The Sicilian's Innocent Mistress

She was very slender, with long shapely legs, narrow hips and a flat abdomen, but in contrast her breasts—bare beneath that clinging gown, Luc felt certain!—were full and pert, their creamy swell tantalisingly visible above the low neckline of her gown.

His curiosity had been piqued earlier, as her coolly dismissive gaze had swept over the crowded foyer. Those eyes the colour of moss—an exact match to the gown she wore, which clung so enticingly to that curvaceous body—had paused on him momentarily, before she had turned away, uninterested.

Enough to quicken the interest of any red-blooded man!

And especially one who had already found her so immediately attractive…

There hadn’t been time for any introductions before the film showing, but Luc had been determined to meet her once they moved on to the party afterwards.

She was even more beautiful close to: her skin satiny smooth, those green eyes mesmerising through lowered dark lashes, a deep peach gloss on the pout of her lips, her hair the most incredible shade of red as it tumbled over her bare shoulders almost down to her waist. And, being several inches taller than her, even in her high-heeled sandals, Luc had more than a glimpse of that amazing cleavage!

His gaze was heated as he looked at her from beneath hooded lids, his tongue moving across his lips as he imagined what it would be like to view that cleavage, that amazing body, without the benefit of the green gown, to kiss her, taste her, touch her…

Having been pursued—and having allowed himself to be captured for a short time—by some of the most beautiful women in the world, Luc found his instantaneous response to this woman’s beauty something of a novelty.

Although, as he knew from his jaded experience, the novelty wouldn’t last any longer than it took to entice her into his bed!

If he could entice her into his bed.

The cool lack of interest that he had seen in her eyes earlier, as her gaze had swept over him so dismissively, hadn’t abated in the slightest as she looked up at him now, from beneath those long, dark lashes.

‘Of course, Luc,’ Grant answered him warmly. ‘This is my twin sister, Darci Wilde. Darci—Luc Gambrelli,’ he introduced them.

Grant’s sister?

This woman was Grant’s twin sister?

The two couldn’t have been more unalike; Grant was a six foot blond, and the woman at his side a tall red-haired siren. The only features they appeared to have in common were their height and those moss-green eyes.

‘Darci,’ Luc acknowledged, his dark gaze holding hers as, instead of shaking the hand she held out to him, he raised it to brush his lips across her creamy knuckles.

Her hand felt soft and warm in his, her fingers long and slender, and her perfume—something elusively musky—at once assailed his senses.

Darci guardedly returned Luc Gambrelli’s gaze from beneath lowered lashes, even as she congratulated herself on the fact that she hadn’t had to ask to be introduced to him after all—that he had come to her.

Not that she was too surprised at that. She had noted his dark gaze on her when she’d arrived with Grant earlier this evening, and several more times when she’d happened to surreptitiously glance his way. No doubt in a theatre full of celebrities the fact that he had no idea who she was had something to do with that interest.

Although she was a little less pleased with her success now, as he bent his head over her hand, those dark eyes openly flirting with hers as his lips brushed against her skin.

Kerry’s warning came back to haunt her…

Aged in his midthirties, Luc Gambrelli was just as lethally attractive as he looked in media photos. But more so. The flesh-and-blood man exuded a leashed power, the force of which couldn’t possibly be captured in a photograph. His body was lithe and muscled, in a black dinner suit, snowy-white shirt and black tie, and that overlong burnished gold hair was completely at odds with his olive complexion, his deep chocolate-brown eyes and very white teeth. He raised his head to give Darci a slow, wolfishly appreciative smile while still maintaining his hold on her hand.

But his reputation, and the cold-hearted way he had used and then discarded Mellie, breaking her heart in the process, made Darci determined not to be in the least impressed by his heart-stopping good looks, that pulse-racing Sicilian charm, or the nerve-tingling huskiness of his voice as it moved as silkily across her flesh as his lips had seconds earlier.