk.’
‘And I’d prefer it if we were face to face.’
Her eyes met his in the mirror. ‘Why?’
Because your eyes are so incredibly blue that I want to see them up close, he found himself thinking—before ruthlessly quashing the random thought. She was a fallen star, a cuckold and a money-grabber—and he was about to call time on her latest little scam. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but I’d prefer not to have to address your back,’ he drawled.
Her lips now bare of the startling colour she always wore to perform, Roxy slowly turned back to face him. ‘How’s that?’ she questioned sarcastically.
Titus felt that same hard aching at his groin and for a moment he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Because now his attention was once again distracted by her breasts. They were pushing blatantly against the sequin-sprinkled top in a way which seemed to be silently begging him to touch them. With an effort, he tore his gaze away and stared instead into the sapphire brilliance of her eyes. ‘I believe you know Martin Murray?’
Roxy shrugged. ‘I know a lot of people.’
‘You know him rather well, I believe,’ suggested Titus.
She registered his soft insinuation but she didn’t respond to it. She didn’t have to justify herself to privileged men who gatecrashed her dressing room. ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Actually, it is my business.’
Roxy threw the last wodge of cotton wool into the bin and rose to her feet, realising that she was still wearing her too-high stage shoes. ‘Look, it’s late, I’m tired and I want to go home. So why don’t you cut to the chase and tell me what you’re doing, marching in here and asking me all sorts of questions with that...that judgemental air you seem to have?’
‘Maybe because I have the right to be judgmental,’ he retorted. ‘Since you happen to be illegally subletting one of my apartments.’
Roxy screwed her nose up, but something in his expression had made her pulse start to quicken. ‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life. You’re not my landlord.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘I know so. Or rather, I know my landlord.’
‘You live in the top-floor apartment of a large house in Notting Hill Gate, right?’
How the hell did he know that? Another wave of apprehension prickled over her skin, but Roxy hid it with a defiant look. ‘Have you been stalking me?’
At this, Titus gave a low laugh. ‘In your dreams, sweetheart. You think I’m the kind of man who needs to stalk any woman—let alone some second-rate singer who’s fallen on times so hard that she’s reduced to working in a dump like this?’
Something inside her retracted painfully but still Roxy didn’t react. She was damned if she would let him see how much his words hurt. Or how much they had hit home. Instead, she managed another defiant stare. ‘Then how come you know where I live?’
‘I just told you. Because I happen to own the apartment you live in. In fact, I own the entire house,’ he added.
Roxy felt the weight of her long hair brushing against a neck still sheened with sweat after her performance. ‘No, you don’t,’ she croaked. ‘You can’t possibly. Martin owns it.’
‘Is that what he told you?’ enquired Titus idly. ‘Was he pretending to be wealthy when he was trying to get you into bed?’ His voice lowered with exasperation. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that he might be lying? Because that’s what married men do. They lie to their wives and they lie to their mistresses. The wives usually mind because they have their family to think of—but the mistresses know it’s all part of the whole sordid game. And so they overlook it—as they overlook so much else.’ His grey eyes bored into her with undisguised contempt. ‘Because in my experience, women who try to steal another woman’s husband have no morals, nor any scruples either.’
Stuffing her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans so he wouldn’t see they were trembling, Roxy shook her head. ‘I’ve never tried to steal another woman’s husband!’
‘No?’ His dark eyebrows shot up towards the tawny thickness of his hair. ‘You just let him set you up in some kind of tawdry love nest?’
‘It isn’t like that!’
‘I’m not interested in what it’s “like”,’ he snapped. ‘The only thing I’m interested in is that one of my employees has been illegally renting you one of my apartments and I want you out!’
‘Your...employee?’ Roxy echoed, racking her brains for some kind of recognition, but there was none. Titus was a pretty unforgettable name and she’d never heard Martin Murray mention it before. ‘I’ve never heard of you, Mr Alexander. For all I know, you could be a complete fantasist.’
‘You think so? Then maybe this might help convince you that what I’m saying is genuine.’ Titus extracted a business card from the pocket of his cashmere overcoat and held it out towards her.
Removing her hand from the pocket of her jeans, Roxy took it, instantly aware of the expensive quality of the card—as expensive as everything else about him. Embossed black letters stood proud on the costly cream surface and as her eyes focused on it properly she experienced a strange, lurching feeling as the letters formed themselves into words.
Titus Alexander, Duke of Torchester.
The letters blurred again and suddenly her knees felt wobbly. It had been a long time since she’d eaten—she never liked to take food close to a performance—and in any other circumstances she might have slumped down in the chair, in shock. But some instinct told her that would be dangerous. That he would be dangerous if she showed any sign of weakness. She looked up into his cold eyes, her heart still racing. ‘You’re...you’re the Duke of Torchester?’
‘Yes, I’m the Duke of Torchester,’ he drawled. ‘And my late father employed your lover, Martin Murray, as his accountant. Starting to
