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Clare had noted that he managed to keep his exploits out of the papers—and his photo. Which was probably why she was so surprised by King in the flesh.
Clare glanced around the dining room. It was laid out with over fifty round tables, all with white tablecloths overlaying burgundy ones. She couldn’t miss the lavish bouquet of roses that adorned each table, or the careful positioning of the cutlery, glasses and elaborately folded serviettes. Of course King wouldn’t settle for anything less than stylishly elegant.
She lifted her chin. The perfect venue for her trap. Public enough to be safe; private enough to get away with what she was about to do.
Everyone else was seated when Clare arrived at the main table. She cast a lazy glance around the guests, taking in the heavy-set men accompanied by wives laden with expensive jewellery, the younger men with pretty companions hanging on their every word. And Mark King.
‘Welcome, Miss…?’ King rose from the table and gestured to the chair on his left. On the other side was the woman in red she’d ousted on the dance floor.
‘Thank you.’ She ignored the question and allowed him to help her into her seat, aware that all eyes were on her. He moved her chair in and she felt his knuckles brush the skin on her back, causing an irritating shiver to course down her spine.
‘I’m afraid I’m at a loss.’ King’s voice was deep and demanding, his gaze sharp.
‘I find that hard to believe.’ She took a sip of champagne, casting him a look of defiance from beneath lowered lashes. She’d been in business long enough to hold her own in company such as this.
King took his own seat, leaning close to her. ‘Are you avoiding giving me your name, or are you just playing coy?’ he whispered with a vague hint of annoyance.
‘I assure you, I’m not playing.’ Clare could hear the edge in her voice and added a smile to tone down her slip.
She saw King raise an eyebrow. ‘What’s your business, then?’
‘Much the same as yours, I’d say.’
King turned in his seat to give her his full attention. ‘Why did you walk away like that?’
‘Like what?’ she asked innocently, very aware that most of the occupants at the table were hanging on their every word. It surprised her that he’d confront her so openly, in front of his guests, but then King was about the most arrogant, self-assured jerk she’d ever met. He probably didn’t care what anyone thought of him.
A muscle in King’s jaw twitched. ‘I personally invited everyone here tonight.’ King glanced around the room. ‘And I can tell you, you weren’t one of them.’
‘Really?’ Clare opened her serviette with a deft flick of the wrist and laid it across her lap. ‘Are you sure?’
Clare struggled not to smile. She had him there. She knew he was so busy that he needed three secretaries to keep up with his workload, plus two personal assistants, both men, which confirmed the fact that he was still serious about work—no distractions. Even his female secretaries were over forty and married, to ensure everyone’s mind stayed on their work.
A thoughtful smile curved King’s mouth, softening his features. ‘You have me there.’ He twisted in his seat and raised his hand. ‘John?’ A man at the next table turned nervously. He rose and approached, his tall, dark and lanky frame looking pretty spiffy in his dinner suit—but then most men looked great in black.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘John, here, is my personal assistant. He took care of the invitations.’ King smiled. ‘John, did you invite this young lady?’
John looked from his boss to Clare, obviously confused. ‘Over two hundred invitations went out, sir. But I’ll do my best. Your name?’
Clare smiled at King.
‘She won’t give her name, John. Surely you can remember inviting a young woman?’
John shrugged, looking quite helpless. ‘Security is tight, so she must have had an invitation.’ John gave Clare an odd look of confusion. ‘We could have her taken out, if you wish, sir.’
‘Perhaps that would be best.’ King’s expression darkened. ‘If you don’t tell me your name then I’ll have Security escort you out.’
Clare shrugged. ‘If you’d rather throw me out than—’ She broke off deliberately, taking another sip of the champagne, casting a look around the table at the curious faces.
‘Than what?’ His mood veered sharply to anger.
‘Than work it out for yourself, then of course—go ahead.’
King stiffened as though she’d struck him. Silence descended on what little conversation there had been at the table. Slowly his tight expression relaxed into a smile that lit his eyes and dimpled his cheek.
Clare felt an unwelcome surge of excitement at the warmth of his smile. She wrenched her attention off King to the roses on the table, taking a long, deep breath. But she couldn’t help herself. Her gaze wandered to him again.
King dismissed John with a wave and turned his attention back to her. His grey eyes stabbed her, as though he was trying to penetrate her defences with his look alone.
She slowed her breathing and willed her heart to do the same, praying someone would distract King from her before she lost her nerve.
A waiter laden with a tray of steaming soup bowls moved between them. He placed a bowl in front of her.
Clare looked up at him. ‘What sort of soup is it?’ The opportunity for a break from King’s intensity was welcome. It might even break his train of thought, if she was lucky—if she was very lucky.
‘It’s champagne and pear.’ The waiter gave her a smile and a conspiratorial wink. ‘All vegetarian, miss.’
‘You’re a vegetarian?’ King pounced. ‘That’s very trendy of you.’
