Naughty Or Nice / A Sinful Little Christmas. Rachael Stewart
give my head a small shake, the loose curls from my updo brushing against the prickled skin of my nape. It loosens up my thoughts, the tension.
‘Why don’t you make sure Mum doesn’t flip at his presence?’ I say, and with another sip of champagne I start to make my way towards him, praying he doesn’t spy me before I’m prepared.
But already his head is turning, as if he senses my approach, and then his eyes are locked on mine and I can feel a startling rush through my system. It doesn’t matter that I’m used to the sight of him on the TV, in the tabloids—that same old zing is in my belly, that heat that only his physical presence has ever instilled creeping into my cheeks.
I want to look away, but I won’t give him that. I am stronger now, wiser, and the better for it. And so I enjoy him, my eyes sweeping over every inch of him. His black hair, long on top. His prominent brow arching over heavy-lashed eyes that narrow on me, dark and intense. I ignore the hiccup to my pulse and cut lower, to his wide, angular jaw with its intentional stubble.
I avoid his mouth entirely.
I don’t need the memory of its brief contact all those years ago. I really don’t.
I move my eyes lower, to the broad set of his shoulders—wider than I recall. Imposing. I don’t dwell on the muscle behind that. Instead I focus on the designer cut of his deep grey suit, the white shirt and his defiantly skinny black tie.
My lips lift at the edges, I can’t help it. Always the rebel…
I lift my eyes back to his and they flicker. There’s something there. I just don’t know what. Unease?
Maybe.
Like hell.
He owns the room. His presence commands attention even when he’s not looking for it. Just like he’s commanding my own, against my will.
A waiter passes between us and he reaches out for a glass, but not once does his gaze release me, and I can feel myself being drawn in like the besotted eighteen-year-old I once was.
Careful, Eva.
‘Lucas…’
I draw his name out, feel it fall softly from my lips, and I see his eyes flit to them. I know they’re red and glossy. The perfect match for my dress and the countrywide festivities, and I imagine him looking hungrily over them now.
If only…
‘I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to see you.’
I’m proud of the steadiness in my voice, its hard edge—it’s what he deserves for what he did to me ten years ago and for the last five, too, if my family are right… In this second I’m not sure which I want to hurt him more for.
Yes, you do…liar.
He watches me with that intense stare that I can’t even begin to read and raises his glass to his lips. Too late I’m looking, remembering, and my betraying tongue sweeps over my own lips…
‘It’s rude to stare.’
My eyes leap and I curse his very presence, his very effect over me. But there’s a tightness to his voice, a flare to his eyes that he cannot hide, and I know he’s not immune to me—not any more. It gives me power and I feed on it.
‘It’s rude to attend a party without an invitation.’
He smiles, the movement small and soft—and, dammit, my insides quiver.
‘I’m used to being welcomed with open arms. Invited or not.’
I raise my brow, the idea of being close enough to embrace him not helping my focus.
It’s a figure of speech, idiot.
I cock my head, masking my unease. ‘Once upon a time that may have been true, but not here, not now, and not with me.’
‘Not with you, or not with your family, Evangeline?’
If I could melt to the floor I would. No one calls me Evangeline—no one. Unless they’re my parents. I am Eva—strong, dependable, Eva. A woman who has proved her worth a hundred times over.
But when he says it, the way he says it, it’s not like Mum and Dad do it. It doesn’t make me feel like a girl, weak and vulnerable. I feel empowered, worthy of so much, catapulted onto a pedestal and ready to be worshipped.
By him. At my feet.
Oh, yes.
I swallow, the bolt through my body jolting me straight.
It scares me. He scares me. And I know I need him gone—that no matter what I said to Dad I don’t dare to entertain him for longer than is necessary.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘No,’ I blurt.
‘So?’
I can see a pulse working in his jaw, and his eyes are intense as they watch and wait for my response.
‘Is it you or your family telling me I’m not welcome, Evangeline?’
‘Both.’ I say it and immediately regret it. It’s too personal, too unprofessional, but I can’t think clearly. Not with him so close.
‘Is that your way of asking me to leave?’
I sense nearby heads turning, ears tuning in.
Careful, Eva…
I’m losing myself in the fierce glint of her blue gaze, almost daring her to throw me out. There’s something about the fight in her that I want to provoke.
It’s so much easier than dealing with all the shit buried ten years deep.
‘No, Lucas, I’m not asking you to leave.’
She wets her lips. Again. And the red shines ever deeper, the carnal colour driving a string of sinful thoughts—none of which have a place in this room, with this audience.
Or fit with the reason you’re here.
It’s about business.
Not her.
Not…
A pulse flutters in her throat and she raises her hand, her red-tipped fingers circling over the delicate ripple. Christ, I want to do that—be the person with his fingers over that creamy skin.
I tighten my hold on the stem of the glass, slipping my other hand inside my pocket. Out of trouble.
‘Good.’ I tear my eyes away, looking towards the grand Christmas tree and the big screen that stands proud alongside it, streaming highlights of the product I’m here to secure. ‘Because I think we have a future together…in business.’
I suck the inside of my cheek.
In business? What the actual fuck? Do you want to make it any more obvious you want her in your bed too?
I hear her laugh, and the sound is as surprising as its effect, rippling through my body like an aftershock. I’d forgotten how she can do that—be it with a laugh, a smile or a song when she thinks no one’s listening.
‘Of course, Lucas. Of course in business. What else could you possibly be suggesting?’
She watches me over the rim of her glass, the depths of her eyes alive with suggestion, amusement, confidence. And it’s the confidence that’s my undoing. It’s new. To me, at least. Where there was once a questioning innocence there’s now the maturity of a woman who knows her own mind, her own desires.
And where do those desires lie now?