Billionaire's Mediterranean Proposal. Julia James
had put her back up!
As now he was doing all over again—and worse. Because she did not want to feel that kick of high voltage again, that unwelcome quickening of her pulse as her eyes focussed, however determinedly she tried to resist, on that planed hard face and the dark eyes that were like cut obsidian.
The sense of what he’d just said belatedly reached her brain, as insulting as it was offensive.
She started to open her mouth, to skewer him with her reply—no way was she going to tolerate such an approach, whoever the hell this man was!—but he was speaking again. An irritated expression flashed across his face.
‘Do not,’ she heard him say, and there was a distinct tinge of boredom in his voice, as well as curt irritation, ‘jump to the tediously predictable assumption you are clearly about to make. All I require is this. That you accompany myself and my guest back to her hotel, where—’ he held up a silencing hand as Tara’s mind raced ahead to envisage unspeakable debaucheries ‘—she will get out and you will stay in the car with me and then return here.’
The words were clipped from him, and then his eyes were going past her towards one of the fashion designer’s hovering aides. He summoned him over with the same imperious gesture he’d used to draw her over to show off the gown she was wearing.
The man came scuttling forward. ‘Monsieur Derenz, is there anything you require?’ he asked eagerly.
Tara heard the obsequiousness in the man’s voice and deplored it. The last thing rich guys like this one needed—let alone those with the kind of tough-looking face that he had, who expected everyone to jump at their bidding—was anyone kow-towing to them. It only encouraged them.
‘Yes,’ came the curt reply. ‘I’d like to borrow your model for a very temporary engagement. I require a chaperone for my guest, Mrs Neuberger, as I escort her to her hotel. Your model will be away for no more than half an hour. Obviously I’ll pay you for her time and take full financial liability for her gown. I take it there’ll be no problem?’
The last was not a question—it was a statement. The aide nodded immediately. ‘Of course, Monsieur Derenz.’ His eyes snapped to Tara. ‘Well? Don’t just stand there! Monsieur Derenz is waiting!’
And that was that.
Fulminating, Tara knew she didn’t have a choice. She needed the money. If she kicked off and refused then her agency would be told, and as this particular fashion designer was highly influential, there would be no hope that her objection to being shanghaied in this manner would be upheld.
All the same, she glared at the man shanghaiing her as the aide scuttled off again. ‘What is this?’ she demanded.
The man—this Monsieur Derenz, whoever he was, she thought tautly—looked at her impatiently. She’d never heard of him, and all the name did was confirm that he was not British—a deduction that went not just with his name and slight accent, but also with the air of Continental style that added something to his stance, and to the way he wore the clearly hand-made tuxedo that moulded his powerful frame in ways she knew she must not pay any attention to…
‘You heard me—my guest needs a chaperone. And so do I!’
Tara could see his irritation deepen as he spoke.
‘I want you to behave as if you know me. As if—’ his mouth set ‘—we are having an affair.’
This time Tara did explode. ‘What?’
That dark flash of impatient irritation seared across his face again. ‘Cool it,’ he said tersely. ‘I merely need my guest to be…disabused…of any expectations she may have of me.’
‘She’d be welcome to you!’ Tara muttered, hardly bothering to be inaudible.
How had she managed to get inveigled into this? Then something pinged back into her mind.
‘Did you say five hundred pounds?’ she demanded. No way was she going to come out of this empty-handed—not for putting up with this man commandeering her like this.
‘Yes,’ came the indifferent reply. ‘Providing you don’t waste any more of my time than this is already taking.’
Without waiting, he helped himself to her arm and started to walk back with her across the room, to where Tara could see the blonde woman who, apparently, had the idiotic idea that this man being tall, dark, handsome—and presumably, judging by how obsequious the aide had been, very rich—in any way compensated for his high-handed behaviour and peremptory manner.
As he walked her towards the unwanted blonde he bent his head to her. ‘We have been together only a short while…you are reluctant to leave your work early, being highly conscientious—and if you pull away from me like that one more time your money is halved. Do you understand me?’
There was a grim note in his voice that put Tara’s back up even more. But he was still talking.
‘Now, tell me your name.’
It was another of those orders he clearly liked giving.
‘Tara,’ she said tightly. ‘Tara Mackenzie. And I need to get my bag and coat first—’
‘Unnecessary.’ He cut her off. ‘You’ll be back here soon enough.’
They had reached the blonde, who was looking, Tara could see, like curdled milk at their approach.
‘Ah, Celine—this is Tara. Tara—Frau Neuberger.’
His voice was more fulsome, and there might well be relief in it, Tara thought.
‘Tara’s been given the all-clear to leave early, so we can drop you off at your hotel. Alors, allons-y.’
He cupped a hand around Celine’s elbow and drew them both forward simultaneously, his guiding grip allowing no delay. Moments later they were on the pavement outside the hotel, and Tara found herself stepping into a swish chauffeured limo. She settled herself carefully, mindful of her horrendously expensive gown, arranging the skirts so they did not crush.
The man she was supposed to be giving the impression that she was having an affair with—however absurd!—sat himself down heavily between her and the blonde—who, Tara was acidly amused to see, was faffing about with her seatbelt in order to get the man she wanted to make some form of body contact and fasten it for her. Sadly for her, it seemed he did not return the desire.
‘Marc, cherie, thank you!’ Tara heard the woman gush.
OK, Tara connected, Marc Derenz. She still had no idea who he might be, but then so many of the richest of the rich were completely unknown to the wider world. To the plebs in it like herself. Well, what did it matter who he was? Nor did it matter that he seemed to possess the kind of physical appeal that was so annoyingly able to compete with her resistance to his peremptory and quite frankly dislikeable personality.
She glanced at him now, as the car moved off into the London evening traffic. His profile was just as tough-looking as his face—and the clear set of his jaw indicated that his mood had not improved in the slightest. She heard him make some terse reply in German to the blonde at his side, and then suddenly he was turning to Tara.
Something flickered in his eyes. Something that made Tara’s insides go gulp even though she didn’t want them to. Suddenly, out of nowhere, she felt the close physical proximity of this man—felt, of all things, that it wasn’t Blondie who needed a chaperone, it was her…
That flicker in those dark, dark eyes came again. And this time it was more than just a flicker. It was a glint. A glint that went with the set of that tough jawline.
‘Tara, mon ange—your seatbelt…’
His voice was a low murmur, nothing like as brusque as it had been when he’d spoken to Blondie, and there was only one word for its tone.
Intimate…