Mistress Of The Groom

Her flush deepened in the knowledge that his taunt was partly justified. But did he expect a meek ‘thank you’ for rescuing her from a predicament that was mostly of his making? She glared at him defiantly, and was immediately punished for her sin.

‘It occurred to me that I might have been a trifle hasty in employing you without any references. So I decided to conduct a personal evaluation of your services before I allowed others to avail themselves of your expertise...’

He deftly unknotted his tie and stripped it from under his collar with a slow hiss of silk that was a provocation in itself.

Jane was appalled by the little thrill of excitement that skittered along her exposed nerves.

‘You really were going to do it, weren’t you?’ he observed with a dangerous calm, dropping the tie on top of his crumpled jacket. ‘You were going to sleep with an old man for money.’

‘Dan isn’t old,’ she muttered distractedly as she watched him reach for his cuffs. His eyes narrowed and she added quickly, ‘Look, if you’re calling off the deal, that’s OK by me. You can have your damned money back.’

She fished in her cleavage with her good hand and to her horror came up empty. The cheque must have slipped to one side of her bra while she was trying to wrestle free of Dan.

‘It’s your money now,’ Ryan told her, sliding his gold cuff-links into his trouser pocket as he stepped across his discarded clothes.

Jane backed away, almost tearing the delicate Italian lace as she burrowed frantically deeper. With a silent sob of relief she finally extracted the warm, crumpled cheque.

‘Here, take it. I never meant to keep it, anyway,’ she said, holding it out as if it were a talisman that would ward off the dark demon of her wicked imagination.

‘Did you not?’ It was evident from the cynical curl of his mouth that he didn’t believe her. He ignored her outstretched hand, his smoky-eyed gaze roaming from her tense face to the ruffled halo of her hair, riding the waves of midnight silk down to the glittering cap-sleeve which sagged off her left shoulder, revealing the emerald-green strap of her bra.

‘No!’ Her sticky toes curled into the carpet at the expression on his face as he visually traced the lacy strap down over the creamy upper swell of her breast. The oxygen in the room seemed sharply depleted. Jane gulped a steadying breath, and hitched up her errant sleeve with the hand that held the cheque. ‘You know damned well I was just trying to pay you back for insulting me—’

‘I can think of a better way...’ he murmured, his gaze shifting to centre on the rapid movements of her breasts. The flashy little number she wore suddenly felt as if it were made of transparent shrink-wrap. Never had Jane been more conscious of her overblown ripeness!

Her nerve broke as his eyes lifted back up to hers and his hands moved slowly to the collar of his shirt.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she croaked as he undid the first button with unhurried fingers.

‘Exactly what you think I’m doing,’ he averred softly, moving down to the next button with the same tantalising deliberation, revealing a sliver of bare chest that was sculpted of pure muscle and covered with a fine dusting of dense black hair. ‘What you hoped I was going to do...’

Jane was belatedly aware of the hushed isolation of the sound-proofed room, the double-locked door barred by his solid bulk. Keeping her attention fixed on Ryan, she tried to edge to her right.

‘What I was hoping is that you were going to step aside so that I can leave—’ She broke off, diving for the bathroom, but he was primed for an evasive manoeuvre, faster as well as bigger, his strong hands catching Jane by the waist, reeling her inexorably in towards him as she dug her bare heels into the carpet.

‘Liar!’ he accused darkly. ‘This moment has been a long time coming, hasn’t it, Jane? Years, in fact...’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she panted, twisting in his grip, pushing at him with one fist, handicapped by her need to keep her left hand out of harm’s way.

‘The hell you don’t!’ Blue flame leapt in his eyes as he shifted his weight, lifting and swinging her around until her back hit the wall beside the elegant table, trapping her there with his hips while his hard hands slid down and curved over her flanks.

‘It’s been there between us right from the start. Unspoken, but always there—this hot, itchy feeling of mutual awareness...’

‘No!’ He was stirring up long buried feelings that he had no right to disinter. She lashed out with her bare feet—a mistake, since it enabled him to slip sideways between her scissoring legs and push up against the centre of her body. She twisted her torso, tossing her head wildly so that her hair lashed his face, catching in the slight roughness along his shadowed chin.

‘Yes! But we never allowed ourselves to scratch that particular itch, did we, Jane? We politely ignored it and that frustrated the hell out of you. You had the hots for your best friend’s fiancé and because you felt guilty about it you projected the blame back onto me. I was the villain for being the object of your desire, for stirring up feelings that you didn’t want to acknowledge...’

‘You flatter yourself!’ Jane choked, denying the shameful memory of her secret obsession. He couldn’t know; no one had known. He was only guessing...

He leaned into her, letting her feel the thick ridge between his thighs, electrifying her with the knowledge that he was as aroused as he was angry.

‘Do I? Is it flattery to feel yourself desired? Did you think I wouldn’t notice the way you vibrated like a tuning fork whenever I came into range, the way you tensed whenever we brushed against each other, the exaggerated lengths you went to to avoid being left alone with me, or spending time with Ava and me as a couple? Oh, yes, you wanted me back then, Jane...I could smell it on you... And you still do—that’s why you came here tonight flashing your long legs and big breasts in that cheap, sexy dress—’

A glorious rage ripped through her, tearing down the barriers which she had so meticulously built up against him, spilling out years of repressed passion and resentment.

‘You crude, egocentric boor—’ She lashed out, striking his iron shoulder with the edge of her fist, jarring her hand open so that the despised cheque dropped into the silk folds of his open shirt.

His face hardened with savage satisfaction at the betraying fierceness of her response. ‘Sex is crude. Crude and raw and earthy. Isn’t that how I make you feel?’ He looked down and scooped the creased piece of paper out of his shirt, slowly rubbing it over his mouth and nostrils. ‘Aah, yes...that’s just the way I remember it—the unique aroma of Jane Sherwood, the ripe scent of warm, succulent breasts...’