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The Ultimate Seduction

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Год написания книги
2019
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“There’s been a mistake. I’ve made a mistake.” Oh, gawd, she could never tell her family. Her virginity? Really? To this man?

And yet her body responded to being in his presence. Even though she wasn’t drunk and no music seduced her, her feet didn’t want to move and her eyes kept being dragged back to his wide chest, where a sprinkle of hair had abraded her palms. His arms flexed as she watched, forcing memories of being caught protectively against him when the fireworks had started then carried like a wilting Southern belle when sex had been the only thing on their minds.

His wide-spaced feet in Italian leather drew her gaze, making her recall the way he’d shed his shoes and the rest of his clothes so deftly last night. His burnished bronze skin had been anything but cold and hard. He’d been taut and alive.

And generous. He’d touched her with incredible facility completely devoted to her pleasure. She tried not to look for his hands, but she was fervently aware of the way he’d tantalized her so intimately toward orgasm. In public.

Mortified heat burned her to the core, especially because she yearned to know it all again. Everything about him called to her, feathering over her nerves like last night’s velvety breeze, not just awakening her sensuality, but exciting her senses into full alert. Why? How? The rapid plunge back into sexual arousal was incredibly confusing. Disconcerting. She needed to get out of here.

Pushing off the glass wall, she took two steps and he took one, blocking her.

Her heart plummeted through the floor. This undersea garden had suddenly become a shark cage, and she was trapped inside it with the shark.

Warily she eyed him. “I didn’t know who you were last night.”

“No?” His brow kicked up, dismissing her claim as a lie.

“No!”

“You sleep with strangers often?”

“Apparently you do, so don’t judge me.”

His head went back a fraction, reassessing her. “Who are you?”

She folded her arms, debating. If she left now, without telling him, Christian might salvage something. She, of course, could never show her face in public again, but she didn’t intend to. Except—

Her gaze involuntarily went to the black dossier on the table, the one that held their letter of introduction and a background on the company. She jerked her gaze back to his, panicked that he might have followed her look, but trying not to show it.

His vaguely bored gaze traveled to the table and came back to hers. Intrigue lit his irises, turning their green-gold depths to emerald. A cruel smile toyed with his mouth.

“That’s not for you,” she said firmly. “I have to go.” She took one step toward the table and he reached without hurry to pick the dossier up.

“I said—”

He only flashed her a dangerous look that held her off and opened it with an elegant turn of his long finger. Don’t think about those fingers.

Leave, she told herself, but there was no point. She couldn’t outrun this sizzling mortification, no matter where she went. Her stomach turned over as she waited for a sign of his reaction to what he read.

A muted bell pinged. “Your reserved time has reached its limit,” a modulated female voice said through hidden speakers.

Thank God. Tiffany let out her breath.

“Extend it,” Ryzard commanded.

“Will another thirty minutes be sufficient?”

“I can’t stay,” Tiffany insisted.

Grim male focus came up to hold her in place, locking her vocal chords.

“Send a full report to my tablet on Davis and Holbrook, specifically their director, Mrs. Paul Davis. Thirty minutes is plenty.”

“Very good, sir.” The bell pinged again and Tiffany thought, run. The threat he emanated seemed very real, even though he didn’t move, only stared at her with utter contempt.

Bunching her fists at her sides, she lifted her chin, refusing to be anything less than indignant if he was going to jump to nasty conclusions about her. He could be married for all she knew—which was a disgusting thought. Her brain frantically tried to retrieve knowledge one way or another. She was no poli-sci major, but she’d always kept up on headlines, usually knowing way more than she wanted to about world politics because of her father’s ambitions. There were gaps because of the accident, of course, months of news she’d missed completely that coincided with the coup in Bregnovia.

She had no memory about his marital status, but something told her he wouldn’t be nearly so scornful of her if he had his own spouse in the wings.

* * *

Ryzard tossed the folder into the empty chair and hooked his hands in his pockets to keep from strangling the woman who wanted to play him for a fool. Her being married was bad enough. She might shrug off little things like extramarital affairs, but he did not.

The fact she thought she could buy his business was even more aggravating, partly because he was so affected by last night. As much as he wished he wasn’t, his body was reacting to her even though she was dressed very conservatively. Her loose, sand-colored pants grazed the floor over heeled sandals he’d glimpsed when she had moved. They were clunky-looking things, but their height elongated her legs into lissome stems he wanted to feel through the thin fabric of her pants. Her yellow top was equally lightweight and cut across her collarbone, hiding skin that had seemed powder white last night.

What he’d seen of it, anyway. He couldn’t see much today and found that equally frustrating. He might have detected her nipples poking against the fine silk of her top, but while her flat green jacket nipped in to emphasize her waist, it also shielded her breasts from his view.

Nothing about her appearance hinted at the exciting, sensual woman he’d met last night. Even her wild curls had been scraped back, which might have been an elegant display of her bone structure if he could see her face.

“Take off your mask,” he ordered, irritated that his voice wasn’t as clear as he’d like.

“No.”

The quietly spoken word blasted into his eardrums. It was not something he heard often.

“It’s not a request,” he stated.

“It’s not open for discussion,” she responded, body language so hostile he could practically taste her antagonism.

Curious.

No. He wouldn’t allow himself to be intrigued by her. Pulling himself together, he did his best to reject and eject her from every aspect of his life in one blow.

Glancing away as if his senses weren’t concentrated upon her every breath and pulse, he said dismissively, “Tell your husband you failed. My business can’t be bought. He might enjoy your second-rate efforts that offer no real pleasure, but I’m more discerning.”

Her sharp inhale, as if she’d been stabbed in the lung, drew his gaze back to her. Her lips were white and trembled just enough to kick him in the conscience.

He forced himself to hold her hurt gaze, surprised how effective his insult had been. Her startling blue eyes deepened to pools of navy that churned with angry hatred. He didn’t flinch from it, but instead held her gaze as if he was holding a knife in a wound, ensuring he would fully sever himself from a repeat performance of his weakness.

“How do you propose I tell him?” she asked with a bitterness that bludgeoned him, implacable and final. “Hire a psychic? He’s dead.” She pivoted to the door.

A blinding flash, like white light, shot through him. Not an external thing, but an inner slice of laser-sharp pain that he felt as an echo of hers. He knew that sort of grief—

Before he realized what he was doing, he’d moved to catch her arm and spin her around to him.

She used her momentum to bring her free hand up, sending it flying toward his face.

He caught her wrist and jerked back his head, his reflexes honed by war and a natural dominance that always kept him on guard. Still, a heavy blanket of regret suffocated him as he held her while she wordlessly struggled. He’d insulted her because he was angry, but he would never wound someone by dangling such a loss over them. An apology was needed, but holding on to her was like trying to wrestle a feral cat into a sack.
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