Dressed to Thrill

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.

And it was such a yawningly attractive face. Some might even get swept up in the masculine brilliance of the angled cheekbones and defined jaw. Eyes that were slightly almond-shaped and as fathomless as his mood. Lips that were full and dark red, but too hard to be feminine. Lips that she suddenly imagined could give a whole load of pleasure.

Dangerous. Oh. Yes.

She swallowed and forced her thoughts back on track. ‘I often think some people forget just how much is involved in the creation of one dress.’ She fingered the skirt of her own, unintentionally inviting his appraisal.

Damn, but he didn’t think twice about giving it. Was there no end to the gall of the man?

‘We were both thrilled to be at your show, Tara. Your designs really are beautiful. And you have the perfect body to show them off.’

Angelica’s sparkling tones cut through the heavy air that was swirling between them. ‘You are so wonderfully hourglass. You know, I was reading the other day that we are all turning into rectangles. Can you imagine? Straight up and down. No waists to speak of. No wonder you are the toast of the week, sweetie. All us skinnies want to look as feminine as you. Isn’t she just adorable, Michael? Oh, look, there’s the photographer. We must give him a snap. Michael—you there, arm round Tara. Perfect.’

Angelica buzzed and fluttered and placed herself on Tara’s other side as the cameras flashed. And even though she was still fizzing at the easy way he was glossing over his arrogance Tara knew that now wasn’t the time to challenge.

Because now he was moving right into her space, extending his arm. Even as her eyes fell on the mouth that twisted into that slight smirk she had just seen. Even if this time the smirk was eclipsed by the pure male sensuality of his lips. And, though she hated that predictable shadowy stubble, defined jaw look, her eyes widened as the up close and personal space of Michael Cruz became shared with her.

She felt his arm circle her waist and draw her to his right side. Firmly. He held her firmly—as if he had every right to wrap his big arm around her and pose her in the camera glare. As if it was totally fine for him to pull her so close to his body and cause fireworks in her nerve-endings. Could everybody see what she was feeling? How embarrassing! Since when was Tara Devine reduced to a puppet by anybody?

She really didn’t want to run with that particular thought…

His grip on her waist was tight and unequivocal. She was just a full-fat version of the calorie-free hors d’oeuvres he’d sampled five minutes earlier. And she hate, hate, hated that he could do that to her.

* * *

Michael felt sure the muscles in his face would spasm any moment now. After the day he’d had, these brutal after-parties were the last thing he needed. But what the hell? He saw Angelica so little that he could stomach hanging out here, since it seemed to be such a big deal to her. Though he hadn’t figured on winding up next to this pocket Miss Whiplash: Tara Devine, wildest little firecracker in the box, renowned for her partying, her comic book curves and her utter lack of self-control.

But more to the point—he scanned the room—thankfully Fernanda had been smart enough to leave all this well enough alone. At least she’d been as good as her word and stayed home. And, despite begging him to let her model this week, she seemed to have retained some of the self-control he’d spent the last sixteen years drilling into her. She was young, she was naïve. And she was allying herself to the vacuous people in this awful industry.

He’d be damned if the sense and intelligence she was blessed with would be wasted on all of this. The place was awash with drugs and drink—these parties always were. He’d had more than his fair share back in the day. And he’d be a fool to think there wouldn’t be predators trying to get his sister hooked up in it.

He glanced down at the mini sex bomb tucked beneath his arm. She seemed to have burst onto this scene overnight—and wasn’t it just typical that his two sisters found her so ‘engaging’. This woman had her own look, all right—strawberry blonde hair with strange streaks of platinum and gold, combed and pinned in a kind of soft beehive—not his thing at all. He could see the curve of her throat as it met the creamiest, most flawless skin of her décolletage. The swathe of ivory satin that skimmed the most talked-about society breasts just enhanced them even further, and he dropped his eyes to take them in again.

What the hell? He was a man.

Angelica was right. Tara’s waist, now that his hand had relaxed and splayed out against her hip, was actually much smaller than he’d thought when he’d ever thought about it—which was never. And her hips in that skirt—what little there was of it—were soft and round. The whole look reminded him of someone. Someone very feminine. Very sexy. She’d turned, was looking up at him, and her eyes were so blue, outlined in thick black make-up that she just didn’t need. Her lips… The reddest, fullest most swollen pout of a mouth he could remember seeing. She was saying something.

‘Yes, Fernanda is an amazing model. She has potential to be world-class—a real supermodel. I’ve booked her for another week. For Paris.’

The fog in his head suddenly cleared. If Fernanda thought he was letting her loose into this circus again she was out of her mind. He’d indulged her notions this once—let her get it out of her system. But no way was she making a career out of this—not when she had the potential to do something worthwhile with her life.

Time for a little distance.

He leaned in to whisper in Tara Devine’s ear. ‘You’d better unbook her, then. No way will my sister be working for you, next week or any other.’ He smiled as he spoke his words right into her ear, felt her stiffen. He lingered a little longer, and could have sworn she shivered. ‘I don’t know what she told you, but she has more important things to do than walk up and down wearing a bunch of crazy clothes.’

‘Wow, you really are a control freak!’ Tara hissed at him out of the corner of her mouth, even while she pouted and posed.

She was playing her coy little games for the snappers. The men in the room—the men who weren’t caught up in this fashion nonsense—were all posturing, their eyes trained right at her and her frankly ridiculous curves.

She smiled at them, turned in his grasp and cupped his cheek. ‘What are you so afraid of? That she’ll actually enjoy herself?’

She leaned right into his ear as she spoke and he felt her lips brush his skin and the press of her breast on his arm. So she wanted to play? He could live with another minute of her company if it taught her a lesson.

He caught her wrist, brought her insolent hand down sharply behind her, so that her back arched into him and the spill of those creamy breasts was even more obvious. She let out a little gasp and he trailed his eyes super-slowly right over her smooth silky skin. The bodice of her satin dress was so low and his view was so good. And damn it if the slow smirk he was feeling didn’t warm him all the way to his groin before he could turn back to the cameras.