for all his intuition, seemed to have the impression that Cara was as worldly as she let on. But it was a self-protective front, something she’d found herself projecting to avoid the worst of Cormac’s snide comments, and also in the club, to avoid unwanted attention.
With every intention of leaving, she turned to slide off the stool—but before she realised it she’d turned towards where the man had come to stand at the bar. She became aware of a pregnant taut silence. Feeling absurdly compelled, she looked up and came face to face, eyeball to eyeball, with a fallen angel who was looking right at her. A dark fallen angel. With eyes that seemed to glow green and gold under long black lashes. And black brows. High cheekbones. A slashing line of a mouth which should have looked cold, forbidding, drew Cara’s eyes and made her stop and linger. She had the most bizarre and urgent desire to press her lips against that mouth, to feel and taste its texture. Something she’d never wanted to do with any man before—ever.
This was all within a nanosecond. Along with the realisation that he had shoulders so broad they blocked out what little light was in the bar and he must be well over six foot. From his effortlessly arrogant stance, Cara knew he possessed the kind of body that made Rob drool. He wore a heavy overcoat, but underneath the open top button of a shirt gave more than a hint of dark olive skin and a few crisp dark hairs.
Cara couldn’t understand the hot feeling in her belly, the sizzling in her blood as their eyes remained locked for what seemed like aeons. Her breath hitched and she felt dizzy. And she was still sitting down!
From somewhere very far away came a voice. ‘Sir?’
The man waited for a long moment before looking away to Rob. Cara felt as if she’d been caught high in the air, suspended, and now she was hurtling back to earth. It was the strangest sensation. His voice was low and deep. Accented. And before she knew it Rob was sliding another shot of brandy towards her and gesturing to the man with an unmistakable look of mischief in his eye.
‘From the gentleman.’
Rob moved away, whistling softly, and Cara cursed him silently as she started to protest. ‘Oh, no—really. I was just leaving, actually…’
‘Please. Don’t leave on my account.’
His voice, directed straight at her, hit her like a wrecking ball. Deep, with that delicious foreign accent. Loath as Cara was to look at him again and have that burning hot reaction, she had to. This time the reaction seemed to spread to her every extremity, lighting a fire through every vein and every bit of pulsing blood in her body. And when he smiled faintly the room seemed to tilt. She was vaguely aware that she was still stuck in a parody of trying to get off the stool. All of a sudden it seemed easier to stay where she was.
‘I…’ she said, with pathetic ineffectiveness.
He took off his coat and jacket, revealing the thin silk of his shirt, and the body Cara had suspected existed was now heart-stoppingly evident. The broad power of his chest was just inches away, the darkness of his skin visible through the material. The hint of defined pectoral muscles. He sat down easily on the stool beside her, effectively trapping her, making her attempt to escape awkward. She was fighting a losing battle and she knew it. Right here, right now, in just seconds, this complete stranger had awoken her body from its twenty-two-year slumber, and she was no more capable of moving than she seemed to be of stringing a sentence together.
‘Well…all right. I’ll just have the drink you bought me,’ she managed to croak out, and sat back on her stool more fully, hoping to put some distance between them.
He turned and angled his body towards her, and Cara grabbed the small glass with every intention of downing the lot in one gulp and legging it before she dissolved altogether. But then he spoke again, making her brain atrophy.
‘What is your name?’
She held the glass clutched in one hand and took a deep breath before looking at him, steeling herself not to react. Mortifyingly—especially considering Rob’s recent words—she had to think for a second. ‘Cara. Cara Brosnan.’
He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes enigmatic and unreadable. ‘Cara…’
She flushed at the way he said it, almost like an endearment, and hastened to say, ‘Well, actually it’s more like Cara.’ She put the emphasis on a flat pronunciation, not the rolling way he’d said it, making her feel as if he’d drawn it like silk over her skin which now broke into goosebumps.
In a small, still functioning part of her bewildered brain she questioned her sanity and this unprecedented reaction. Was it the shock of the last few days? Rob’s suggestive words? Her grief? For, while she couldn’t say that she’d loved or even liked her brother—not after years of abuse had destroyed those emotions—she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t mourned the best part of him and the fact that now she’d lost her entire family. But she felt more grief for Allegra, her brother’s girlfriend, who’d also died in the crash.
The man quirked one black eyebrow, giving him a devilish look that he really didn’t need. ‘You’re from…?’
She welcomed him taking her thoughts away from the pain. ‘Ireland. I’m going back there tomorrow. I’ve been living here since I was sixteen, but I’m going home now.’
Cara was babbling and she knew it. He was looking at her intently, as if he wanted to see all the way into her head. She knew instinctively that a man like this could consume her so utterly he’d eclipse anything else. The minute she thought that, heat bloomed low in her belly, and she felt herself grow damp between her legs. She was drowning in his eyes as he looked at her.
He raised his glass. ‘Well, here’s to new beginnings. Not everyone is fortunate enough to start again.’
Cara heard an edge to his voice, but he was smiling, scrambling her thoughts. She raised her glass to his, and the melodic chinking sound seemed to restore some semblance of sanity. She took a small sip of the drink, aware of the fact that her previous desire to down it in one had gone. She felt herself giving in to the inevitability of this conversation, this man. Some kind of inchoate recklessness was beating through her.
‘And you? What’s your name and where do you come from?’ She winced inwardly at sounding like a bad impression of a presenter on a TV quiz show, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He took another long moment to reply, as if he were considering something, making her nerve-ends stretch unbearably. Finally he spoke. ‘I’m from Italy…Enzo. Pleased to meet you.’
His mention of Italy had her insides seizing momentarily. Allegra had been from Italy: Sardinia. She forced herself to breathe. It was just a coincidence, but a painful one. He held out a big hand with long fingers, strong-looking and capable. Cara looked at it and gulped. Reluctantly she held out her own much smaller, paler one, covered in the freckles she’d despaired of for years.
Their hands met, his own dwarfing hers, warm and strong, his fingers wrapping around her hand until she couldn’t see even a sliver of her skin any more. His fingers rested on the frantic beating of her pulse point on the delicate underside of her wrist.
Helpless against the rush of sensation through her body at his touch, her mouth drying, she could have sworn that she felt her pupils dilate in that moment. He seemed to be similarly caught. Something in his eyes flared and a fleeting look of harshness crossed his face before it disappeared as he smiled again, making her believe she’d imagined it. His smile was slow and sexy and devastating.
