Which was ridiculous. He had no reason to feel guilty.
Don’t you? asked a snide voice. So why can’t you stop thinking about her?
‘Her’ was a woman he’d met just over three months ago. In another city. Before he’d become engaged to Leonora. A petite woman. With long, unruly red hair. Freckles covering nearly every inch of her pale skin. Small plump breasts with tight pink nipples. A surprisingly curvy body. Russet curls at the juncture of her legs. He’d spread her there, opening her up to him, her glistening folds...
‘Lazaro—’
He looked at Leonora, shocked at the vividness of that memory and the effect it was having on his body. Which was galling when the stunningly beautiful flesh-and-blood woman beside him couldn’t arouse even a heightened sense of awareness.
She was smiling, but he could see it was forced. ‘You’re hurting me.’
Instantly Lazaro became aware of his hand, digging into the flesh at her hip. He relaxed. ‘I’m sorry.’
A sense of shame engulfed him. And anger. That woman had been no one. His conscience pricked. Okay, so he’d wanted her more than he could remember wanting any other woman in a long time, but it had just been a moment out of time. In another city. Where people didn’t see him and whisper behind his back.
‘Isn’t that Lazaro Sanchez? They say he used to forage in the streets for food. Didn’t he used to be in a gang?’
That woman—the stranger—hadn’t had the faintest clue who he was. And it had been refreshing. It had made the intense and immediate attraction between them even more compelling. And explosive.
She’d been a virgin. A virgin. The words resounded in his head, still having the power to shock him. He hadn’t expected that. And it had led to the most erotic experience of his life...
Leonora was handing Lazaro a glass of champagne now, and he shook his head slightly, as much to rid himself of unwanted and disturbing memories as anything else.
‘Your advisors are making motions that it’s time to make the announcement. Ready?’
Lazaro excised all thoughts, memories and images of that woman from his mind and looked into the eyes of his future wife. The woman who would open the last doors for him into a world that had been denied him from the day of his birth.
‘Yes,’ he said, clinking his glass to hers with a melodic chime. ‘Let’s do it.’
* * *
Skye O’Hara was feeling nauseous. Literally. And she also felt sick with nerves. Not a good combination. A cold clammy sweat lay over her skin, and it had only got worse since she’d slipped into the jaw-droppingly beautiful ballroom, with its gold-panelled walls and massive crystal chandeliers.
She’d never seen so many beautiful tall people in her life. Or such finery. Glittering sheaths of dresses. Tuxedoes. Acres of smooth honey-hued skin, making her feel even more pale and wan. Golden lights everywhere. It even smelled exclusive. The kind of scent that couldn’t be bottled. It was wealth.
She’d dressed in a white shirt and black skirt to try and fade in with the staff. Put her unruly hair up in a tidy bun on her head. No way would she have had the wherewithal even to remotely attempt to look like one of these people. For a start she was about a foot too small, and the only redhead in sight. And she had freckles. A physical imperfection people like this would eliminate on sight, no doubt.
She craned her head, going up on tiptoe to try and see further into the room. To see where he was.
Her hand went to her belly where the reason for much of her nausea resided.
And then she saw him in the distance. How could she not? He stood head and shoulders even above these giants. His dark blond hair was still just the right side of too long, and still messy. Stubble emphasised the hard line of his jaw. And his mouth...
She couldn’t see it from here but she could remember it. Sculpted and firm. Hot. She remembered how it had felt on her bare skin...closing over her...
A gap formed in the crowd and now she could see all of him.
Her heart pounded as she drank in every long and lean inch of his six-foot-three-inch frame. Tall and broad-shouldered. Golden. Gorgeous. The sexiest man she’d ever seen. The first man she’d ever thought of as sexy. And consequently the first man she’d ever slept with.
He was wearing a white tuxedo jacket with a white bow-tie. Black trousers. He stood out effortlessly...a little bit different from everyone else. As if he couldn’t contain some elemental part of himself even in this civilised milieu.
Elemental. That was what it had been like that night. Wild. Visceral. Unbelievable. Unforgettable.
Skye’s hand tightened on her belly. Unforgettable in more ways than one.
A woman came up to her with a stern look on her face. Staff, not a guest, wearing a black uniform dress. Just as Skye was about to panic that she’d been caught out, the woman handed her a tray full of glasses of champagne and told her to stop wasting time. Relief flooded Skye. Her disguise had worked.
She took a deep breath and started to move closer through the crowd to where he stood. Lazaro Sanchez. She’d looked him up on the internet the day after their night together—and nearly had a heart attack when she’d realised that he was a seriously wealthy and influential financier, with an extensive real-estate portfolio. A household name in his native Spain.