- -
- 100%
- +
Sharply, she set aside her fantasy. Indulging it would only feed it, and what was the point of that? None. None at all.
‘Dance with me.’
Her head whipped round. Shock widened her eyes. Her heart surged in her chest. Her mouth dried like a desert.
Alexei Constantin stood there, holding out a hand to her.
‘Dance with me,’ he said again.
His eyes were dark. Very dark. She could not see their pupils.
Like a sleepwalker she put her hand in his, and felt his fingers close over hers. A frisson jarred through her. He drew her to her feet.
He did not look at her. Simply walked her out on to the dance floor.
And put his arms around her.
Her hands splayed against his chest, slipping past the lapels of his jacket to press against the fine, warm surface of his dress shirt. She felt his breath still a moment, then his breathing resume. Beneath her palms she felt the smooth hard muscle beneath the thin material.
Heat flared through her body, out along her cheekbones. She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at all. Could do nothing except let his hands on her back steer her, in a slow, sensual rhythm, into the dance.
Time stopped.
Everything stopped. Except what was happening to her now. But only for now.
She shut her eyes and let her forehead lower slowly, until it was resting on him.
And then she danced with Alexei Constantin.
He was insane, he knew. Every brain cell in his head told him that. He was insane to have gone anywhere near her again. Insane to have watched her, à deux with Pierre Roflet.
Watched Eve Hawkwood in action.
Pierre Roflet. Son of the president of a French investment bank that could, if Roflet père so chose, provide sufficient financial muscle to shore up Hawkwood and fend off the takeover.
A very suitable target for Eve Hawkwood’s skills.
Was that why he had done what he had? To give Roflet fils a chance to escape her toils? Even as the words formed, he knew them for a lie. He knew exactly, exactly what had made him do what he had just done.
He had wanted, just once more, to have this woman in his arms again. For one last time to enjoy the fantasy of what he had thought she might be. He didn’t care that she was nothing but an illusion, unreal. For this last, brief time he would believe the fantasy.
The music throbbed in his blood. Soft, sensual.
Like the woman folded against him.
Her body was so pliant, so slender. Her head bowed against him, her hands resting lightly, oh so lightly, against the wall of his chest. Her hips resting against his.
He could feel his body react, damn it as he might. Instinctively he drew back a little, using what frail shreds of sanity remained to him.
He felt a shimmer go through her, a fine vibration of her spine beneath the tips of his fingers. His eyes swept down over her in the dim, pulsing light. Her hair was so pale, even without moonlight.
He did not mean to, but he could not help himself. Slowly, he dipped his head, letting his mouth graze the fine silk of her hair.
The shimmer came again, the vibration of her body. His fingers tightened on her spine, as if to arch her towards him.
Slowly, infinitely slowly, he circled the dance floor with her. Taking his time.
Savouring the last of his time with her. Before he put her aside for ever.
The music faded to silence. He stopped. His arms started to slip from her.
Slowly, heavily, as if it were the heaviest weight in the world, she lifted her head.
Looked up at him.
Just looked.
And in that moment doubt knifed through him.
Then sanity flooded through him again. He dropped his hands away, stepping back.
Without a word, he walked away.
Eve just stood there. It was all she could do. A knife blade had just slid between her ribs. It was a physical pain.
She turned around, catching her skirt with her fingers, so that she could hurry, stumble, back to her seat. As she did so, Pierre Roflet got to his feet. He must have returned to their table while she was dancing.
Dancing with Alexei Constantin.
Why had he done it? Her question was anguished. Why had he not just left her alone? What had he danced with her for? There was no point. No point at all. So why do it?
Heavily, she sank into her chair.
Pierre Roflet looked at her silently a moment. Then he spoke. ‘You know who that is, don’t you?’ His voice was unnaturally grave.
Eve nodded, biting her lip. ‘Yes. He’s trying to buy my father’s company.’
Pierre nodded, his eyes expressive. ‘It’s not a good idea, cherie. Dancing. Or anything else.’
There was kindness in his voice, as well as warning. For a second she just looked at him, a stricken expression in her eyes. Then slowly, soberly, she inclined her head.
‘I know,’ she said.
‘Sensible girl.’ Wordlessly, he pushed her coffee towards her. And a glass of champagne.
With shaky fingers Eve took the glass, and drank from it.
‘You’d do better with me, cherie. You wouldn’t weep in the morning.’
Lightly, he brushed her bare arm with his fingers. Then he started to tell her another gossipy anecdote.
She tried to smile.
It wasn’t possible.
Alexei walked back to the bar. His gait was very controlled, his face expressionless. Beneath the mask of his face, emotions roiled like dark waters. He’d been insane, all right, but he’d got his sanity back now. Forced it back. Eve Hawkwood could resume her attentions to her original target.
Was she sleeping with Roflet already? Or was she holding out until Roflet père rode to her father’s rescue?
No, don’t think about Pierre Roflet enjoying Eve Hawkwood. The woman he’d wanted was not her. It was an illusion, a fantasy that did not exist. A mirage.
‘M’sieu?’
The barman was hovering attentively. Alexei gave his order.
‘Vodka,’ he instructed tersely.
The barman nodded, and turned to pour the drink. He placed it in front of Alexei and watched him knock it back, then replace the glass on the surface of the bar. Silently, he refilled it.
Alexei reached for it, let his fingers curl around the cool edge of the glass, but he did not drink it. Already the first one was burning down his throat. Deadening his senses.
‘Russe?’
The husky voice at his side was female. He turned his head.
There was a woman sitting on the barstool, nursing a glass of champagne. Young. No more than twenty, perhaps. Low-cut dress with a high hem. A lot of make-up.
Good-looking.
Expensive-looking.
Available-looking.
Alexei’s eyes narrowed slightly. Assessingly.
Then he answered her.
As he did so, he saw surprise—and wariness—flicker in her eyes. Then it was gone. Instead, she laid a hand with red-lacquered nails on his sleeve. She smiled.
Invitingly.
It took Alexei only a handful of minutes to persuade her to come up to his suite with him.
Eve watched him walk out of the nightclub. He was difficult to miss. The woman on his arm had the highest heels possible, and was swaying provocatively in her tight-cut dress that moulded over her bottom, skimming high across her thighs. Her long dark hair waved extravagantly down her back.
Her hand, with its long red nails, curled around Alexei Constantin’s forearm with blatant possession.
Eve’s hand curled tightly around the stem of her champagne flute. As if to break it.
How many more illusions could she stand seeing destroyed?
Yet one more, it seemed.
Pierre was looking where she watched, her eyes wide and stricken.
‘Definitely not a good idea, cherie,’ he murmured.
She tore her eyes away. She looked down into her champagne glass.
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘You’re right. Not a good idea.’ Her voice was strained.
She made herself look up, look across at Pierre. He gave a little grimace, half-sympathy, half-warning.
‘And a health risk.’ He nodded in the direction that Alexei Constantin was walking off in. ‘The girl is a hooker.’
Eve stared.
Pierre gave a light shrug. ‘I know—they shouldn’t let them in here. But they—or their pimps—bribe the staff. And she is one, cherie, believe me. She offered me her services when I was getting your drink while you were dancing.’ He made another slight grimace. ‘She is no doubt most expensive. But then, price is not a problem for Alexei Constantin.’
Eve hardly heard him. The sound of the final shattering of her last illusion drowned him out.
For one last, despairing second she felt herself try to fight against what she was seeing, but she was crushed down. Crushed by the damning reality of who and what the man was.
No one worth wanting. No one worth dreaming over.
Bleakly, she lifted her champagne glass to her lips.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.