The Virgin's Shock Baby. Heidi RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.
him, her light breathy laughter making every pulse in his body stand on high alert.
She was not what he had expected.
He had known, of course, the second that Lloyd Whittaker had approached him in the club yesterday morning and asked him to escort his daughter to the ball, that the request was part of the man’s last-ditch attempt to save his company. The fool had finally realised who was buying up his stock and had probably thought throwing his daughter at Dario would soften the blow. It wouldn’t be the first time a business rival had believed that he could manipulate Dario through his enjoyment of the opposite sex—or believed the garbage written about his love life in the tabloids. Giselle’s recent hissy fit in The Post hadn’t helped in that regard.
It also certainly wouldn’t be the first time a powerful man had used and degraded a woman he was supposed to love and protect.
The brutal flash of memory had his gut twisting sharply. He took a sip from the bottle of Italian lager the hosts had imported especially for him and waited for the sensation to pass, while he watched Megan Whittaker make her way towards him.
She took the most circuitous route through the crowd, he noted, stopping to talk to a series of her father’s acquaintances, every one of whom, Dario observed as his fist plunged into the pocket of his trousers, seemed to think it was okay to look down her cleavage.
The dress—plunging low enough at the neckline to leave not nearly enough to the imagination—had made his heart slam into his throat and dried up every molecule of saliva in his mouth when she’d walked down the hallway of her apartment. And quite literally taken his breath away when she’d eased onto the seat of the limousine and revealed a mile of toned, tanned thigh. Which had to be an optical illusion, because the woman, despite all those impressive curves, didn’t even reach to his collarbone in her ice-pick heels.
He downed the last of the beer, and dumped the empty bottle on a passing waiter’s tray, deciding that he’d let Megan off the leash long enough.
He’d only agreed to this date out of curiosity. Because he was bored. He’d wanted to see what foolishness Whittaker had planned—especially as he had remembered the daughter from a tedious event a month ago that he’d attended with Giselle. Strangely he had remembered her eyes, that deep intense green had captivated him, but only for a moment, before she’d ducked her head. She’d avoided him for the rest of the evening. So he’d found it amusing that Whittaker had decided to push her into his path tonight. To do what exactly? Seduce him into releasing his stranglehold on a company her old man had been running into the ground for years?
The idea was so preposterous he had been convinced it couldn’t actually be true. That such an apparently inexperienced girl should be used for such a purpose seemed beyond even Whittaker’s ability to mismanage the situation. But he’d decided to play the scenario out, mostly for his own entertainment. He’d had no date for the ball, Megan Whittaker had already intrigued him, and he would enjoy proving that he was not the barbarian her father obviously assumed him to be. He was perfectly capable of resisting the charms of any woman—even if he hadn’t had one in his bed for over a month.
But then his date had surprised him. Stunned him even. And he didn’t like to be surprised, much less stunned. She was nervous, yes, and had an artlessness about her, which might have been why he had considered her so inexperienced a month ago, but beneath that was an awareness, a physical response to him that was so intense and unguarded it had done a great deal more than simply captivate or intrigue him.
He didn’t like it. He hadn’t expected to want her. Or certainly not this much.
But now he had to decide what to do about it.
If Whittaker had sent her on some cock-eyed mission to seduce him, he wasn’t about to take advantage of that. But on the other hand, if her response to him was genuine, why shouldn’t they enjoy each other for an evening? She couldn’t possibly be that inexperienced. She was twenty-four, well-travelled, and she’d dated at university in the UK, according to the background check he’d had done by his friend Jared Caine, the owner of Caine Securities. And he’d felt the way she’d stretched against the palm he’d rested on the slope of her back as they’d left her apartment—like a cat desperate to be stroked.
She wasn’t an accomplished flirt, but her instinctive response to a simple touch suggested a rare chemistry. What if she was as wild and vibrant as that russet-coloured hair if he got her into bed?
He hadn’t had such a basic reaction to a woman in years, maybe never. He liked sex, he was good at it, but something about Megan had sunk claws into his gut, tearing at his self-control, which he was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore.
He’d sensed her nervousness in the car, so he’d backed off when they’d arrived at the ball, deciding to observe her, and give himself time to figure out what exactly he was supposed to do about the driving need inside him.
But that had obviously been a mistake, because all it was doing was frustrating him more. Truth was, he hadn’t expected the avoidance tactics, but as he watched her pause to strike up a conversation with Garson Charters, the senile old judge who seemed to be as fixated on his date’s cleavage as every other man in the place, Dario knew that was exactly what her frequent trips to the powder room were about. She was wary of him, not all that surprising if her father had told her to come on to him.
The conniving old bastard probably expected her to wheedle information out of him about their business dealings.
So now he had two choices: he could escort her home, or play with the fire between them regardless of her father’s ulterior motives. Whatever happened, though, backing off wasn’t an option, because it went against every one of his natural—and a few unnatural—instincts.
He heard the string orchestra in the adjoining ballroom start up a waltz as he marched through the throng of guests sipping champagne and whispering loudly, and made a beeline for his date.
Her head popped up as he approached, almost as if she had a radar ready to alert her to his presence at a ten-metre radius. Her gaze locked on his for a millisecond and then flicked away, but not before he saw the jolt of awareness cross her features.
Her hunger was as real as his.
She said something to the elderly judge, who still had his beady eyes focused on her cleavage, then began to edge past the guy, heading back towards the bathroom.
No way, not this time.
He caught up with her in a few strides and hooked her wrist, drawing her to a halt. ‘Not so fast, cara. Where are you going?’
The colour in her cheeks deepened, her eyes widening like those of a startled deer. The smoky perfection of her make-up and the hint of glitter on her eyelids did nothing to mask the unguarded sparkle of awareness in the emerald-green gaze.
‘Hi, Dario,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I think I left something in the restroom.’
‘What did you leave in the restroom?’
She scraped her teeth over her full bottom lip, for less than a second, but it sent a shot of heat straight to his crotch.
‘Um...my...’ She paused, obviously casting around for something.
Unlike her father, she wasn’t an accomplished liar.
He stowed the thought. She might be Whittaker’s daughter, but he’d seen little evidence this evening of any deviousness on Megan’s part. She couldn’t even seem to flirt with any degree of sophistication—her desire for him as blatant as her nerves whenever he got within a few feet of her. He could feel the slight tremors in her arm and the pounding beat of her pulse beneath the fingers he had on her wrist.
‘Whatever it is, it will be fine in the restroom until after this dance,’ he said, linking his fingers with hers as he made his way towards the dance floor in the adjacent ballroom.
She followed behind him as they weaved their way through the crowd, her reluctance palpable. Almost as palpable as the quiver of reaction in her fingers. He clasped