He was breathtakingly gorgeous and she wondered briefly about his nationality. He wasn’t French and didn’t look English. But his English was perfect. The product of a first-class education.
At that unsettling thought, her insecurities sprang to life again and she reminded herself that for now, at least, he was with her. Yes, they were surrounded by stick-thin, stunning model types, but she was the one he was smiling at.
And she didn’t even bother trying to subdue the little flicker of triumph that accompanied that realisation.
Perhaps it had been worth coming after all, just to experience this one perfect moment.
In a room full of the very cream of society, he’d singled her out.
Knowing that, wasn’t it time she left her insecurities in the past?
‘They’re not looking at me.’ His hand fell to his side and there was a cynical gleam in his eyes. ‘Or if they are then they’re not seeing me. They’re seeing my wallet. When it comes to dress size they want to see one zero, but when it comes to a man’s wallet they’re rather more ambitious.’
Chantal laughed, and refrained from pointing out that he could be penniless and women would still stare. ‘If you’re so rich that women can’t see past your wallet, then there’s an obvious solution.’ Her eyes twinkling, she stood on tiptoe and spoke softly in his ear, ‘Give away all your money.’
His head turned fractionally, so that his lips almost brushed her cheek. ‘You think I should do that?’
He smelt amazing, Chantal thought dizzily, resting a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. ‘It would stop women stereotyping you as a rich, available man.’
‘How do you know I’m available?’
Feeling distinctly light-headed, Chantal stepped away slightly, deciding regretfully that it really was time to move on from this conversation and this man. Before she forgot who she really was. ‘Because if you weren’t, some extremely jealous woman would have stabbed me in the back with her cutlery by now.’
His eyes were on her mouth. ‘So your advice is to give away my money?’
‘Absolutely. Only then can you be sure of a woman’s motives.’
The musicians started to play the seductive, powerful notes of a tango, and Chantal closed her eyes for a moment, wishing they hadn’t chosen that particular moment to perform that number.
It reminded her of Buenos Aires.
She’d spent two months travelling around Argentina, and she loved South American music.
The rhythm was so familiar that her body swayed instinctively, and the next moment the glass was removed from her hand and she felt her mysterious companion slide a hand around her back and pull her close. So close that, had the dance not been a tango, their contact would have drawn comment.
Her eyes opened. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Dancing. With you.’
‘You didn’t ask me.’
‘I never ask a question when I already know the answer. It wastes time.’
‘Arrogant,’ she murmured, and he gave a slow smile.
‘Self-aware.’
‘Over-confident.’ Laughing, she tilted her head to look at him. ‘I might have said no.’ She could feel the warmth of his hand on the bare skin at the base of her spine and the contact sent spirals of heat coursing through her body.
‘You wouldn’t have said no.’
And he was absolutely right.
There was no way she would have been able to say no to this man.
The throbbing, sexy music coiled itself around them and Chantal was breathlessly conscious of the strength and power of his body pressed against hers.
He clasped her hand in his and drew her nearer still, until it felt as though there wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t touching him. The music washed over them and he moved in response to that intoxicating rhythm, using subtle changes in pressure to lead her around the dance floor.