‘I’m not a vegetarian to pander to any social trend.’ Clare snatched up her spoon and plunged it into the misty green liquid. She’d be damned if she was going to explain her lifestyle decisions to King! She concentrated on eating, on how the smooth and gentle soup caressed her tastebuds with flavour before slipping down her throat.
‘For health, then?’ suggested the woman in red next to him.
‘Yes.’ Clare smiled warmly past King to the pretty young blonde. She’d been so intent on King she hadn’t given her a second thought. Shoving her aside on the dance floor was one thing—that was business—but to ignore her over a meal was another. Besides, she had to be barely twenty—just a girl.
‘How did he know that you were concerned about it being vegetarian?’ King gave her another raking gaze. ‘Unless they knew you were coming? You phoned them or spoke to them?’
‘Yes.’ Clare took another mouthful of the divine soup. It was her cousin Paul’s creation. She’d had it several times before, while he was learning to be a chef, but this was her first opportunity to dine where he worked without him. Paul was like a brother to her, only two years older than her twenty-seven years, and they were close. They’d grown up under the same roof.
‘Yes to which one?’ King brandished his soup spoon at her as though it were a weapon.
‘Whatever.’ Clare shrugged. Paul had smuggled her into the charity dinner, and all she’d had to do was promise she’d accompany him to the next social event to enhance his image. Some career strategy, she guessed.
She broke her bread roll apart and buttered it lazily, very aware of King’s eyes on her. ‘How do you know Mark?’ she asked the girl in red, whose face kept appearing over King’s shoulder.
‘I’m a close friend of the family,’ she bit out defensively. ‘I’m Sasha Taylor-Jones.’
‘Beautiful name.’ Clare tried to swallow the smile that was threatening to erupt. The look on King’s face at being ignored was priceless. ‘You’re very kind, doing Mark the favour of accompanying him. He would have been embarrassed to have arrived solo.’
Sasha blushed. ‘Actually, he’s doing me a favour—though you wouldn’t think it.’ She cast his back a dirty look and ran a hand over his shoulder. ‘Did you know he’s just been nominated for Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year?’
‘Has he?’ Clare smiled her amusement. If only the organisers knew what he got up to with poor innocent young girls, they’d crown him the most opportunistic bastard of the year. She gave Sasha a second look. Was she the next victim?
King’s eyes darkened. ‘Will you ladies stop talking about me as though I wasn’t here?’ He swung back to Sasha.
‘Mark, don’t be angry with her,’ Clare chastised him.
‘And don’t call me Mark. Hell, I don’t even know you.’
She could tell it was killing him. If he knew her name then he’d find out everything he needed to know in about two minutes flat, and that wasn’t what she had in mind. She had something more memorable planned.
Something that King wouldn’t ever forget.
CHAPTER THREE
HOW her little sister had ended up in King’s bed concerned Clare. It wasn’t as though they frequented the same circles. King’s realm was a world unto itself. Even with her own lucrative transport company’s success, she couldn’t hope to come anywhere close to it.
The sort of wealth and position he’d built for himself were what dreams were made of. Clare let her gaze wander over his dark hair, his strong jawline, and the quirk of his lips. Surprisingly, he looked quite normal for a millionaire, apart from being aggravatingly handsome.
Meeting King made her goal of owning her entire company seem not so far-fetched. If this guy could do it she was certain she could, too. One day.
‘You may not know me. But I do know you.’ Clare laid her spoon in her empty bowl and met King’s stormy eyes. ‘I know your parents split up when you were ten and you spent the next eight years moving from one to the other while your mother searched for love. Your father was declared bankrupt in seventy-nine and eighty-six—when you were ten and seventeen respectively.’
Mark’s eyes flickered, and a shadow flashed across his features.
She suppressed a smile of satisfaction—the investigator had been worth the money. ‘You studied business economics overseas, then returned to invest your inheritance from your grandparents. Do I need to go on?’
‘So you’ve done your homework.’ His voice hardened. ‘Are you going to tell me what you’re after?’
‘No. But I’ll tell you this—’ She leant close to him, breathing in his spicy cologne. ‘We have mutual acquaintances.’
His eyes widened at her admission. ‘Ha, it was one of the guys, wasn’t it?’ He laughed, darting looks around the table. ‘Which one of you jokers is responsible?’
Two of the men cleared their throats, three others shrugged, and they all cast curious looks at King.
King snapped his attention back to her, his eyes smouldering.
Clare tried to smother a laugh at his confusion. She had him going. This was even better than she’d planned.
The waiters removed the empty bowls and King dodged around them to see her. ‘How long are you going to play this game?’
Clare waited until the table had been cleared, then she leant close to him again. ‘Are you bored with me already?’
‘Yes.’
But the fire in his eyes told her otherwise. ‘Oh, my.’ She patted his hand lightly. ‘You have it worse than I thought.’
‘What?’ King’s eyes were glued to where her hand covered his.
