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Hearing her dance partner’s lips caress her name as his hands caressed her body caused a shiver to scatter her soul.
But the heat in his dark eyes was steady. Controlled. As if the overwhelming desire that was ripping her self-control to shreds was nothing more than of passing interest to him. A momentary pleasure in his life that was full of pleasures—like a single sip of champagne, hardly to be noticed in the endless crystal flutes.
But it was new to Lia. It made her knees weak. Made her dizzy, filling her with longing and fear.
He held her tightly, swaying in time to the scorching passion of the song. Lia was dimly aware of all New York society watching them. She could feel the stares, hear the first whispers at the impropriety of this dance. Holding her as he was, without even a sliver of space between them, he held her like a lover.
As if no one in the world mattered to him but her.
She knew she should push him away. She was, after all, a new widow. Allowing him to hold her like this not only disgraced Giovanni’s memory, it caused injury to her reputation. And yet his powerful control over her senses caused her body to betray her mind’s commands.
She tried to put some distance between them.
She could not.
She didn’t even know this man, but something about the way he held her made Lia feel she’d been waiting for this moment all her life.
He spoke in a low voice for her ears only. “I knew it from the moment I saw you.”
“What?” she whispered.
“What it would feel like to touch you.”
She trembled. Did he know what he made her feel? Did he have any idea how he affected her?
She forced herself to toss her head, to act as if nothing were wrong. “I feel nothing.”
“You’re lying.” He ran his hand down her glossy black hair, stroking the bare skin of her shoulders.
The tremble deepened, making her knees shake. She had to get ahold of herself. Before the situation was too far out of her control. Before she was utterly lost! “This is just a dance, nothing more.”
He stopped suddenly on the dance floor. “Prove your words.”
All the bravado left her when she saw the intent in his eyes. Here, on the dance floor, he meant to kiss her—staking his claim of possession for the entire world to see.
“No,” she gasped.
Ruthlessly he lowered his lips to hers.
His kiss was demanding and hungry. It seared her to the core. His lips moved against her own, suffusing her with his heat. Against her will, she fell against him, surrendering to the sweet languorous stroke of his tongue.
She wanted him. Wanted this.
She wanted it like a drowning woman wanted air.
As she felt him move against her, his strong hands moving against the soft skin of her naked back, a low moan escaped her. His power and warmth enveloped her as his sensual lips seduced her, allowing her to hold nothing back.
How long had she been drowning?
How long had she been all but dead?
Her breaths came in little shallow gasps as his kiss deepened. She heard the shocked hiss and jealous mutters of the crowds around them. “Crikey,” one man muttered, “I would have paid a million for that.”
But as Lia tried to pull away, he only held her more forcefully, plundering her lips until she again sagged in his arms. She forgot her name. Forgot everything but her desire to give anything—anything at all—to keep his heat and fire hard against her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close against her body as she kissed him back with the ravenous hunger of fresh new life—
Then he released her, and her body instantly fell back into the icy breath of winter.
Opening her eyes, she looked into the face of the man who’d so cruelly brought her to life only to discard her. She expected to see smug, masculine arrogance. After all, he’d amply proven his point.
Instead he looked shocked. Almost as dazed as she felt. He gave his head a slight shake, as if clearing the fog from his mind.
Then his expression again became arrogant and ruthless. Leaving Lia to wonder if she’d just imagined a momentary bewilderment to match her own.
She touched her still-throbbing lips in shock. Oh, my God, what was wrong with her? With Giovanni not two weeks in his grave!
With the commanding force of the handsome stranger’s kiss, he’d made her forget everything—her grief, her pain, her emptiness—and surrender herself completely. It was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. And even at this moment she wanted more of him. Thirsted for him like a woman abandoned in the desert…
She took another short breath, gasping for air, for sanity and control.
Putting her hands on her head in despair, Lia backed away from him. “What have you done?” she whispered.
His dark gaze sharpened on her own. His eyes were hot enough to melt glass, skewering her heart. Burning her.
“The dance isn’t done.” The deep fiber of his voice commanded her, compelling her to return to his arms.
“Stay away from me!” Turning too quickly in a jerky, uneven movement, she nearly slipped on the hem of her white satin gown in her desperation to flee. Cheeks aflame, she ran through the crowded ballroom, leaving behind the winter fairyland of black lattice trees and twinkling white lights.
She raced past the shocked guests, past her horrified society friends, past everyone who tried to grab her, who tried to ask questions or offer back-handed sympathy.
She had to escape. Had to get away from the dark stranger and all the unwilling tumult of scandalous desires he caused within her.
Glancing back, she saw him in grim pursuit.
And she didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Kicking off her four-inch stiletto heels, she just ran. Ran down the hallway of the hotel, ran until her whole body burned, as she hadn’t done since her school days when she’d competed fiercely on the track team.
And yet still he gained on her! How was it possible?
Because she wasn’t the lithe, fit girl she’d been ten years ago, she realized. Years of inactivity in Italy, of long days sitting by Giovanni’s bedside, and nights of crying alone in her bed with a broken heart, were finally catching up with her.
And so was the stranger.
Panting, she dashed into the hotel lobby. Wealthy tourists in polo shirts and chic little summer dresses stared at her with their mouths agape as she stumbled across the marble floor and pushed violently out through the revolving door into the summery violet of dusk.
The doorman cried out when she nearly knocked him over. “Hey!”
“I’m sorry!” she cried back at him, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Not with the man so close behind her.
In the distance she could see a subway entrance. She ran for it with all her might.
