was…her?
He blinked, as if coming out of hypnosis.
What was he thinking? Of course it was her. He’d had enough close-ups of her pinned on his wall as he’d prepared for this campaign. Pictures that included several of her wrapped around her sugar daddy, flaunting the nature of their relationship. He knew how she looked, down to the last detail.
Or so he’d thought. Her flesh-and-blood reality far transcended the composite image her photos had created.
None had come close to translating the hundred shades that spun the bronze silk of her hair. None had been faithful to the richness of the thick cream that was her skin. None had hinted at the hue and depth of her eyes. In the most revealing close-ups they’d been a mundane green. But even at this distance, they rivaled the summer meadows and emerald shores of his island put together. And her tailored features echoed no one’s, her air implied an individuality so unique that must be encoded in her very genes.
Her photos had misconstrued a combination that he could only describe as…breathtaking.
He blinked again. What are you thinking, you fool? She is a self-serving, gold-digging creature inhabiting a siren’s body. A body she sells to the highest, most undemanding bidder.
He gave himself a further mental shake as he watched her proceed across the ballroom, turning every head but noticing no one herself.
Yes, there it was, the famed frost.
Yet…maybe not.
It wasn’t haughtiness he detected, the despising of all else who lived. It was something he recognized only too well. The bone-deep wish for solitude, the elemental drive to avoid crowds, loathing to be the center of attention yet knowing he was forever doomed to be in it….
There he went again! Assigning not only human traits to the woman who thought nothing of standing aside as a prosperous kingdom descended into chaos, but deeply personal ones, too.
Enough. Time to put things in motion. This was going to be hard and ugly and, if he found no way out, permanent. No reason to draw out the preliminary discomfort.
He signaled to his waiters.
He moved to intercept her, his steps long and leisurely, their steady momentum detailing his intention to bypass her on the way to the French windows leading out onto the terrace.
Five paces from their intersection point, he cast his gaze in a sweeping motion, not intending it to pause on her. The next moment his intentions scattered, along with his ordered thoughts, as his gaze locked on to hers with all the greed and willfulness of everything male in him.
E’lal jaheem. To hell with this. What was he doing deviating from the set plan?
His eyes clung to hers, disregarding his fury at the unprecedented loss of control. Then, at the height of his frustration, he saw it. Reflected in the depths of her gemlike eyes.
Awareness. Startled, rivaling his own, surpassing it for being taken unawares.
The coolness of satisfaction spread behind his sternum.
So—the Ice Queen wasn’t immune to him, eh?
With her reputation, he’d been worried she’d be the exception, forcing him to exert himself to catch and keep her attention. It seemed she just hadn’t met a man who warranted it.
But she’d met him now.
So maybe she’d relent if she found out he was her intended groom, that she’d exchange one billionaire tycoon for another who could more than give her what she needed in bed, things her aging lover surely wasn’t providing her with…
What was he thinking? No matter how magnificent she was as a female, she was immoral, heartless. He would never keep her in his bed longer than it took for her to conceive the vital heir.
Based on all he knew of her, he assumed that one factor in her adamant refusal to change her current situation was that she had no desire to lose the freedom of being in control of an older man without giving anything back, giving nothing up. Entering a marriage of state, where she’d be forever monitored and unable to mess around as she no doubt did now, must be unthinkable to her. A man in his prime, who’d keep her toeing the line and in his bed, was certainly to be avoided at all costs.
No. Disclosing his true identity to someone who was as ruthless a businesswoman as he was a businessman would only backfire.
His original plan was the only way to go.
His eyes had remained glued to hers all through his inner deliberations. Voluntarily, he insisted on telling himself, to ascertain her reaction to him.
And he was certain now. He’d never seen such a blatant confession of instant hunger in a woman’s eyes. He struggled not to acknowledge the flare of equal hunger in his gut, to keep all turmoil from his eyes. Smugness, hot and triumphant, surged as she faltered to a standstill under the brunt of his approach.
Then his two accomplices collided into them.
Farah Beaumont had been roasting with mortification.
Every eye in the packed, suffocatingly opulent ballroom had turned at her entrance, the whispers rising over the orchestral music like the hissing of a thousand cobras.
Which wasn’t an exaggeration, really. She felt as if she’d just stepped into a pit of snakes. But then, she’d invited their poison when she’d agreed to pose as Bill’s lover. Sometimes their purposes in setting up this charade didn’t seem worth the malice she met everywhere. Only sometimes, though. She’d found peace since Bill had become her shield and she’d become his payback to his cheating wife. Her predators were now the gossiping, backstabbing kind. The seducing, exploiting kind usually kept their distance, where she wanted them to remain. Where she hoped they’d remain tonight, now that she was here alone.
Damn Bill for insisting she arrive at this balle-masqué-cum-fund-raiser farce ahead of him. As if he could resolve the out-of-the-blue catastrophe that had sent their current multi-billion-dollar deal back to square one in time to catch up with her.
But he’d thought it imperative she make an appearance as his representative. God forbid their host—a Middle Eastern magnate who’d sprung out of the shrouds of mystery just a month ago, exploding onto the world-finance scene a fully fledged global player—would feel slighted that a fellow tycoon hadn’t graced his self-congratulatory function. Or sent a proxy. It just wasn’t done, one world-mover to another. And then, Bill was dying to meet the guy. He was convinced the mystery mogul would make an appearance this time.
She thought he wouldn’t. He’d been manipulating the media and the highest circles of finance like a master puppeteer. He was still brewing maneuvers that would change the course of whole regions’ economies. She figured he’d reveal himself only when he’d achieved his full plan. Maybe not even then.
Wise man. Got his head screwed on right. Who in their right mind with that kind of power would squander the blessing of anonymity? What kind of sick psyche wanted the exposure?
She winced. She had to ask that, here, in the presence of about two thousand such psyches?
It
