‘Now who’s green with jealousy?’ she taunted, and gained real satisfaction from the way he stopped in the middle of opening the car door, his dark head shooting up as if her words had stabbed him in the back. Jemma stood watching him with her teeth pressing down on her bottom lip. She’d gone too far, she realised. Leon was not a man who liked his weaknesses thrown back in his face.
‘Get in,’ he said, and walked around to the other side of the car to climb in himself. It wasn’t like him. If Leon possessed any endearing quality at all to offset his arrogance, then it had to be his impeccable manners. Always, he made sure she was inside the car and comfortable before closing the door for her.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked when the silence between them grew too tense for her to cope with.
‘To a party,’ he told her. ‘It is time you met my friends.’
Oh, God, she thought heavily. That’s all I need tonight—to meet his rich, sophisticated friends while he’s in this mood and I feel like throttling him!
CHAPTER FIVE
THE party was in full swing when they got there, people spilling out of dimly lit rooms with glasses in their hands and false smiles on their faces. And most of them turned to stare as they walked in. She supposed Leon alone would get such a reaction, but with her by his side the interest honed in on her, and despite their mutual hostility she moved closer to him.
‘I feel like a curiosity on show,’ she muttered. ‘This isn’t Madame Tussaud’s, is it?’
At least he smiled, even if she was being sarcastic. ‘Too many famous faces for you?’ he mocked.
‘Too many something,’ she agreed. ‘That’s Mike Williams over there, and I know for a fact that he’s in Madame Tussaud’s because I saw it on TV the other month!’
‘Do you want me to introduce you to him?’ he offered.
‘No.’ Jemma studied the attractive pop star from beneath her lashes. ‘He isn’t my type.’
‘And just what is your type?’ he enquired, that coolness returning to his voice.
Black-haired arrogant devils with sexy Greek accents! she thought angrily. And sighed, refusing to an
swer him.
‘Leon, darling!’ With a voice like thick syrup, the most exquisite creature Jemma had ever seen glided up to them. She was as dark as Jemma was fair and wearing white taffeta silk that shone like the five-string pearl choker she had clasped around her beautiful throat. ‘You made it after all!’
Her arms went around his neck, and by the time they parted again Jemma had been effectively shoved to one side and the newcomer stood firmly in her place, her arm lovingly crooked through his. ‘Carlos is here and dying to speak to you,’ the woman informed him. ‘That Pritchard deal you set up was an amazing coup for him! Come and...’
Jemma didn’t hear any more, because the two of them had been casually swallowed up in the crowd, leaving her standing there feeling as redundant as a rag on a highly polished floor!
And that is exactly what you are! she told herself bitterly. Nothing but a rag among all these riches.
Well, ‘all that glisters is not gold’, she mused acidly as she let her hooded gaze scan the glittering crowd. For a start, she was sure that was Sonia Craven over there, locked in a heated clinch with a man who was most definitely not her husband.
‘Been deserted?’ a light male voice murmured from just behind her. She spun, and found a stranger—who was not quite a stranger because she had seen his face plastered on billboards all over the city advertising his latest film—offering her the same smile that knocked women dead all over the world. ‘I saw you come in with Stephanades,’ he explained his opening gambit. His incredibly piercing blue eyes slid down her then back again. ‘I’ll give it to him,’ he mocked ruefully. ‘That handsome Greek devil certainly knows how to pick them.’
Jemma stiffened instantly. ‘Are you trying to be insulting?’ she demanded.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Of course not!’ he denied. ‘It was actually supposed to be a compliment.’
‘Your technique needs polishing, then,’ she informed him, and turned away, searching the milling throng for a glimpse of Leon.
The man’s soft laughter shivered down her naked back. Then suddenly he appeared in front of her and stuck out his hand. ‘Jack Bridgeman,’ he introduced himself.
Jemma glanced down at the hand then back into his amazing eyes. ‘I know who you are,’ she said drily. ‘One would have to be blind and deaf not to—wouldn’t one?’
The eyebrows shot up again. ‘Now who’s being insulting?’ he challenged.
She sighed, accepting that he was right, and took the proffered hand. ‘Jemma Davis,’ she said. ‘Most definitely not a name you will recognise!’ She sent him a rueful glance.
He grinned. ‘Let’s go and find you a drink,’ he offered, and took her arm.
She let him guide her away, out of one room and into another—just as crowded—but where a superbly stocked bar stood against one wall, manned by white-coated waiters.