Claimed

“I don’t do macho,” he said, disdain in every syllable.

She snorted. “You don’t have to ‘do’ it. Every cell in your body is alpha and controlling and if you don’t know that, you’re even more deluded than I thought you were. But, be that as it may, I’m not going to stand out here and be your toy for one second longer. This is a work function for me and, unlike you, I don’t have a trust fund and a diamond company to fall back on if I lose my job for inappropriate conduct. This career is all I have and I’m not going to let you ruin it, the way you ruined—”

She broke off before she finished the sentence, moving around him in a quick and desperate attempt to get to the door.

He grabbed her elbow, but it was his will much more than his gentle grip that kept her in place. “The way I ruined our relationship?” he asked silkily. “Because the way I remember it, you did that all on your own.”

“I have no doubt that’s exactly how you remember it.” She glanced pointedly at his hold on her, then pulled her elbow out of his grasp before he could say another word. “Which is how I know you’re doing this just to mess with me, to get me in trouble. But I’m not having it. I don’t ever want you to touch me again. Go back to whatever you were doing before you decided that humiliating me was your best bet. Or better yet, go to hell.”

She moved past him then, disappearing back into the party in a swirl of purple silk, Chanel No. 5 and righteous indignation.

He wasn’t sure what it said about him that it was the latter that turned him on the most.

* * *

She was insane. Or in the middle of a psychotic break. Or having a stroke. She didn’t know which of the three she was suffering from, but it was definitely one of them. There was no other explanation for what had happened on that balcony. No other explanation for why she had fallen into Marc’s arms—and onto his lips—as if it had been six minutes since they’d last been together and not six years. Or as if he hadn’t sent her packing in the cruelest manner possible.

She understood sexual attraction—when they’d been together, she and Marc could barely keep their hands off each other. But shouldn’t that attraction be grounded in respect or love or something other than the intense dislike and distrust they now had for each other?

And still she’d let him kiss her. She’d let him touch her and stroke her and bring her way too close to orgasm. It was ridiculous. Worse, it was self-destructive. She was ashamed of herself. Ashamed of her body for responding so readily to him after everything he’d done to hurt her. After everything she’d done to hurt him, too.

As she walked through the party back to Gideon, Isa could feel Marc’s eyes following her. She didn’t need to look to know he was running his gaze over her back, her backside, her legs—and then up again. The weight of his stare was a physical touch—like an electric shock all over her body.

By the time she got to Gideon, she was shaking with reaction and self-recrimination. Though she knew the smart thing for her career was to stay at the party, drinking champagne and waiting for her turn to chat up the president of the Gem Institute, the truth was she didn’t have it in her to be in this room for one more minute. She had to escape, now, before she freaked out in front of all these people. Or before she threw herself at Marc and begged him to take her right here, in the middle of the crowded gallery.

Just the thought that such a thing was possible had her all but running the last few feet to Gideon. Had her putting her hand on his arm and leaning in so that her lips were only inches from his, so he could hear her in the loud, crowded room. Had her begging off the rest of the night, telling him she’d catch a cab home because she wasn’t feeling well. She was pretty sure her sickly pallor and trembling hands lent credence to the assertion.