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Shaking off that terrifying second of not again, he assured himself this urgency to see her again was merely his libido looking for another easy pounce and feed.
That’s why he’d had to force himself to take his time rising and dressing in the cabana last night, despite a nagging desire to hurry. It wasn’t that he’d wanted to catch another glimpse, to actually catch her and convince her to strip down completely and stay with him all night. No, he was merely still horny.
Wondering why she hadn’t stayed was pointless. He’d never know. Everyone at Q Virtus had places to go and people they preferred not to be seen with. Did she know who he was, he wondered?
She hadn’t been wearing a watch that he’d felt. He’d checked his own as she’d left, trying to read her identifier before she had moved out of range, but no luck. Perhaps she’d run off to rejoin her husband or lover.
That thought infuriated him. Waiting to marry Luiza until it was too late was one of his few regrets. When you did make a lifelong commitment, you didn’t break it. If she had...
He refused to dwell on any of it. She was a wet dream and he was awake now. Time to move on. He had an introduction to suffer through—would in fact drag his feet getting there so as to use up most of their time.
Then he would put out feelers for the meeting he really wanted. Someone here would know what was being said in the UN about his country’s chances for recognition. Whatever he had to do to bestow legitimacy on his people, he would. They were his priority. It was Luiza’s dream. He owed it to all of them to stay focused on that.
Not on some easy piece he’d picked up for a few hours of distraction.
* * *
Until the accident, Tiffany had always been fashionably—some would say chronically or even rudely—late. Once she began working, she’d discovered how irritating it was to be on the other side of that. Nowadays she strove to be early, and to that end she followed the directions on her watch, only to come up against yet another set of sliding doors. Rolling her eyes, she watched the timepiece count down how long she’d have to wait until they opened.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered, wanting this meeting over with.
She’d almost forgotten it completely and wished she had. Unfortunately, her watch had been returned to her with her breakfast. “It was left in the reception lounge last night,” Julio had said. “You have a message. That’s what the blue light means.”
“It was heavy and men kept coming up to me, saying my watch indicated I was open to being approached,” she complained.
“Excellent feedback on the weight. A woman’s perspective is so valuable for the manufacturers. But please let me show you how to set your Do Not Disturb.”
He’d also shown her how to follow the directions to her meeting.
“Can I wear my mask?” she’d asked, peering at him from behind her feathers while trying to keep them out of her orange juice.
“Of course. Members typically wear their masks the entire time they’re here.”
With her main argument for blowing off the meeting disintegrated, she’d managed only a quiet, “Thanks.”
Biting her thumbnail after Julio left, she’d debated whether to risk leaving her room. What if she saw him?
Heated tingles awakened, hinting at how exciting it could be to bump into him, but she tamped down on the wild feelings. Her behavior last night had been a crazy combination of being away from the stifling proximity of her family and, well, she had been a little drunk on rum, having almost finished her second drink by the time she’d begun dancing.
With a stranger.
Her lover.
A burble of near-hysterical laughter almost escaped her as she walked, thinking of their incredible encounter. Part of her reaction was delight that she had it in her to be that bold and daring. Before the accident she might have fantasized about something like that, but it would never be something she could imagine actually doing. There was no such thing as impulse in her family. The consequences to Daddy’s career always had to be considered.
The rest of her giddiness had a sharply disappointed edge. This was the sort of secret she might share with a close girlfriend, but she didn’t have any. Her friends, some closer than others, had all continued on with their lives during her recovery, living the life she was supposed to have. Hers had stalled and taken a sharp left turn. She would never have much in common with them now except the good old days. That topic just invited pitying stares.
Work was what she had now. A career. She had Paulie’s corporation and men in her life who loved her as a daughter and a sister. Last night had been exciting and fun, but she couldn’t repeat it. What was she going to do? Come to these events every quarter and sleep with a different stranger each time? The alternative, to expose her scars and hope a lover could overlook them, made her shudder in appalled dread.
No, she had to stay serious and focused and do what she’d been sent here to do. Last night was her personal secret, something to keep her glowing on the inside through the cold years to come. Today she represented Davis and Holbrook, one of the largest construction firms in the world, thanks to her marriage merging her father’s architecture firm with Davis Engineering. As the one person with claim to both those names, she supposed she could take ten minutes out of her life to hand over the letter of introduction her brother had prepared.
