Dressed to Thrill. Bella Frances
Angelica laughed lightly and preened politely, linking her arm in Tara’s and stepping into the party. ‘Michael is putting up with this for me. He doesn’t really like the scene any more. But he does enjoy some of the benefits.’
She flicked her eyes to where he stood, acknowledging his current difficulties with amused acceptance.
‘This is the third party we’ve been to and his ego must be bigger than the bar bills. All these beautiful young girls and so few men for them to flirt with. Well, men who like women, that is.’
Tara scanned her fellow partygoers, nodding her agreement. There was more oestrogen in the room than you could shake a fluffy pink wand at. The legions of gay best friends didn’t quite boost the already depleted testosterone levels. Even the men in the celebrity underclass were over-preened, with their shaped, tinted brows and oily orange complexions. Really, really not a turn-on.
Tara’s men were edgy, dark, beta. And invariably in her past. The last real relationship she’d had, with a sensitive, eyeliner-wearing musician, had been during college. The relationships she had now were with champagne and investors. Oh, and the media. Her biggest flirt of all.
‘I was wondering if you had seen Fernanda, actually.’
Angelica’s tone still had its feather-lightness but Tara could sense a little edge of concern.
‘I thought she was staying home, but maybe she has come here with you?’
Tara looked around. Fern hadn’t been with her for quite some time now. ‘She is here—she went to dance. But if she knows Michael’s here she’ll be hiding out in the toilets. She had a major meltdown earlier. He must have some hold over her.’
Angelica steered them through to the dance floor, smiling as she passed the partygoers and securing them two glasses of champagne from a conveniently placed table.
‘He means well—just worries about her because he is responsible for her. It was never easy for him, being guardian to two orphaned girls.’
She patted her arm as Tara vaguely recalled their back story. Something about him halting his own highly successful model/actor/presenter career when his mum and stepdad were killed in a car crash. Overnight he’d gone from number one Euro party boy to serious, silent and sober. What was it her Irish granny used to say? ‘A young tart an old nun makes.’ Or something like that. Yes, there was no doubt that his condescending aura was just reformist hot air.
‘He thinks everyone in fashion is self-serving and nasty or stupid—because he had such a bad experience when he was younger. You should meet him. Help him put his mind at rest. Oh, and we must have that chat about my dress.’
The very words Tara had been longing to hear. She swallowed her gushing mouthful of thank-yous and smiled coolly. ‘Of course. Any time you like. I won’t be heading to Paris for a week.’
‘Lovely…’ Angelica sounded distracted. She unlinked her arm and squeezed her hand. ‘I think we should go and find Michael. Maybe you can convince him to stay on here while I take Fernanda home. Discreetly.’
She nodded to where Fern, locking lips with her cutie, was swaying in time to some bassy, carnal music. The fact that she didn’t seem to care who saw her grind her hips and lose herself in his mouth kind of screamed that she had kissed goodbye her inhibitions along with several glasses of booze.
Angelica rolled her eyes ever so slightly. ‘He won’t like it if she’s been drinking. He’s so protective of her, and it would save a load of heartache if he never had to know.’
Actually, Tara thought that a hell of a lot more heartache would be saved by telling him where to get off—but each to their own.
She squeezed Angelica’s hand back. ‘I’m on it.’
Helping her friend and getting more into Angelica’s good books made a whole lot of sense, too. The only downside was that it was going to mean actually communicating with the grade A-is-for-ass, macho man. What on earth did they have in common? Spain’s one-time boy idol, all grown-up and gone cerebral. Who only spoke in words of five syllables in the language of the super-successful.
Maybe it would be simpler if she dropped her clutch and twerked for him. It was rumoured that he still spoke that particular language, and maybe then she’d be able to hold his attention long enough for his sisters to get out and away from his overbearing presence.
She had. She’d escaped—or rather, she’d plotted and executed her plan. Walked away when the time was right. And if she could do it any woman could. It was the best thing that had happened to her. Ever. Honestly. When she ruled the world she’d arrange for all the arrogant bullies to be herded together and thrown in a pit. And Michael Cruz would be the perfect trophy for the top.
She stomped along, in the wake of Angelica’s smooth glide, back to where Michael and his guardette of honour were still lending their eye-blinding beauty to the club photographer. She watched a couple of the better-known runway girls strike poses and got the feeling he wasn’t really keen to play any more. But his smile, when he used it, was as dazzling as his sisters’—and, heaven help her, for a moment she could only stare at the masculine beauty of it all.
And then he turned it on Angelica, and warmth crept over his face. So he had a heart?
He eased himself away from one photo op right into another as he greeted his sister. Then he distanced himself from all the white noise as he guided her—only her—with a proprietorial hand on the small of her back, to the bar. Was he being a deliberate jerk or did he truly not know that Tara was behind them?
She could really take it or leave it. This whole, keeping up with the Cruzes, thing. It was taking her well away from where she wanted to be. There were some very interesting new faces and Mr Arrogant had diss’d her twice already—three times if you counted the show today.
She was just about to let them all get on with it when she saw him turn round. Not fully round, but grudgingly, and then, as if he was giving alms to the poor, he gestured that she should catch up with them.
If there was a DEFCON higher than one she might just have reached it. Who the hell did he think he was? Did every female he met just fall at his feet, or—worse—into line? Not this one. He might look like the man of everyone else’s dreams, but he was her personal idea of a nightmare come to life.
‘Tara. I don’t think we’ve properly met.’
He didn’t think they’d properly met? Really?
She could just see Angelica’s dazzling smile through the haze of red that had fallen around her. Play it cool, play it cool. Don’t give him the control. Don’t make a fool of yourself.
She lifted the glass she was almost crushing in her hand and took a long sip.
He gave a little indulgent, half-cocked smile and then walked towards her slowly, hand extended. ‘I’m Michael—Angelica’s brother. And Fernanda’s. Pleased to meet you.’
Oh, he was good. But she was better. She paused, set her drink with very deliberate care on little elbow-height table closest to her, and turned back to face him.
‘Yes, I’m sure you are. You were at my show today.’ Just in case he thought he would try to gloss over his rudeness. ‘You didn’t really seem to get it. Fashion not your thing?’
Well, he probably didn’t have a lot of women launching conversations with insults, so that might explain his slight double-take. But he covered it well and took her hand. A very warm, very appropriate handshake. No crushing, just firm and male. Very, very male.
His eyes bored right into hers. Combative. He let go of her hand. ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’ve sat through quite a number of runway shows this week. Wouldn’t say it’s been the best use of my time, but…it filled a few hours.’
‘And created a few million for our economy,’ Tara added, sweet as the pie she’d like to throw in his face.