rude.’
‘I’m incredibly honest,’ Raúl corrected. ‘I am not criticizing—there is nothing wrong with that.’
‘Vete al infierno!’ Estelle said, grateful for a Spanish schoolfriend and lunchtimes being taught by her how to curse. She watched his mouth curve as she told him in his own language to go to hell. ‘Excuse me,’ Estelle said. ‘Sometimes my Spanish is not so good. What I mean to say is…’
He pressed a finger to her lips before she could tell him, in her own language and rather more crudely, exactly where he could go.
The contact with her mouth, the sensual pressure, the intimacy of the gesture, had the desired effect and silenced her.
‘One more dance,’ Raúl said. ‘Then I return you to Gordon.’ He removed his finger. ‘I’m sorry if you thought I was being rude—believe me, that was not my intention. Accept my apology, please.’
Estelle’s eyes narrowed in suspicious assessment. She was aware of the pulse in her lips from his mere touch. Logic told her to remove herself from this situation, yet the stir of first arousal won.
The music slowed and, ignoring brief resistance, he pulled her in tighter. If she thought he was judging her, she was right—only it was not harshly. Raúl admired a woman who could separate emotion from sex.
Raúl needed exactly such a woman if he were to see this through.
He did not think her cheap: on the contrary, he intended to pay her very well.
She should have gone then—back to the table, to be ignored by the other guests. Should have left this man at a safer point. But her naïve body was refusing to walk away; instead it was awakening in his arms.
He held her so that her head was resting on his chest. She could feel the soft velvet of his jacket on her cheek. But she was more aware of his hand resting lightly on the base of her spine.
A couple dancing, each in a world of their own.
Raúl’s motives were temporarily suspended. He enjoyed the soft weight that leant against him, the quiet of his mind as he focused only on her. The hand on her shoulder crept beneath her hair, his fingers lightly stroking the back of her neck, and again he wanted his mouth there, wanted to lift the raven curtain and taste her.
His fingers told her so—they stroked in a soft probing and they circled and teased as she swayed in time to the music. Estelle felt the stirring between them, and though her head denied what was happening her body shifted a little to allow for him. Her nipples hurt against his chest. His hand pressed her in just a little tighter as again he broke all boundaries. Again he voiced what perhaps others would not.
‘I always thought a sporran was for decorative purposes only…’
She could feel the heat of its fur against her stomach.
‘Yet it is the only thing keeping me decent.’
‘You’re so far from decent,’ Estelle rasped.
‘I know.’
They danced—not much, just swaying in time. Except she was on fire.
He could feel the heat of her skin on his fingers, could feel her breath so shallow that he wanted to lower his head and breathe into her mouth for her. He thought of her dark hair on his pillow, of her pink nipples in his mouth at the same time. He wanted her more than he had wanted any other, though Raúl was not comfortable with that thought.
This was business, Raúl reminded himself as motive returned. Tonight she would think of his lean, aroused body. When she was bedded by Gordon it would be his lithe body she ached for. He must now make sure of that. It was a business decision, and he made business decisions well.
His hand slid from beneath her hair down to the side of her ribs, to the bare skin there.
She ached. She ached for his hand to move, to cup her breast. And again he confirmed what was happening.
‘Soon I return you to Gordon,’ Raúl said, ‘but first you come to me.’
It was foreplay. So much so she felt that as if his fingers were inside her. So much so that she could feel, despite the sporran, the thick outline beneath his kilt. It was the most dangerous dance of her life. She wanted to turn. She wanted to run. Except her body wanted the feel of his arms. Her burning cheeks rested against purple velvet and she could hear the steady thud of his heart as hers tripped and galloped. No one around them had a clue about the fire in his arms.
He smelt exquisite, and his cheek near hers had her head wanting to turn, to seek the relief of his mouth. She did not know the range of la petit mort or that he was giving her a mere taste. Estelle was far too innocent to know that she was building up to doing exactly as instructed and coming to him.
Raúl knew exactly when he felt the tension in his arms slowly abate, felt her slip a little down his chest as for a brief moment she relaxed against him.
‘Thank you for the dance.’ Breathless, stunned, she went to step back.
But still he held her as he lifted her chin and offered his verdict. ‘You know, I would like to see you really cuss in Spanish.’
He let her go then, and Estelle headed to the safety of the ladies’ room and ran her wrists under the tap to cool them.
Careful, she told herself. Be careful here, Estelle.
There was a blaze of attraction more intense than any she had known. What Estelle did know, though, was that a man like Raúl would crush her in the palm of his hand.
She looked up into the mirror and took out her lipstick; she could not fathom what had just taken place—nor that she had allowed it.
That she had partaken in it.
And willingly at that.
‘There you are.’
Gordon smiled as she headed back to the table and she could not feel more guilty: she’d even failed as an escort.
‘I’m so sorry to have left you—some foreign minister wanted to speak urgently with me, but we couldn’t get him on the line and when we did…’ Gordon gave a weary smile. ‘He had no idea what he wanted to speak to me about. I’ve been going around in circles.’ Gordon drained his drink. ‘Let’s dance.’
It felt very different dancing with Gordon. They laughed and chatted as she tried not to think about the dance with Raúl.
Yes, she danced with Gordon—but it was the black eyes still on her that held her mind. Raúl sat at the table drinking whisky.
‘I think you’ve made quite an impression. Raúl can’t keep his eyes off you.’
She started in his arms. ‘It’s okay, Estelle.’ Gordon smiled. ‘I’m flattered—or rather my persona is. To have Raúl as competition is a compliment indeed.’
He kissed her cheek and she rested her head on his shoulder, and then her eyes fell to Raúl’s black eyes that still watched and there was heat in her body, and she tried to look away but she could not.
