There was a cajoling, caressing note in her voice, and her scarlet nails curved over his arm. Her over-made-up face was far too close to his, her eyes greedy for him, openly lascivious—and suddenly, out of nowhere, Tara had had enough. Just enough.
There was something in her that absolutely revolted at seeing Celine paw at Marc the way she did. Something that was the last thing she should feel about him—but feel it she did, and with a power that shook her.
Parting her lips in an acid grimace she leant forward. ‘Celine,’ she said, sweetly, but with a bite to her voice that could have cut through steel wire, ‘call me old-fashioned, but I would prefer you, please, to take your hand off Marc!’
Immediately Celine’s eyes snapped to Tara. There was venom in them. And in the words she snapped out too.
‘Oh, my, how very possessive! Anyone might think you have ideas about him!’
It was a taunt—an obvious one—and Tara opened her mouth to retaliate. Except no words came. Only a spearing dart of emotion that should not be there...should not exist at all.
And then, suddenly, Marc’s voice cut across her consciousness. She felt her hand being taken, turned over, exposing her wrist. Before she knew what he intended he had dipped his head, grazed his mouth across that tender skin, sending a million nerve-endings firing in her so that she could only stare at him, eyes widening...
‘I very much hope Tara does have ideas about me...very possessive ideas!’ she heard him say. ‘For I most certainly do about her!’
His voice had dropped to a low purr, and now his gaze was holding Tara’s with an expression of absolute intentness.
Was he trying to convey a message? She didn’t know—could only feel all those nerve-endings still firing inside her like a hail of fireworks as the dark gaze on her suddenly lifted, shifting to Celine. Tara felt his hand, large and strong, enfold hers, meshing his fingers into hers...possessively.
She saw him smile—a smile, she suddenly thought, that had a twist of ruthlessness to it. A ruthlessness that was entirely explained when she heard him speak.
‘You can be the first to know, Celine.’ That same deep, steely purr was in his voice. ‘Tara is my fiancée,’
Fiancée? Tara heard the word, but could not credit it. Where had that come from?
Urgently, she looked at Marc, burningly conscious not just of what he had dropped like a concrete block on them all, but even more of the tightly meshed fingers enclosing hers. Possessively...very possessively.
With a corner of her consciousness she heard a hissing intake of breath from Celine.
‘Fiancée? Don’t be absurd!’
Her derision stung. Stung with an echo of Marc’s voice telling her not to get ideas about him, telling her this was playacting only and for no other purpose.
And it stung with much more. With the way his mouth had felt like velvet on the tender skin of her wrist just now, taunting her...tempting her...
Of its own volition and entirely instinctively, with an instinct as old as time and as powerful as the desire she felt for the man who had brought her here, Tara felt her mouth curve into a derisive smile, a mocking laugh.
Because he did not desire her for himself, but only to block another woman’s access to him.
She felt her hand lift to Marc’s cheek, felt herself lean towards him. Felt her mouth reach for his, open to his, to feast on it, possessive with passion and naked desire...
How long she kissed him she did not know, for time had stopped, had ceased to exist. There was only the sensation of Marc’s mouth, exploding within her, the taste of him, the scent of him, the weakening of every part of her body as desire flamed inside her...
Dazed, she drew back, gathering what senses she could, knowing her heart was pounding in her breast but that she had to say something. Anything.
Deliberately she gave that mocking little laugh again. Clearly Celine had wanted proof of the engagement Marc had suddenly and out of nowhere imposed upon the scene.
‘We were going to keep it secret—weren’t we, darling?’
Her glance at Marc was brief. She did not meet his eyes...did not dare to. Then she looked back to Celine across the table. She had to stay in role, in character—that was essential, however hectic her pulse was after that insanely reckless kiss that she had been unable to prevent herself from taking from him.
‘Don’t say anything to Hans, will you?’ she said to Celine. ‘Marc wants to tell him himself—before we announce it formally.’
The expression on Celine’s face was as if she had swallowed a scorpion—or a whole bucketful of them. Then Hans was coming back to the table. He started to say something about yacht brokers but Celine cut across him. She was furious—absolutely seething.
Tara’s glance went treacherously to the man she had just kissed with such openly passionate abandon...
But then so was Marc...