Marooned with the Millionaire
‘Thank you. I’ll try it on.’ Without looking at Marcus, April said, ‘Do you mind waiting outside?’
‘No problem.’
Right now fresh air was exactly what he needed—that or a long cold shower, or a brisk run.
Ten minutes later April emerged from the shop, a bag held loosely in her hand.
‘Successful?’ he asked.
She glanced down at the bag and then back to him. ‘Time will tell.’
CHAPTER SIX
APRIL SURVEYED HER reflection in the hotel room’s mirror and wondered if she had perhaps run a little mad, even lifting a hand to her forehead to check her temperature.
What had possessed her? What still possessed her?
She had no idea.
But as she’d stood in that room with Gabrielle she had looked at the black dress and then at the other one.
Gabrielle had given a small Gallic shrug. ‘It matters not which dress you wear. He will not take his eyes from you. That is plain.’
April shook her head. ‘It’s not like that. I am writing an article on him. That’s all.’
Gabrielle had given her a look of polite disbelief but said nothing as April had continued to look at both dresses.
Then, ‘Perhaps I will try it on. The first one.’
‘Bon! Good!’
Gabrielle had ushered her into the fitting room and minutes later April had stared at her reflection. The same reflection she stared at now. Of a woman she barely recognised. With the emphasis on ‘barely’. The dress was strapless, showing off her shoulders and arms, discreetly tantalising with a hint of cleavage. The nude underlay was covered by a layer of red lace and a bold swathe of red stripes that swept to the floor. The whole concoction magically hinted at sensuality.
What had she been thinking?
She knew the answer to that. In a moment of insanity she had wanted to make absolutely sure that Marcus had eyes for no other woman than her—had wanted to wear a dress that would dazzle him and court his admiration, would summon that dark appreciation and desire to his eyes.
But now caution blew a cold cloud over the idea. Last time she had dressed to dazzle it had been for Dean. But Marcus wasn’t Dean. He might be good-looking—OK, gorgeous—and he might be charismatic, but he wasn’t controlling and he had no interest whatsoever in a trophy date. Not a jot. And yet she had chosen this dress in all its tantalising glory.
Now, as she looked at her reflection, regret began to trickle in. Because whilst the dress lived up to all Gabrielle had promised it was more than the dress. Her eyes sparkled with luminosity and her whole bearing seemed...different. There was no escaping the fact that her hormones had kidnapped her common sense. But only up to a point. Yes, she wanted appreciation, but it would go no further than that.
As she headed from her room, down in the lift and along the corridor to the lobby, anticipation built and scrambled inside her. When she saw Marcus her breath caught in her throat. Forget gorgeous—he looked stratospherically scrumptious. The tuxedo gave him a devil-may-care aura, and the shower-damp hair, the breadth of his shoulders and most of all the fire of approval that lit his dark eyes made her dizzy.
His gaze raked over her, caused heat to flood her veins.
‘You look stunning.’
He took a step closer and her heart hopped, jumped and skipped. Threw in a somersault for good measure.
‘But I knew you would look beautiful in whatever you wore.’
Now her heart cartwheeled, and she didn’t know what to say except a whispered, ‘Thank you. But really it’s the dress...not me.’
Silence fell and she sought to fill it before she threw caution to the wind, grabbed the lapels of his tux, kissed him and dragged him straight upstairs.
No, no, no! Say something. Anything, however idiotic, will do.
‘I’m hoping it will give me confidence. I don’t usually attend events like this—I tend to interview people one on one—very civilised and arranged in advance, in a situation where the interviewees want to talk about themselves. To be honest I’m not very social, so I’m a bit nervous.’