perfumes filling the air-conditioned room.
But, as her mother had been so fond of saying, ‘What can’t be cured must be endured.’ It had certainly been true with regard to her marriage to Eva’s father…
It was taking all of Eva’s endurance to grit her teeth and get through this cocktail party hosted by none other than visiting Senator Robert Ashcroft. Not because she thought there was a risk of meeting any of her ex-husband’s family—she knew from mutual friends that Jack had taken over the family’s Paris office just over a year ago, and her ex-father-in-law, Jack Senior, didn’t support Senator Ashcroft’s political party. No, there was no possibility of her meeting any of Jack’s family this evening.
Even so, Eva doubted she would have bothered accepting the Senator’s invitation if she hadn’t known how much it would appeal to the man who was her date for this evening. It was exactly the sort of social function Glen enjoyed. Which was fine. It just wasn’t the real reason she had wanted to see him again.
In truth, Eva had no idea how Glen was going to react when she found the opportunity to explain that she had absolutely no intentions of going to bed with him—ever—or with any other man, for that matter. Instead she was thinking of asking him if he would be the sperm donor if she went ahead with the IVF she was considering. A subject so delicate, so personal, was something she felt she had to lead up to slowly, rather than blurting it out at their first—or even second!—meeting.
Senator Ashcroft’s drinks party was turning out to be every bit the crush of people Markos had expected it might be. Most of them were already known to him after this past week of socialising, and a lot of the men wanted to renew their acquaintance with him. Their wives, daughters or girlfriends were making no secret of the fact that they found his dark and brooding looks attractive.
Not that Markos had any complaints about that last part. He had enjoyed a healthy sex life during his years of living and working in London, and he sincerely hoped to continue doing so now that he had moved to New York.
Nevertheless, even surrounded by beautiful women as he was, all seemingly vying for his attention, Markos still noticed the woman in the figure-hugging red gown, standing across the room…
Probably because she stood out from the rest of the ‘beautiful people’ present in as much as she was making no effort to respond to the flattering conversation of the half a dozen men currently surrounding her, but instead seemed totally bored—both by them and by her surroundings.
But it wasn’t just that air of uninterest which had captured Markos’s attention. Nor was it the fact that she was young—probably in her late twenties—and extremely beautiful. Ebony hair cascaded lushly over her shoulders and halfway down her spine, and her eyes were light in colour—possibly grey or blue?—and surrounded by thick dark lashes. Her skin was the colour of pale alabaster, her features delicately lovely, and the fullness of her lips was glossed the same tempting red as that utterly decadent gown. Her only jewellery was a pair of delicate gold filigree earrings which dangled almost to the bareness of her shoulders.
All of that would certainly be enough reason for any man to give her a second glance, but still it wasn’t what had caught and held Markos’s attention, what had caused his body to harden in instant arousal the moment he looked at her.
Every other woman in the room wore masses of expensive jewels at their ears throat, wrists and fingers and, whether tall or short, they were all fashionably slender—a look that wasn’t flattering to some of the younger women, and even less so to most of the older ones. The woman in the fitted red strapless gown wore only those earrings, and her figure was…
There was a word for her type of figure. An old-fashioned word that described her exactly—one that had often been used to describe movie stars of the golden age… Voluptuous! That was it! The tall woman in the red fitted gown was voluptuous. Not fat—her body was too obviously toned for that. She simply had an hourglass figure: curvily, lushly, sexily voluptuous. The sort of body, in fact, that most men preferred but so rarely found in this fashionable age of slender and willowy.
Her shoulders were bare, that expanse of skin the same smooth alabaster as her face, and that wickedly enticing gown enhanced the fullness of breasts that were obviously bare beneath the silky material that swept over her narrow waist before clinging lovingly to the sweet curve of her hips. The material finished a couple of inches above her knees to reveal long and shapely legs, with three-inch heeled red strappy sandals on her elegantly slender feet.
Markos’s breath now caught in his throat as she looked over the top of the heads of the men surrounding her, glancing around the room in obvious uninterest—almost as if she was aware of someone watching her, but had no idea who or why. His earlier impression of her complete boredom with her admirers and her surroundings was confirmed as she repressed a yawn. At the same time as their glances met.
Met and then, as the woman’s gaze shifted slowly back to his, held.
Markos quirked a questioning brow—only to receive a blank stare and then a uninterested shrug in reply, before the woman in the red gown, as Markos was already calling her in his mind, turned away to accept a fresh glass of champagne from one of the men surrounding her, to all intents and purposes as if she had already forgotten Markos’s existence.
While it might be a refreshing change after the past week and this last couple of hours of having women throw themselves before him like sacrificial offerings, this certainly wasn’t the reaction Markos was used to receiving when he showed an interest in a beautiful woman.
As one of the two Greek-born Lyonedes cousins, with business interests worldwide, and wealthy beyond imagining, Markos had never been naïve enough to believe it was his looks alone which attracted women to him. Nor did he believe that every woman he met had to find his height and dark looks attractive.
But still, it irked him that the woman in the figure-hugging red gown—a woman who made him hard just from looking at her!—had dismissed him so easily and completely.
Maybe she was married?
Or engaged?
Or perhaps in a serious relationship?
No, it certainly wasn’t either of the first two; the hand holding the glass of champagne she had just raised to those lush red lips—her left hand—a long and slender hand Markos could all too easily imagine moving caressingly over his much darker skin in a pastime his arousal also approved of as he felt his shaft throb in anticipation!—was as naked of jewellery as her throat and wrists. And if it was the latter then where was the man she was involved with?
If a woman as beautiful as that had belonged to Markos then he certainly wouldn’t have left her alone for a minute, at the mercy of the pack of hyenas currently in for the kill.
If a woman like that belonged to him…?
What the hell?
Markos didn’t do belonging. Or even long-term. And definitely not permanent.
A few days, in some cases a few weeks, of enjoying each other’s company—and bodies—was the limit of any interest he had shown in the women he had been involved with over the past eighteen years.
Liking—yes.
Sex—definitely yes.
Love or belonging—definitely no.
His cousin Drakon—a man who had been even more averse to permanent relationships