Even if she didn’t entirely approve of this man they wanted to court.
At least she could hide behind her mask. Kinky was her new normal, apparently, since she was becoming really fond of it, but it rejuvenated her confidence.
These gopher burrows under the building she was less sure of.
“Am I in an abattoir?” she asked a petite q when she found one.
“Absolutely not,” the perky young woman replied, obviously not paid to have a sense of humor. “To ensure complete privacy for our guests, the doors only open if the next hallway is empty. Several people are moving around at this time, causing minor delays. Your meeting room is at the end of this hall and will open to your thumbprint.”
As she stepped into the empty meeting room, however, she had to admit that this particular man’s world was astounding. Given the industrial decor she’d traversed to get here, she had expected more of the same with the conference rooms. Instead she was in an aquarium—a humanarium—in the bottom of the sea. Stingrays flew like sparrows across the blue water over the glass ceiling and a garden of tropical fish bobbled like flower heads in a breeze, poking from the living reef that fringed the glass walls.
Amazed, she set down her black leather folder on a table between two chairs in the center of the room and walked the curved wall, keeping one hand on it to maintain her equilibrium as the distorted image of swaying kelp made her dizzy. She reminded herself to breathe and oriented herself by turning back to the room to take in the pair of chairs on the white area rug. They faced the windows and were separated by the table that held a crystal decanter of ice water and two cut-crystal glasses.
As she leaned her back against the window, the door panel whispered open and he stepped in. Her stranger.
Shock ran through her in an electric current that held her fixed, stunned.
Yes, that was the mask from last night, and she recognized his powerful build even though he was dressed differently. His gray shirt was short-sleeved, tailored close to his muscled shoulders and accentuated his firm, tanned biceps. The narrow collar of his shirt was turned down in a sharply contrasting russet, drawing her eye to the base of his throat.
She watched him swallow and lifted her gaze to his green-gold eyes.
How had he found her?
Behind him, the door whispered closed. The noise seemed to prompt him into motion. He took a few laconic steps into the room, hands going into his pockets. He wasn’t taken aback by their incredible surroundings. His eyes never left their lock on hers as he paused next to the chairs, lifted a hand and removed his mask. He dropped it into one of the chairs, still staring at her.
Barefaced, he was beautiful. Not pretty, not vulnerable, but undeniably handsome with his narrow, hawkish face and sharply defined cheekbones. His blade of a nose accentuated the long planes of his cheeks to the rugged thrust of his jaw, making his mouth appear sensual by comparison, even though his lips weren’t particularly full.
They weren’t narrow, either, and neither were his eyes, but the keen way he watched her spoke of focus and intelligence.
Don’t think about last night, she ordered herself, fighting the inner trembling of reaction.
“You could have given me your name last night and saved us taking up a room when they’re so highly in demand.”
Her throat closed as she processed his thick accent first. It was more pronounced when he spoke above a whisper and charged his deep, stern voice with husked layers. Then his words sifted through her mind, allowing her first to absorb that he recognized her, but didn’t know her name. How—? The criticism in his tone penetrated, distracting her. She was rather sensitive to being called thoughtless, willing to admit she’d been quite the spoiled brat before she’d learned that even charmed lives could be hexed.
Finally she grasped the whole of what he’d said, and it sounded as if he thought she had known whom she was messing around with last night. Which meant he hadn’t come here because he was looking for her, but because...
Oh. My. God.
“Ryzard Vrbancic?” she managed faintly. Please no.
His gorgeous mouth twisted with ironic dismay. “As you can see. Who are you?”
Of course she could see. Now that her brain was beginning to function, it was obvious this was the self-appointed president of Bregnovia. The leader of a resistance movement turned opportunist who had claimed the national treasury—from a fellow criminal, sure, but claimed it for himself all the same—then used it to buy his seat in his newly minted parliament.
How did a name such as Ryzard go from being something vaguely lethal and unsavory to noble and dynamic simply by encountering the man in person? How had she not sensed or realized—
“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.
