the chatting, laughing faces that filled the hotel’s glittering ballroom—superimposed on his brain. For him there was no one else in the room but this sensuous, unsmiling beauty. Nor did he want there to be. He wanted them all to disappear so that he could walk over to her unhampered, get her to acknowledge him—accept him—and do what his primal instincts were urging him to do. Possess her utterly and completely.
He dipped his head in the subtlest acknowledgement. She didn’t turn away, just stood there, as though hypnotised by the same powerful force that held him in thrall. But neither did she smile, and suddenly, in those strikingly amber eyes of hers and through his own private turmoil, he recognised misery of the most devastating kind.
Curiosity, on top of everything else, would have had him abandoning his companions to close the gap between him and this beautiful girl. But then the youth standing next to her touched her arm to gain her attention and she turned abruptly away.
She didn’t want to be here. She hadn’t wanted to come.
After the trauma of the past five weeks Sanchia Stevens couldn’t understand how she had allowed herself to be talked into attending a party to celebrate the expansion of one of the island’s largest hotels—except that Francine and Rick had insisted upon it, had said that it would do her good. But Rick and Francine had already left, under the pretext, she was sure, of Francine having a headache, and she guessed that they thought she had ‘fixed herself up’ with the sycophantic young man who seemed determined to cling to her and had decided to leave her to it.
They didn’t know that she had declined to go with them because she hadn’t wanted to go back to the hotel, didn’t want to be alone—because that meant thinking, and she didn’t want to have to think. Nor did they know that this was supposed to have been her honeymoon. They had naturally assumed she had come on holiday alone, simply looking for a good time, which was why they had been so ready to abandon her. But that had been nearly an hour ago, just as she’d been taking pictures of that swan sculpted out of ice, and the man she had been reckless enough to capture with her camera hadn’t taken his eyes off her since.
His black wavy hair, brushed straight back, was impeccably groomed, like the rest of him, although the immaculate tailoring of his dark suit, white shirt and tie did very little to tame the contours of a body that was honed to disciplined fitness: lean, broad-shouldered, intensely male.
Sitting on one of the high stools that flanked the bar, she could see him still, across the heads of several other guests, talking with the same group of people he had been talking to all night. Serious-minded, important-looking people, from the intensity of their conversation. Dignitaries or government officials? Sanchia speculated, and recognised one from a picture she’d seen hanging in the vestibule as the owner of the hotel. However, where dominance and sheer physical presence played a part, the man who was interesting her most outstripped them all.
His features were strikingly etched, uncompromisingly handsome beneath the rich bronze of a Bermuda tan. But it was that air of authority that drew her eyes unwittingly to him as much as to those darkly aloof features. Instinctively, she knew he would be a formidable opponent, would command respect and inspire awe in whatever game he chose to play.
And he had chosen to play for her.
A little shudder ran through her at that inexplicable acknowledgement, immediately followed by a leap of hard excitement when she saw that his company was now dispersing and he was already striding over to the bar.
‘Hello, I’m Alex.’ His voice was chocolate-rich and deep, that air of authority coupled with the impact of a devastating sexual charisma now that he was up close, making her put her reluctant fingers into the firm, warm clasp of his. ‘And you are?’
Her temperature sky-rocketing, she lifted heavy eyes to a pair that were a steel-hard, penetrating grey. ‘Wishing you’d let go of my hand.’
He didn’t immediately, retaining it just long enough for her to recognise the power of an intrepid will. Through her silent wretchedness a little voice warned her to be careful.
‘Could I get you another drink?’
‘Very probably,’ she murmured, her claws unsheathed by the pain of bitter betrayal, making him a scapegoat for all his sex. ‘I’d imagine there’s very little you couldn’t do,’ she added levelly, looking him up and down in a way designed to faze him but which only resulted in producing a throb of something elemental in her that was almost frightening in its intensity.
‘Then I’ll rephrase that.’ He slipped a hand into his trouser pocket, and amended with emphasis, ‘May I get you a drink?’ From his perfect diction it was clear he was neither Bermudian or American, but full-blooded English. From the hint of impatience in that deep voice, it was also obvious he didn’t usually have to work this hard.
‘Better.’ Her sultry mouth curved in the merest smile as she picked up the Martini glass from the bar, put it to her lips. ‘But the answer’s still thanks, but no thanks.’
‘Too complicated?’
‘Much too complicated,’ she responded, noticing now the fine lines around his eyes and the grooves etching his mouth, as though he had been driving himself too hard, or been under some strain.
‘Really? I was under the impression you wanted me to come over and speak to you.’
‘Were you?’ She gave a brittle little laugh, unintentionally tantalising, provocative, and saw the glint of something dark and dangerous leap in his eyes. Setting her glass back down on the bar, she glanced away, feigning interest in some laughter coming from one of the tables before enquiring casually, ‘Are you married?’ Not that it mattered, she assured herself firmly. He was much too sophisticated and dangerous for her to be playing with.
‘Married?’ He made it sound as though she had insulted him even by suggesting it. ‘No, I’m not married.’
Perhaps she had insulted him, she thought, some sixth sense telling her he wasn’t the type of man to approach a woman if he had a wife somewhere. A man with ethics. Uncommitted. In control. A man who could make her forget…
Sanchia shook the shocking, disturbing notion away, wondering where it had come from.
‘What’s your name?’
Above the soft music drifting out from behind the bar, the equally soft command stirred a contrary desire in her to rebel—against him, against the effect he was having on her, against herself. ‘Is that a prerequisite?’
Something like annoyance flashed in his eyes but was quickly erased. ‘A prerequisite for what?’
A rather sensual smile played around his mouth now and, held by the snare of his flagrant masculinity, Sanchia’s gaze faltered, her brain acknowledging the power of mind and body that lay behind that impeccable façade. He would know how to please, pleasure, protect a woman—for as long as she was his at any rate, she fantasised, shaken by her own wild speculation. He could also hurt her, if she played this dangerous game with him. But maybe that was what she wanted, she thought suddenly—crazily. The diversion this man could provide would numb the pain.
She had had more to drink than was wise if she was thinking like that. Not that she’d really had very much, and not so much that the man standing beside her would have noticed, but certainly one or two glasses more than she was accustomed to.
Her sparkling eyes turned the deepest amber as she looked up into his face. A hard, handsome