‘Boredom,’ she said knowingly, lifting her hand and placing it on her lap, still tingling from the contact. ‘You know you age prematurely if you’re bored? It can lead to depression and all sorts of mental conditions.’
‘Is that true?’
She allowed herself a smile. ‘No idea, but it sounded good.’ It was like dangling candy in front of a child. Too easy.
A waiter presented Clare with her entrée: a miniature risotto. It was shaped in an oval and topped with caramelised onions. She cast a casual glance around the table—the others had each received a mushroom and ham torte, garnished with snow pea shoots and long curls of carrot.
The touch of King’s hand on her thigh almost made her jump. Almost. She hadn’t expected it. For some silly reason she’d assumed she wouldn’t have to endure physical contact with him until later—much later. There was no doubt now that he was a fast mover.
His fingers stroked her skin, arousing every nerve in her leg, in her stomach, in her entire body. His hand was so warm, so firm and so maddening! He had probably swept her little sister away with his charms before she’d had a chance to think.
‘I hope you’re not bluffing, Miss…?’ His thumb massaged her muscle, working higher up her leg. ‘What the hell am I meant to call you?’
‘What do you want to call me?’ she said calmly. Clare steeled herself against the disturbing sensations his hand on her thigh caused through her body. She took a small bite of the rich rice dish, another of Paul’s, focusing on the meal rather than her body’s traitorous response to King.
‘How about Scarlet?’ Sasha offered. ‘From that old classic movie.’
‘But you’re in red, not me.’ Clare couldn’t help but notice the way Sasha touched King, lightly but possessively. Poor Sasha was laying herself open to King, as good as screaming Ready, willing and waiting. If she had any idea where his other hand was…
‘You’re right.’ Sasha chewed her bottom lip, running a hand absently up King’s arm, over his nicely built muscles and resting it on his shoulder.
‘How about the Black Widow?’ King’s hand reached the top of her split and traced the edge of the fabric with his fingertip.
Tingles of awareness shot to her toes. ‘I’m in black, but I’m no widow.’ Clare took another portion of the risotto and put it in her mouth as casually as she could manage, willing herself to chew and swallow without choking, without balking.
The need to slap his hand away was swamping her. How dared he treat her like this? With no respect for Sasha, no consideration for all the hearts he’d left behind him, cracked and bleeding.
Clare swallowed the lump of risotto, helping it down with several gulps of her wine. She looked dubiously at the small serving on her plate. She’d hoped to avoid as much conversation as manners allowed, but she figured having her mouth full wouldn’t last long as an excuse.
‘Never been married?’ King nodded and scooped his entrée into his mouth, looking as if he wanted to get the distraction out of the way as quickly as possible.
Clare took more of the deep red wine. How was she going to last an entire evening with King and his tenacity? She put more risotto in her mouth, then shook her head, cursing herself for not pacing her risotto to the questions she didn’t want to answer.
The smile on King’s face suggested he was pleased.
‘What about something from Shakespeare?’ Sasha glared at Clare as though she was loath to continue a conversation that didn’t revolve around herself, but beamed at King like a puppy wanting a reward.
‘Hmm, Lady Macbeth comes to mind.’ King’s voice was deep and husky, his hand caressing her bare skin with slow, sensual movements designed to muddle minds. ‘We’ll call you m’lady, then.’
Clare smiled, covering her disgust. It was all she could do to let him keep touching her leg without breaking his nose. After what he’d pulled on her sister…She gritted her teeth, swallowing the tirade of abuse that threatened to erupt.
After her dad had left Clare had looked after her little sister, Fiona, while their mother had worked three jobs. Even living with her mother’s widowed sister and her son hadn’t eased her mother’s burden. The debt her father had left behind had been painfully large.
Clare had pulled strings to get Fiona a job in her office when she’d left school early, unable to cope with the pressure. And she’d retired her mum as soon as her business had made enough to buy a home for her in the Dandenong Ranges. She should have sent Fiona up there too—protected her from the harsh realities of life and men like King.
‘Your meal, miss, with compliments from the chef.’ A waiter winked at her, then laid a plate in front of her. The rich aroma of the dish drifted upward. It was another of Paul’s—a vegetable lasagne with chilli, vegetables and tomato, topped with exotic cheeses.
She concentrated on eating, even though her stomach felt leaden with King’s eyes continually on her.
Clare was thankful he needed both hands to tackle his steak. His hand on her leg had been sending a steady stream of interference to her brain. And she needed all her wits about her if she was going to take this guy down.
King ate almost silently, only occasionally joining in the table’s conversation and twice responding to Sasha’s questions. On the whole, Clare supposed, he was mulling over the facts and trying to figure her out.
‘I know you’re around twenty-seven, twenty-eight,’ King stated coolly, pausing as dessert was served. ‘You’re in a high position in business, or you own your own. You’re well-off, you don’t live far away, and you haven’t had any serious relationships.’
Clare’s spoon stopped halfway to her pastry. She turned to him, her blood pounding in her ears. ‘How?’
