seemed to crawl to a stop—that he had time to experience, in graphic detail, the full effect of that face, that attention, focused wholly on him.
The way the high cheekbones flushed with colour, the flutter of long black lashes as she blinked those emerald eyes at him, just once. The way her glossy lips parted slightly—in surprise or dismay?—then lifted infinitesimally at the corners, resembling something approaching warmth.
Whatever—it faded like a rose in winter, no doubt as she took in his rigid jaw and neutral stare. Because, frankly, he couldn’t seem to drum up anything else. She lifted a hand, let it hover a moment before she smoothed a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear.
Her eyes were still locked with his. Until her gaze lifted to his hair. And, yeah, some might say it needed a trim. Her nostrils flared slightly as her gaze shifted to his open-necked shirt. His throat prickled; his Adam’s apple bobbed. Hell. He was glad he didn’t have a woman, particularly an ex-fashion designer, telling him how he should dress.
And thanks to Justin’s intervention he had no alternative—manners dictated he at least speak to her. Forcibly unclenching his teeth and loosening his grip on the glass, he started forward.
Mariel watched Dane Huntington saunter towards her, his casual, almost arrogant manner all too familiar. Whatever Justin was saying—if he was saying anything at all—faded. Her stomach juddered once, as if she’d hit more of that air turbulence she’d experienced on the final approach into Adelaide.
Phoebe, where are you? Get me out of here, she pleaded silently. She should have known she’d bump into him sooner or later, but Dane was the last man she wanted to face right now, with her body clock out of sync and her digestive system doing nasty things to her insides.
She’d wanted to look her best when she saw him again. Show him what he’d missed out on all those years ago, when she’d been a naïve seventeen-year-old who’d thought the young Dane Huntington was her sun and moon and everything in between.
Well, she wasn’t so naïve now, even if it had taken every one of those ten years. Seconds ticked by, but they felt like minutes. His cool grey gaze remained fused with hers, no hint of a smile on those beautiful lips. Lifting her chin, she sucked in her stomach and eyeballed him boldly as he drew nearer.
Dark hair with glints of auburn covered his ears and carelessly kissed the back of his neck. Some things hadn’t changed, she thought with attempted disdain. And he still scorned traditional dress code. He was tieless. His black collarless shirt with white stitching along the seams was undone at the neck and revealed tanned skin and a smattering of dark hair.
The fashion designer inside her winced. Black jeans, to one of Adelaide’s Society Weddings of the Year, for heaven’s sake? But, to her chagrin, the wholly inappropriate image made her thighs melt and her pulse do a strange little blip.
She straightened, clutching her glass tighter to hide the fact that her fingers were trembling, and said, ‘Hello, there,’ before he opened his mouth. ‘Happy New Year.’
She did not lean in for a kiss.
‘Mariel. Happy New Year to you, too. How long have you been back?’
‘I flew in yesterday morning.’
‘Just in time for Carl and Amy’s big day.’
His whisky-on-velvet voice flowed over her and he smiled—finally—and her pulse did another of those little blips. With her height she didn’t often experience men looking down at her and it made her feel delicate. And feminine.
She stiffened. She didn’t want to feel delicate and feminine with Dane Huntington. Ever again. But—and how crazy was this?—she wanted him to see her that way.
To remember…Did he remember?
How could he forget?
‘Coincidentally Dane mentioned you just the other day,’ Justin said, and Mariel saw the familiar little tic in Dane’s jaw.
‘Oh?’ Dane had been talking about her? ‘Why was that?’
‘My wife, Cass, and I are thinking about going to Europe in October, and since you live in Paris he thought maybe you could give us the guided tour.’
‘Did he?’ She speared Dane with the pointy end of her gaze. ‘He didn’t try to look me up when he was there. When was it—five years ago, Dane? Mum mentioned it in an e-mail.’
‘It was business, Mariel,’ he said. ‘There wasn’t time for sightseeing. Or anything else. It was in and out. What brings you home?’
‘Family. I needed a break.’
‘One would think if you wanted to be with family you’d have come a week earlier and celebrated Christmas with them.’
Oh. ‘I’m ashamed to say I left it too late and the airlines were fully booked.’ She refused to look away beneath his close scrutiny. Look away and he’d know she was lying.
‘That’s too bad.’
‘I’m here now.’
‘So you are,’ he said lazily, eyes still locked on hers.
Justin, obviously feeling the weird tension, switched topics. ‘Our Dane won Babe’s Bachelor of the Year contest.’
‘Is that so?’ Mariel lifted her glass and took a sip to soothe her throat, noting the dark look Dane flashed at the other man.
‘You remember the one,’ Justin went on. ‘Babe magazine runs it every year.’
‘Ah, yes, that magazine,’ she drawled, infusing her tone with a large dollop of sarcasm, and was rewarded with a flare of colour on Dane’s cheekbones.
And what do you know? Dane Huntington, master of cool, actually looked hot. The hot-and-bothered kind of hot. Amused, she watched his head tilt as he stretched his neck, as if easing the tension there. The smile that touched her lips was more of a smirk.
‘The side benefits: dates with ten different babes.’ Justin grinned, with the devil’s glint in his eyes.
Mariel’s stomach clenched around the image Justin provoked, but she held on to that smirk for all she was worth.
‘Uh-oh, my wife’s giving me the eye,’ Justin said. ‘I’ll leave you two to catch up. Great seeing you again, Mariel.’
‘You, too.’ Mariel smiled at an attractive brunette watching them as Justin threaded his way in her direction, then turned back to Dane. ‘So…Babe’s Bachelor of the Year, huh? How does it work again?’
‘Like Jus told you,’ he clipped. ‘A bit of fun. And it’s for a good cause. Charity fund-raiser. I need a refill—how about you?’ Jutting his chin, he motioned her away from several interested onlookers towards a punchbowl in the middle of a table.
He ladled orange liquid into two crystal cups, offered her one. ‘Thank you,’ she said, careful to avoid contact with his fingers.
‘You mean these babes—’ Mariel drew the word out with sarcastic
