out of here I will,’ he warned softly.
Her eyes widened. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
Tristan crowded her back against the bar stool again. ‘Try me.’
She inhaled a shaky breath and put her hand up between them. ‘Don’t touch me.’
Touch her? He hadn’t really intended to, but now, as his gaze swept down her curvy body, he realised that he wanted to. Badly. He wanted to push aside that cardigan, slide his hand around her waist and pull her up against him until there was no sign of daylight between them. Until she melted into him as she had done six years ago.
‘Then co-operate,’ he snarled, crowding even closer and perversely enjoying her agitated backwards movement. It wouldn’t hurt her to be a little afraid of him. Might make sure she kept her distance this time.
‘I’m trying to.’
Her eyes flashed, and the leather creaked as she shifted as far back on the stool as she could, her monstrosity of a bag perched on her lap between them.
Tristan leaned forward and hooked his foot on her bar stool, jerking it forward so she was forced back into his space. He caught her off guard, and his bicep flexed as she threw her hand out to balance herself. Her breath caught and her eyes flew to his.
‘No, you’re not. You’re trying to bug me.’ He watched as colour winged into her face, his eyes narrowing as she snatched her hand back from his arm. ‘And it’s working.’
She raised her chin. ‘I don’t like your controlling attitude.’
He stilled, and their eyes locked in a battle of wills: hers bright and belligerent, his surprised but determined. His nostrils flared as he breathed her in deep. She smelled of roses and springtime and he had to fight the instinct to keep inhaling her.
They were so close he could see the flawless, luminescent quality of her skin—a gift from her Nordic heritage—and her thick, sooty lashes, as long as a spider’s legs, nearly touching her arched brow. His eyes turned hot before he was able to blank them out, and her breath stalled as she caught the heat.
He stopped breathing himself and felt the blood throb powerfully through his body. For a split second he forgot what they were doing here. Time stood still. But before he could wrap his hand around her slender neck and bring her mouth to his she blinked and lowered her eyes.
Tristan exhaled, his anger all the stronger because of the unwanted sexual tension that lay between them like a living thing.
‘Do you really think I care?’ he snapped. ‘When I first heard you were coming to Jo’s wedding I didn’t even intend to say hello. Now I find that hello is the least of my problems, and I can assure you I will not spend the next eight days arguing every single point with you. So if—’
‘Fine.’ She cupped her hand over her forehead and winced.
He knew what she meant, but he was insulted by her attitude and wanted to hear her say it.
‘Fine what? Fine, you want to come with me? Or fine, you want me to take you back to Customs?’
She raised her head and he waited. The smudges under her eyes looked darker, and her skin had lost even more colour.
‘Oh, to hell with it.’ He straightened and held his hand out to her. She took it, without argument, and he realised that the shock of the morning was finally starting to set in—or maybe she’d been in shock the whole time.
Her fingers were icy in his, and he shrugged out of his jacket once again and pulled it around her. She squirmed as if to push it off, and her eyes jerked to his when he grabbed her upper arms and dragged her close.
‘Co-operate,’ he growled, pleased when she stilled.
‘You never say please.’ She sniffed.
Hell, she was still trying to call the shots. He kept his eyes locked on hers, because if they dropped to her mouth he knew he’d taste her. He was hard and he was angry, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins was pushing his self-control to its outer limits.
‘Please,’ he grated after a long, tense pause. ‘Now, can you walk?’
‘Of course.’ She gripped her bag and swayed when he released his hold on her.
He knew it would be a mistake on so many levels, but before he could think twice he scooped her into his arms and strode out of the bar.
She started against him, but he’d had enough. ‘Don’t say a goddamned word and don’t look around. The last thing I need is for someone else to recognise you.’
And just like that she relaxed and turned her head into his shoulder, her sweet scent filling his every breath.
The cool breeze was a welcome relief as he exited the terminal and headed down the rank of dark cars until he found Bert.
His chauffer nodded and held the rear door open, but just as Tristan was about to toss Lily inside she laid the flat of her hand against his chest and looked up through sleepy eyes.
‘My luggage…’ she murmured.
Tristan’s chest contracted against the hot brand of her touch.
‘Taken care of,’ he growled, wishing the unbearable physical attraction he still felt for this woman could be just as easily dealt with.
CHAPTER FOUR
LILY collapsed back against the luxuriant leather car seat and closed her eyes, trying to equalise her pounding heart rate. Her head hurt and she felt shivery all over. She didn’t know if it was remembering her previous attraction to Tristan that had brought it screaming to the fore, or the man himself, but she was unable to deny the sweet feeling of desire that had pooled low in her pelvis when he’d held her in his arms and looked at her as if he wanted to kiss her.
Kiss her? Ha! Shake her, more like it. Especially given how much he still disliked her.
As she did him.
Actually, now that she thought about it, her physical response was probably due to emotional tiredness and stress making her super-sensitive to her surroundings and nothing to do with Tristan at all. How could it be when he immediately assumed that she was guilty? When he clearly thought she was lower than dirt?
His cold arrogance fired her blood and made her want to fall back on all her juvenile responses to criticism. Responses that had seen her play up to the negative attention her celebrity lineage provoked by flipping the press the bird, wearing either provocative or grungy clothing, depending on her mood, and pretending she was drunk when she wasn’t.
Nowadays she preferred to ignore any bad press or unfair comparisons with her parents’ hedonistic lifestyles, and just live her life according to her own expectations rather than other people’s. It worked better, to a certain extent, although she knew she’d never truly be able to outrun the shadow of who her parents had been.
Hanny Forsberg, her mother, had arrived in England poor and beautiful and on Page Three before she had found a place to live, and Johnny Wild, her father, had been a rough Norfolk lad
