Bound By Their Scandalous Baby. Heidi Rice
kaleidoscope of flashing lights and sound whirling past her in giddying circles. Her skin stretched tight over her bones, and her breasts swelled in the too-tight bodice of the gown she’d found in a thrift store in the East Village the day before—so she could gatecrash this event and meet this man who might well be her nephew’s only hope. She’d already known Lukas Blackstone was a bastard, after the way he’d treated Darcy four years ago. Even so, she’d been prepared to beg him for his help, for his attention—but she hadn’t expected this.
The possessive press of one large hand scalded the base of her spine, her senses overwhelmed by the irresistible fragrance of juniper and pine from his cologne and his own musky scent.
She felt trapped, controlled, completely at his mercy. She’d never danced a waltz before in her life, but his confident, fluid steps made it impossible for her to stumble, her feet barely touching the ground.
The music built to a crescendo, her breathing becoming ragged, and her exhausted mind seemed no longer capable of engaging with anything but the sight and sound of him. The moonlight made it feel as if she were being propelled in a dream—a terrifyingly erotic dream—her body becoming one throbbing, pulsating bundle of nerve-endings. Through the maelstrom of conflicting emotions, her mind clung desperately to one coherent thought.
She hated this man, for everything he was and everything he stood for, and for everything he had done to Darcy and had tried to do to Nico. Four years ago, he’d attempted to bribe her sister into aborting his brother’s child.
But why then did she feel so alive in his arms? It was as if a veil had been ripped away to expose her, naked and yearning, the minute he had marched towards her and dragged her into his embrace.
Why did her body revel in his punishing hold? Why did she feel this desperate compulsion to rub against the unyielding lines of his powerful physique? Why did her lungs want to pull in greedy breaths of that intoxicating scent?
After what felt like an eternity, but could only have been a few minutes, the glide of violin and cello, the flutter of piccolo and flute faded into silence and they came to an abrupt standstill.
She could hear her own rapid breathing as her body hummed with a thousand tiny pinpricks of agonised sensation. Abruptly he let her go. She stumbled and his hand clamped around her upper arm.
Applause erupted around them. She heard his vicious curse, then suddenly she was in his arms again. But this time his lips were on hers, his tongue demanding entry. She opened for him instinctively, her gasp cut off as his tongue swept inside.
Strong fingers plunged into her hair, the stinging in her scalp as the pins scattered nothing compared to the brutal blaze of sensation firing up from her core.
Overcome, overwhelmed, she was unable to control her desperate, wanton response to the kiss. Part of her mind knew this was a punishment—she could feel his contempt, taste his disgust—but as he held her head and pillaged her mouth she was powerless to resist the heat firing through every one of those newly awakened nerve-endings.
She felt dazed, giddy with pleasure, as the darkness began to lift. But then he thrust her away from him. The applause had died, to be replaced with hissed whispers, taut silence.
She got her first proper look at the face that had haunted her for over three years. But he looked nothing like the pictures she’d seen of his brother. His identical twin. His dark onyx eyes glittered with heat and contempt. The scar that ran in an arc down the left side of his face mesmerised her for one crucial second—she had read he’d acquired the disfiguring injury in a childhood accident—but the wound which had marred the perfect symmetry of his features had turned what should have been a classically handsome face into something brooding and intense and a million times more compelling.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, which felt tender from the pressure of his kiss, and watched as if in a trance as his sensual lips moved.
‘I see you’re still the same little whore who seduced my brother,’ he said, his voice so low she almost couldn’t hear it above the rumble of speculation from the crowd.
The words exploded in her head, shattering the moment of stunned arousal, as he clicked his fingers above his head, signalling the security guards she’d been dodging all evening.
Fear and anger, and disgust—with herself as much as him—combined in the pit of her stomach and her fist shot out.
The thud of the punch sounded like canon fire. She heard the muscles in his neck pop as his head snapped back—and pain exploded in her knuckles.
‘Your brother was the whore,’ she shouted. ‘Not Darcy.’
Hard hands grabbed her from behind. She struggled against the security guard’s hold.
‘Get her out of here and hand her over to the police,’ Blackstone said as he tested his jaw.
Her hand throbbed but he looked barely fazed by the punch as he flicked a contemptuous glance down her body, then turned and walked away.
‘Wait, wait!’ she shouted as the guard hefted her backwards, the crowd in an uproar. But Blackstone didn’t even glance back.
Nico. What have I done?
Horror at her impulsiveness fired through her.
She’d spent the last of her savings, and precious days, trying to contact this man. Had used every last ounce of the ingenuity and bravery she possessed to set up this one chance to meet him. And now she’d blown it in a matter of minutes because of one insane dance and a mind-blowing kiss.
The despair that had dogged her for weeks—months—ever since her nephew had been diagnosed with a rare form of blood cancer threatened to descend, as the security guard kept a tight arm around her midriff.
She was going to be arrested, kicked out of the US, possibly even remanded in custody. Lukas Blackstone would take out a restraining order against her and Nico would have no one. And no chance.
Mustering the last of her strength, she kicked hard against the security guard’s shin. He dumped her on the ground with a muffled curse. Scrambling up, she raced through the phalanx of photographers after Blackstone, who was heading back towards the stairs he had come down, clearly intending to leave the dance floor as abruptly as he had arrived.
She grabbed his sleeve, tugged as hard as she could, her knuckles still stinging from connecting with a jaw harder than granite. He jerked round, the livid red mark on his chin taunting her.
‘I’m not Darcy. I’m her sister. Darcy’s dead—she died three years ago. But I have to speak to you about her son. Nico is Alexei’s son too. I... Oof.’
The hard arm of the security guard locked round her tummy again, with bruising force this time, but as she was hauled back, Blackstone raised his hand. ‘Put her down.’
She was dropped to her feet. She staggered and would have fallen, but for the iron grip as his hand snagged her upper arm.
‘What did you say?’ Blackstone demanded.
* * *
She’s lying.
Lukas fought to regain his cast-iron control. And locate the cold hard logic he relied on which had deserted him the minute he’d set eyes on the woman. But as he held the girl’s slender arm, watched her pulse batter her collarbone and studied her heart-shaped face, seeing the anguish and defiance in her vivid emerald eyes, the sprinkle of freckles across her nose, the full lips reddened by his angry kiss—one realisation blindsided him.
This girl was not the woman who had disturbed his brother’s mind with her insidious lies four years ago. The shape of her face was different; she was slightly shorter—and she had none of Darcy O’Hara’s guile.
Strangely, the knowledge quelled at least a little of his fury.
He would have hated himself if he had responded to Darcy in that way. If she were really dead, he certainly felt no regret. But then he registered