Hotbed of Scandal: Mistress: At What Price? / Red Wine and Her Sexy Ex / Bedded by Blackmail

She knew almost before she surfaced that her notion had been premature. A ripple of sensation, as if someone had run their knuckles down the length of her spine, was her first and only warning.

Dane stood near the edge of the pool, a folded newspaper under one arm. Unlike last night’s sinful black, today he was wearing white. Casual white shorts. White body-hugging T-shirt. Old. Worn. Soft. She imagined it against her fingers. Or her cheek. Her pulse tapped a wild, irregular rhythm. Unlike his top, his shorts were loose. They gave her a far too detailed and up-close view of tanned, hairy and very muscular legs. And, from her lowly position, more than enough exposed thigh…

She jerked her eyes to his. He’d slipped his sunglasses on top of his head and seemed to be rooted to the spot—

And then she remembered…Oh, God, she was stark staring naked.

She inhaled, gulping in a mouthful of chlorinated water, and managed, barely, to sputter, ‘What are you doing here?’ She glanced at her clothes and towel. Impossibly out of reach. Her cheeks filled with heat and the already irregular pulse picked up speed.

Stepping closer, to the very edge of the pool, he studied her with those piercing grey eyes. ‘Watching you. Do you need rescuing?’

‘No!’ Oh, God. Oh, no. She sank as low as she could, crossing her arms over her chest and struggling to stay afloat while every skin cell vibrated as if he was physically stroking her. The water was as clear as glass; no part of her was hidden from his powerful gaze. ‘How long have you been here? Never mind. Pass me my clothes.’

‘No need to panic; I’ve already seen you naked.’ His mouth quirked and his eyes crinkled up at the corners. Lucky for her—or him—depending on one’s point of view, right now they were focused on her face. But for how long?

The heat in her cheeks rushed to every tingling part of her body. ‘Seven years old does not count. And I’m still traumatised by it.’

He picked up her underwear, held the items out over the water for her. Just a fraction too high, she knew—and he knew. She remained as she was.

‘Wasn’t my fault you forgot your towel and risked running bare-assed down the hallway.’

‘Whatever you say. Hurry up.’

‘Nice undies, by the way.’

She was acutely, devastatingly aware that he wasn’t looking at her undies. A shiver rippled through her. The water suddenly felt chilled against her overheated flesh.

Just when she thought he wasn’t going to play nice, he released them. They hit the water with a plop, floating on the surface just far enough away so that she had to uncross her arms and manoeuvre sideways a fraction. She snatched them to her with a murmured, ‘Thank you. Now, if you’ll be a gentleman and turn your back…’

‘Thing is, Mariel, I’m no gentleman.’

For a few seconds the air hummed. The tension between them crackled. She couldn’t reply, could only think that if she reached out she could wind her fingers around that calf and feel how hard that muscle really was. Then pull him closer and sink her teeth into that flesh. Fair punishment.

He took a step back, as if he’d anticipated such a move, then—finally—turned away. ‘Did you realise there’s a photographer a couple of hundred metres down the road?’ His casual comment was followed up with an equally casual, ‘They could have a long-range camera set up for all you know.’

Oh, hell. With shaking fingers she struggled to pull on the meagre covering—no easy feat underwater. ‘Maybe they’re just keen birdwatchers,’ she said hopefully. Half decent at last, she hauled herself out of the water.

At the sound, he turned to her once more. ‘You should be more aware of security when you’re on your own. I could have been any stranger.’ She snatched up her towel and blotted water from her face, bemoaning the fact that her complexion was winter-lily pale without its make-up mask.

‘But you weren’t. And you remembered the gate’s security code—clever you.’

‘Have you seen this morning’s paper?’ He tossed it on the little glass table between two loungers.

‘No.’ In a brisk flurry of movement she scrubbed the rough terry towel down one arm, then the other. ‘Is it bad?’

‘I’ll let you decide.’

She felt his gaze on her and realised she was holding the towel in front of her as if she wasn’t totally comfortable in her own skin. As if she wasn’t used to men looking at her.

She wasn’t used to this man looking at her.

His gaze drifted lazily down to her breasts, barely covered by her cherry-splashed blue bra, then lower, over the high-cut bikini briefs. ‘If you don’t watch out you’ll burn that tender European-climate-accustomed skin.’

Burn? Her skin already felt singed and raw and tingling. Her nipples, already pebbled from the cool water, contracted painfully.

She swiped the towel over her body one last time, then swung it around her neck, fisted her hands and lifted her chin. Their eyes connected across the stone pool surround. ‘So is it the society pages or the ghastly gossip column?’

‘Check it out for yourself. Page twenty-three.’

There was a shot of the two of them leaving the wedding, and a smaller one of Dane’s car parked in her parents’ driveway.

The mystery woman on Dane Huntington’s arm last night appears to be none other than Mariel Davenport, daughter of wealthy landowner Randolph Davenport, Europe’s latest modelling sensation. Ms Davenport flew in from Paris and, it seems, straight into the arms of her old friend and flame. Could this cosy reunion signal the end of Adelaide’s most popular Bachelor of the Year’s reign?

Bad. Bad. Bad. She didn’t bother with the small print underneath. She tried to laugh, but the sound came out parched. ‘Local gossip. You don’t pay any heed to that rubbish, do you?’

His enigmatic expression didn’t change. ‘How do you feel about it?’

She shrugged and headed towards the house, the hot concrete burning the soles of her feet. ‘It’ll settle down in a day or two.’ When Dane resumes his regular playboy lifestyle. ‘I’m going to take a shower. Have you had breakfast?’

‘I picked up croissants on the way, figured you’d want to share. They’re in the kitchen when you’re ready.’

She thought about the article while she took her shower. Being seen with Dane had cast her in a spotlight when she absolutely didn’t need it. It wouldn’t take much digging for someone keen enough to unearth the dirt on Paris and Luc and fling the mud at her. She’d never be able to set up a successful business here with that negative publicity. Hopefully the attention would fade when they realised there was nothing going on.

Chapter Four

DANE found coffee, a plunger and mugs, switched on the kettle and studied the business pages while he waited for Mariel to take a shower. He could hear the water running and schooled himself not to think about all that gorgeous flesh and warm soapy water.

Safer, much safer, to think about making that date he’d promised the robust blonde surfer chick he’d met in the bar last week. The fact that he’d had no intention of following up was irrelevant.

He looked up when Mariel appeared, and his gaze drifted over her of its own accord. She wore a navy mini sundress with a bright floral pattern and a white lace trim. It hugged that sensational figure and left miles of bare leg. Heaven help him.

‘That feels much better,’ she said, taking a seat opposite, her enticing still-damp fragrance wafting across the table.

He didn’t agree. Ignoring his body’s wayward but inevitable response, he poured them both a coffee, then, remembering, he withdrew a small plastic self-sealing bag from his pocket. ‘I was cleaning out my car the other day and found Phoebe’s diamond earring.’

‘She lost her earring? In your car?’

He noticed Mariel’s complexion fade, her green eyes taking on the hue of winter’s frost-covered paddocks. Interesting.

‘A couple of weeks ago, yes.’

She stared at him. ‘You and Phoebe…?’

‘Me and four women, actually. Drunk as skunks, talking dirty to me and giggling themselves silly.’

‘Yeah, right.’ She picked up her mug, but there was a smidgeon of uncertainty beneath the scorn.

‘Ever tried to ferry a gaggle of women home from a hen night?’