Forgotten Mistress, Secret Love-Child. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.
familiar pain stabbed her chest.
No! Not now. She refused to let her wayward imagination distract her. People depended on her. She had a job to do.
From across the packed room he watched her.
His fingers curled, white-knuckled, around the back of a nearby chair. Blood roared in his ears as his heart thundered out of control. The shock of recognition was so strong he shut his eyes for an instant and lightning flickered across the darkness of his closed lids.
Opening them, he saw her turn to the wall phone, her movements jerky.
It was her. Not just the woman from the brochure, but more, the woman he remembered. Correction—almost remembered.
An image teased his mind. An image of her walking away from him. Her back rigid, her steps staccato bites that ate up the ground as if she couldn’t get away fast enough. Bites that echoed the rapid pulse of his drumming heart as he stood rooted to the spot. She carried a case, the taxi driver ahead of her stowing another bag in his vehicle.
Finally she paused. Alessandro’s heart stopped and rose in his throat. But she didn’t turn around. A moment later she was in the car as it accelerated in a spurt of gravel and swooped away down the private road from his Lake Como home.
Still he stood, prey to an alien mix of sensations. Fury, relief, disappointment, disbelief.
And hurt! Pain filled the yawning chasm inside him.
Only once before in his entire life had Alessandro felt so intensely. At five, when his mother had deserted him for a life of pampered luxury with her lover.
He stirred and shook his head, banishing the misty image, belatedly aware again of the crowded ballroom.
Yet the powerful brew of emotions still stirred in his breast.
Maddona mia! No wonder he felt vulnerable. Such feelings…
Who was this woman to awake such responses in him?
Anger mingled with impatience. That mere chance had led him here. That he could so easily have missed this opportunity to learn more.
Deliberately he flexed his fingers and let go of the chair back, feeling at last the deep imprint of curved wood score his palm.
The wait was over.
He would have his answers now. Tonight.
Surreptitiously Carys slid a foot from her shoe and wriggled her toes. Soon the ball would be over. Then she could oversee the clearing away and setting up for the next day’s fashion show.
She suppressed a rising yawn. Every bone in her body ached, and she wanted nothing more than to flop into bed.
She skirted the dance floor. She’d just check on—
A hand, large, warm and insistent took hers, pulling her to a halt. Quickly she summoned a serene expression, ready to deal with the guest who’d overstepped the boundaries by touching her. She hoped he wasn’t intoxicated.
Carys had just pinned a small professional smile on her face when a tug of her hand made her turn.
The carefully crafted smile slid away.
For an instant Carys’ heart stopped beating as she looked up at the man before her.
Unlike most of the revellers, he still wore his mask. His dark hair was cut brutally short, sculpting a beautifully shaped head. The mask shadowed his eyes, but she caught a gleam of dark fire. His mouth was a grim slash above a strong, firm chin.
Her eyes widened, staring at that chin. It couldn’t be…
Then he moved and she caught the faint tang of an unfamiliar cologne. Her heart dived.
Of course it wasn’t him!
A scar snaked up his brow from the edge of the mask. The man she’d known had been as devastatingly handsome as a young god. No scars. His complexion had been golden too, olive, gilded by hours in the sun, not as pale as this stranger’s.
And yet…
And yet she stupidly wished in that moment it was him. Against all logic and the need to protect herself, how badly she wanted it to be so.
Carys drew herself up straighter, fumbling for poise while her nerves screamed with disappointment.
He was tall, far taller than she, even though she wore heels. Surely as tall as…No! She wasn’t going there. Wasn’t playing that pathetic game any more.
‘Can I help you?’ The words emerged huskily, more like an intimate invitation than a cool query.
Silently she cursed the way he’d thrown her off balance just by reminding her of a time, and a man, best forgotten.
‘I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.’ She rushed into speech again, needing to rein in wayward thoughts. Her words were clipped, though she was careful not to reveal her annoyance. If she could extricate herself without a fuss, she would.
Carys tugged her hand but his grip firmed and he drew her forward. She stumbled, surprised by his implacable hold.
Tilting her head up, she looked him in the eye. She expected him to comment on the food or the music, or demand assistance in some way.
Instead his silence unnerved her.
Her skin grew tight as the illusion grew that they stood alone, cut off from the others.
Around them conversation buzzed, music swirled, and a tinkle of feminine laughter sounded. But the man in the perfectly cut dinner jacket, with the perfectly cut jaw, said nothing. Just held her.
Heat flared under her skin as again instinct shouted a warning to beware.
His hold shifted and his thumb slid over the sensitive place between her thumb and forefinger. A spike of heat transfixed her. Her eyes widened as a tremor echoed through the secret recesses of her body.
‘You need to let me go.’ She lifted her chin higher, wishing she could see his eyes properly.
He inclined his head, and the breath she hadn’t known she held whooshed out. See? He probably just wanted something mundane like another bottle of wine for his table.
She opened her mouth to enquire when someone bumped her, propelling her towards the hard male torso before her.
Carys heard a muffled apology but barely noticed.
Large hands grasped her upper arms. In front of her stretched an expanse of exquisitely tailored elegance, that ultra-masculine chin with just the hint of a cleft and a pair of shoulders to make any woman sit up and take notice.
Shoulders just like…
Carys bit her lip. This had to end.
This was a stranger. So he had shoulders to die for and a jaw that seemed achingly familiar. The gold signet ring on his finger was one she’d never seen. And, despite the similar height, he was leaner than the man she’d known.
Another couple buffeted her, talking volubly as they passed. Suddenly she found herself plastered against a hard body that seemed all heat and raw strength. Her senses whirled in a giddy riot.
She imagined she could feel each muscle of his body against hers. Beneath the expensive cologne an elusive undertone of warm male skin tickled her nostrils and she inhaled sharply. He was too familiar, like a phantom from one of the endless dreams that haunted her.
His odd silence intensified her sense of unreality.
Then his hold shifted. A hand slid down her back, poised almost possessively just above her bottom, long fingers spread. Heat roared in the pit of her belly. The heat of desire. A sensation she hadn’t felt, it seemed, in a lifetime.
Her body responded to the ultra-masculine allure of his, softening, trembling—
‘I need to go.’ Carys jerked her head back from the muscled