She was fast. But he was faster. She heard the heavy echo of his footsteps on the sidewalk behind her. She weaved through a crowd of tourists browsing the shop windows along Fifth Avenue. She saw a taxi pull in front of Tiffany’s, right behind a dog walker surrounded by dogs of all sizes.
She leaped over the man’s tangled leashes like a hurdle. She heard the rip of her white satin gown as she landed on the other side. Panting, she flung herself into the taxi over the back of the exiting passenger.
Behind her, she heard the stranger curse aloud, caught up in leashes, dogs, and tourists loaded with shopping bags.
“Go!” she shouted at the taxi driver.
“Where, lady?”
“Anywhere!” Looking back through the window at the approaching stranger, she gasped and held up the hundred-dollar bill she always tucked in her bra. “There’s someone following me—get me out of here!”
The taxi driver glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the hundred-dollar bill and the panicked expression on her face, then stomped on the gas pedal. The car roared away, its tires scattering water from the nearby gutter as they ducked into the evening traffic.
Turning around to look out the back window, Lia saw the diminishing figure of the dark stranger behind her. Wet with water, he stared after her in repressed fury, his mouth a grim line.
She’d escaped him. She nearly cried with relief.
Then she caught her breath and realized she’d just fled her own party. What had she been so afraid of? What?
His fire.
Her body shook with suppressed longing as she sank her head against her hands…and really cried.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROARK returned to the ballroom empty-handed, furious and soaking wet. He took a towel from a beverage cart and grimly wiped the grimy water from his neck and the shirt and lapels of his tuxedo.
She’d gotten away.
How was it possible?
He scowled in fury. He’d never had any woman turn him down before for anything. He’d never had any woman even pretend to resist.
Lia Villani had not only resisted him, she’d outrun him.
Crumpling the wet towel angrily, he tossed it on the empty tray of a passing waiter. Clenching his jaw, he looked across the ballroom.
He saw Nathan on the crowded dance floor, swaying with a plump-cheeked girl with honey-blond hair.
Roark ground his teeth. He’d been chasing the fleet-footed countess all over Midtown, nearly breaking his neck and getting soaked in the process, while Nathan was flirting on the dance floor?
His old friend must have felt his glower across the ballroom, because he turned and saw his boss. At the expression on Roark’s face, he excused himself from his pretty blond dance partner, kissing her hand after walking her off the dance floor with visible reluctance.
When Nathan was close enough to see Roark’s wet hair and tuxedo, his jaw dropped. “What happened to you?”
He ground his jaw. “It doesn’t matter.”
“That was quite the show you put on with the countess,” Nathan said brightly. “I hardly know which scandalized everyone more—the million dollar bid, your make-out session on the dance floor, or the way you both ran out of here like you were in some kind of race. I didn’t expect you to return so quickly. She must have agreed to sell you the property in record time.”
“I didn’t ask her,” Roark snapped.
Nathan’s jaw fell open. “You paid a million dollars to get her alone on the dance floor, and you didn’t even ask her?”
“I will.” He furiously pulled off his wet tuxedo jacket, tucking it over his arm. “I promise you.”
“Roark, we’re running out of time. Once the deed is signed over to the city—”
“I know,” Roark said. He opened his phone and dialed. “Lander. Countess Villani left the Cavanaugh Hotel in a yellow cab five minutes ago. Medallion number 5G31. Find her.”
He snapped the phone shut. He could feel the elite families of New York edging closer to him. Most of them looked at him with bewilderment and awe.
Who was he? their glances seemed to say. Who was this stranger who would bid a million dollars for a dance…and then ruthlessly kiss the woman that every other man wanted?
He tightened his jaw. He was a man who would soon build seventy-story skyscrapers on the Far West Side. A man who would start a new business district in Manhattan, second only to Wall Street and Midtown.
“I know you.”
Roark turned to see the white-haired blue blood who’d brought Lia her champagne. He had to be in his sixties, but powerful and hearty still. “I know you,” he repeated, furrowing his brow. “You’re Charles Kane’s grandson.”
“My name,” Roark stared at him coldly, “is Navarre.”
“Ah, yes,” he mused, “I remember your mother. She had that regrettable elopement. A trucker, wasn’t it? Your grandfather could never forgive—”
“My father was a good man,” Roark said. “He worked hard every day of his life and didn’t judge anyone by the money they made or the school they attended. My grandfather hated him for that.”
“But you should have been at his funeral. He was your grandfather—”
“He never wanted to be.” Folding his arms, Roark turned away from the man dismissively.
The emcee of the auction hurried forward to get his attention. Roark recognized Richard Brooks, a Brooklyn land developer who’d once worked for a Navarre subsidiary.
“Thank you so much for your bid, Mr. Navarre,” the emcee gushed. “The Olivia Hawthorne Park Foundation thanks you for your generous donation.”
Just what Roark needed—a reminder that he’d just pledged a million dollars toward the very project he was trying to destroy! His lip curled into a snarl. “My pleasure.”
“Will you be in New York for long, Mr. Navarre?”
“No,” he said sharply, and before the man could ask him any more questions, he pulled a checkbook from his tuxedo coat pocket and swiftly wrote a check for a million dollars. He held out the check, not allowing a single bit of emotion to appear on his face.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Navarre,” the man said, bowing as he backed away. “Thank you very much.”
Roark nodded, his face cold. He hated these little obsequious toadies. Fearing him. Wanting his money, attention or time. He glanced at all the women staring at him with frank longing and admiration. Women were the worst of all.
Except for Lia Villani. She hadn’t tried to lure him.
She’d run away.
Faster and more determined than Roark, she’d managed to get away from him in spite of his best efforts.
