Caught in His Gilded World

But still she ran her hands up his chest, revelling in his solidity and strength, looping her arms around his neck before he could get her bra off. She dragged his mouth down to hers again. His beard wasn’t scratchy at all. It was soft. It felt delicious.

Her hands went shyly to his waistband, because she’d never been a girl to waste time, which was when she felt resistance shoot through his body. In the same instant his hand snapped like a handcuff around her wrist.

‘No, you don’t.’

His gruff words hit her like a bucket of cold water.

He released her wrist and what she saw in his dark eyes told her he was calling a halt to this—something she should have done minutes ago.

That he could pull back now, when she was still hot and bothered and clinging to him, was just horribly embarrassing.

As he moved away from her Gigi knew she should be getting upright fast, playing it just as cool and together as he appeared to be.

Only she discovered she wasn’t that sophisticated. Or maybe it was that it had been so long since she’d been in a situation like this. With an actual. Live. Man.

Holy moly—when had she ever been in a situation like this?

He’s your boss.

He was also a million years beyond her in sophistication, and she was proving that right now by squeezing her eyes shut, as if he might disappear, and she would wake in her own room, and all of this would be just one of those embarrassing being-caught-in-public-naked dreams.

When she found the wherewithal to crank up an eyelid she discovered he was standing over her, running his hands through his hair where only moments before her fingers had been. He was looking rueful, and because of it younger—more his twenty-nine years than the über-successful man of the world she’d spent the last hour or so with.

An hour, Gigi, and you’re flat on your back on his bed?

She watched his biceps flex as he massaged the back of his neck and was distracted for a moment—until she realised what she was doing. She was acting like a sex-crazed rabbit!

‘This isn’t wise.’

His voice was rough and deep, and crushingly certain as his gaze ran over her, rumpled and prone and probably unattractively flushed, still lying on the bed.

No? Gigi struggled to prop herself up on her elbows.

She wondered what he meant to do. Was she supposed to say something?

‘I need a shower.’

Did he?

She watched him go, uncertain of the etiquette. Still a little dazed and confused. What had she done wrong?

Not what—who, you eejit. You’re a Bluebird, and he’s the boss, and this is not what you came for.

She looked down at her breasts, which had been so happy beneath his hands, and at her nipples, which were still standing up like two little soldiers on parade.

Not today, ladies.

She watched the door close and she was left on her own in the middle of the glamorous bed. Her squeak firmly in place.

* * *

Khaled stepped out of the shower, his body under control after the effects of chill-level water, aware that this brief taste of Gigi had made her even more dangerous.

He knew now how she felt—soft, pliant, wild. How she moved her mouth—sensuously. How she used her tongue, and the little sounds she made that were enough to tip him over the edge.

She was the sweetest, wildest thing.

He blew out a deep breath. Only not for him.

He’d caught himself a Bluebird—but with photographs of them together on the internet there was no way he could do what would clearly come far too naturally for both of them, it appeared.

It would not be conducive to a quick sale of the cabaret.

For now, he had to get her out of here.

He stepped into the bedroom and found—nothing.

The only sign of what had occurred was the rumpled coverlet and the scent of her—something like cinnamon and sugar baked hot. It made his mouth water.

‘Gigi?’

Silence.

He’d dropped her backpack on the seat at the end of the bed and it was gone too.

Khaled stood with his hands resting lightly on his lean towel-wrapped hips and wondered at the disappointment dropping through him. He’d misjudged her. How in hell had he misjudged her? He’d been so wide of the mark he needed either a psychologist, to find out where his native intelligence had gone, or a sex therapist to work out at exactly what point what was between his legs had superseded his brain.

Thumping something suddenly appealed.

All that sweet, eccentric confusion she trailed—like breadcrumbs to the doorstep of that cabaret of hers. A con. How had he missed it?