For a split second, he felt her resist—as if she would not give in to what he knew from the tremor that ran through her and the sudden flaring of her eyes her body was urging her to do. Then, with a little helpless sigh in her throat, her resistance was gone and she was folding against him, her hands tightening around his neck, her eyes gazing up
at him.
He felt her breasts crest against his chest—felt his own body reacting as any male body would react to such a woman in his arms! A woman who was driving him crazy with wanting her, being denied her...
His splayed hand at her spine pinioned her to him and his thighs guided her in the slow, sensual rhythm of the dance. He heard her breath catch again. Her lips were close to his, so tantalisingly close. He felt his head dip...wanting so badly to feel that silken velvet he had tasted only once before. He hungered for it with a desire that was now surging in him, to taste her again...to sate himself on her...
He pulled her more closely against him, knowing that she knew—for how could she not know just how very much he desired her...?
His lashes dipped over his eyes. He said her name—low and husky with desire... Relief was flooding through him—relief that finally she was in his arms, in his embrace, that she was pressed as closely to him as her body would be were he making love to her...
The rest of the world had disappeared. Hans, Celine, the whole damn yacht had disappeared. Only Tara was here—the woman who had stopped the breath in his lungs the first time he’d set eyes on her. The woman he wanted now more than any other woman.
His eyes were holding hers, not relinquishing them, watching her pupils expanding, seeing the dilation of desire in those incredible blue-green eyes of hers...
His mouth lowered to hers, seeking the sweet, silk velvet of her lips...so hungry to feel them part for him...for her to yield the sweetness of her mouth to his once more... Desire was like molten lava in him...
And then, abruptly, she was yanking herself away from him, and there was something flaring in her eyes now that was not desire—that was the very opposite of that. She strained against him, dropping her arms from him, removing his hands from her body. She seemed to be swaying as he looked down at her, face dark with her rejection.
‘The music has stopped.’
She got the words out as if each one were a stone. He stared at her blankly, then heard her go on, her eyes like knives now.
‘And if you ever try that on again with me I’ll... I’ll...’
But she did not finish. Instead, with a sudden contortion of her face, she walked off the dance floor, seizing up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and knocking it back.
‘A lovers’ tiff? Oh, dear!’ Celine’s voice was beside him, her false sympathy not concealing her spite.
He ignored her, his eyes only for Tara, clutching her flute, refusing to look at him. His senses were still aflame, afire, and yet as the noise of the party filled the air, as the thud of music started up again, faster this time, he turned to Hans.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said bluntly.
Ruthlessly, he shepherded them ashore, summoning his driver as he did so, and then piling them all into the limo the moment it drew up.
Tara had got in first, and was making herself extremely busy with a seatbelt. Her colour was high, her mouth set tight, long legs slanted away from his direction. As he threw himself into his own seat—diagonally opposite Tara—he saw Celine’s gaze whip between the two of them. Speculation was in them as she took in Tara’s withdrawal, her hostile body language.
Marc shut his eyes. He was beyond caring now. Let Celine think whatever the hell she wanted! His thoughts were elsewhere.
He wouldn’t get any sleep that night—it would be impossible—but he didn’t care about that either...
The moment they arrived back at the villa Tara all but bolted up the stairs, and he heard her bedroom door slam shut. Hans also took himself off. Marc made for the sanctuary of his office—anything to get away from Celine, who had gone to help herself from the drinks trolley in the salon.
He was just pushing open his office door when he heard her call out behind him.
‘Marc, cherie—my poor, poor sweet!’
He hauled himself around. Celine was issuing towards him, a liqueur glass in her hand. Her eyes were glittering as she made for him. Every muscle in his body tensed. His black mood instantly tripled in intensity. Dear God, this was the last thing he needed now.
‘Celine, I have work to do,’ he ground out.
She ignored him. Came to him. Draped one bare arm around his shoulder. Her over-sweet scent was nauseating to him, her powdered half-exposed breasts in the skin-tight gold dress even more so.
He yanked her arm away, propelled her backwards. She was undeterred. He could smell alcohol mingling with her perfume.
The glitter in her eyes intensified. ‘Don’t marry that woman, Marc. You can’t! She’s not right for you. You know she isn’t. She thinks she can treat you the way she did tonight. Push you away. You don’t want a woman like that, Marc!’
She swayed towards him, trying to reach for him again. He seized her wrist, holding her at a distance. His face was thunderous, but she was still trying to touch him, to clutch at him with her scarlet nails.