Billionaire's Mediterranean Proposal. Julia James
the catwalk, focussing instead on his phone. So now, as his eyes caught the figure of the model closest to where they stood, he felt his gaze riveted.
Tall, ultra-slender—yes. But then all the models were like that. None like this one, though, with rich chestnut hair glinting auburn, loosely pinned into an uplift that exposed a face he simply could not take his eyes from.
The perfect profile—and then, as she turned to change direction, he saw a strikingly beautiful face with sculpted cheekbones, magnificent eyes shot with sea-green, and a wide, lush mouth that was, at this moment, tight-set. The expression on her amazing face was professionally blank, but as his eyes focussed on her he felt his male antennae react instinctively—and on every frequency. She was quite incredible.
Without conscious volition he raised his free hand, summoning her over. For a second he thought she had not seen his gesture, for she was moving as if to keep stalking around as the rest of the models were doing. Then, tensing, she strode towards him. He could not take his eyes from her…
The thoughts in his head were flashing wildly. OK, so she was a model—and that put her out of reach from the off, because models were nearly always not from the kind of privileged background he insisted that any woman he showed interest in be from. But this one…
Whatever she had—and he was still analysing it, with his male antennae registering her on every frequency—it was making it dangerously hard for him to remember the rules of engagement he lived by.
As she approached, the impact she was making on him strengthened like a magnet drawing tempered steel. Dieu, but she was stunning! And now she was standing in front of him, a bare metre or so away.
He scrutinised her shamelessly, taking in her breathtaking beauty. And then he caught a flash in her eyes—as if she resented his scrutiny.
His own eyes narrowed reactively—what was her problem? She was a model; she was being paid to be looked at in the clothes she was wearing. OK, so in fact she might have been wearing a sack, for all he cared—it was her amazing beauty that was drawing his attention, not her gown.
But, abruptly, he veiled his appreciative scrutiny. It didn’t matter how stunningly beautiful she was. He had not summoned her for any reason other than the one he gave voice to now. The only reason he would show any interest in her.
‘So, what about this one?’
He turned to Celine. The sooner he could get the wretched woman to spend Hans’s money on a gown—any gown!—the sooner he would be able to get her back to her hotel and finally be done with her for the evening.
His eyes went back to the model. The number she was wearing was purple—a kind of dark grape—in raw silk, draped over her slight breasts, slithering down her slender body. Again Marc felt that unstoppable reaction to her spectacular beauty. Again he did his best to stop it—and again he failed.
‘Hmm…’ said Celine doubtfully. ‘The colour is too sombre for me, Marc. No.’ She waved the model away, dismissing her.
But Marc stayed her. ‘Please turn around,’ he instructed. The gown was a masterpiece—as was she—and he wanted to see what she looked like from the back.
The flash in those blue-green eyes came again, and again Marc wondered at it as she executed a single revolution, revealing how the gown was almost backless, exposing the sculpted contours of her spine, the superb sheen of her pale skin. And as she came back to face them he saw an expression of what could only be hostility.
What is it with her? he found himself thinking. Annoyance flickered through him. Why that reaction? It wasn’t one he was used to when he paid attention to a woman—in his long experience women wanted to draw his attention to them! His problem was keeping women away from him, and without vanity he knew that it was not only his wealth that lured them. Nature had bestowed upon him gifts that money could not buy—a six-foot-plus frame, and looks that usually had a powerful impact on women.
But not on this one, it seemed, and he felt that flicker of annoyance again as his gaze rested on her professionally blank face once more.
For a second—a fraction of a second—he thought he saw something behind that professional blankness. Something that was not that hostile flash either…
But then it was gone, and Celine was saying pettishly, ‘Marc, cherie, I really don’t like it.’
She waved the model away again, and she strode off with quickened stride, her body stiff. Marc’s eyes followed her, unwilling to lose her in the throng which swallowed her up.
A pity she was a model…
For all her amazing looks, which were capable of piercing the black mood possessing him at having been landed with Hans’s wretched adultery-minded wife, the stunning, flashing-eyed beauty was not someone, he knew perfectly well, he should allow himself to pursue…
She isn’t from my world—let her go.
But a single word echoed in his head, all the same. Domage…
A pity…
* * *
Tara wheeled away, gaining the far side of the room as fast as she could. Her heart-rate was up and she knew why. Oh, she knew why!
She shut her eyes, wanting to blank the room. To blank the oh-so-conflicting reactions battling inside her head right now. She could feel them still, behind her closed eyes, slashing away at each other, fighting for supremacy.
Two overpowering emotions.
Impossible to tell which was uppermost!
The first—that instinctive, breath-catching one—had come the moment she’d seen that man looking at her…seen him for the first time. She certainly hadn’t seen him at the fashion show, but then she never looked at the audience when she was on the catwalk. If she had—oh, she’d have remembered him all right…
No man had ever impacted on her as powerfully—as instantly. Talk about tall, dark and devastating! Sable-hair, cut short, a hard, tough-looking face with a blade of a nose, a strong jaw, a mouth set in a tight line. And eyes that could strip paint.
Or that could rest on her with a look in them that told her that he liked what he was seeing…
She felt a kind of electricity flicker through her and her expression darkened abruptly. The complete opposite emotion was scything through her head, cutting off the electricity.
Liked it so much he just saw fit to click his fingers and summon me over so he could inspect me!
She fought for reason. OK, so he hadn’t actually clicked his fingers—but that imperious beckoning of his had been just as bad! Just as bad as the way he’d so blatantly looked her over…
And it wasn’t the damn gown he was interested in.
That opposite emotion, with a jacking up of its voltage, shot through her again. As if she was once again feeling the impact of that dark, assessing inspection…
She threw the switch once more. No—stop this, right now! she told herself. So what if he’d put her back up? Why should she care? That over-made-up blonde he’d been with had treated her just as offhandedly, waving her away. So why get uptight about the man doing so?
And so what, she added for good measure, that she’d had that ridiculously OTT reaction to the man’s physical impact on her? He and Blondie came from a world she wasn’t part of and only ever saw from the outside—like at this private fashion show. Speaking of which…
She gave herself a mental shake, opened her eyes and continued with her blank-faced perambulations, showing off a gown she could never in all her life afford herself. She was here to work, to earn money, and she’d better get on with it.
Oh, and if she could to stay on this far side of the room… Well away from the source of those emotions in her head.
*