She shivered at the image and decided it was the coiled readiness and lazily alert gaze that took in everything around him.
As though sensing her scrutiny, Luke Sullivan turned his head and an errant ray of sunshine fell across his face. It illuminated a slashing cheekbone, hard jaw and a surprisingly sculpted mouth, leaving the rest of his face in deep shadow.
She watched his unsmiling mouth for a couple of beats and shivered again—this time for an altogether different reason. Dammit. The man just had to look at her and she was reacting like a high-school sophomore with her first crush.
Reminding herself that he was from a world so far removed from hers that he might as well be from another galaxy, Lilah bit her lip and followed other guests to the ballroom. She told herself that she didn’t care since he was out of most women’s league. But it didn’t help.
It also didn’t help that even in an elegant suit Luke Sullivan looked as relaxed as a warrior god in Zeus’s temple—like a hero from the Golden Age. It didn’t take much imagination to picture him swinging a huge bronze broadsword at some hapless mortal enemy or whipping out a handgun and going all Super Spy on hotel guests.
She’d seen him in scrubs and a lab coat, biker leather, formal suit and almost nothing at all, and had yet to decide which look suited him best. He was a man of mystery, and Lilah didn’t need anyone to tell her it would take a determined woman to peel away the layers to get to the real man beneath.
Not that he would allow it, she mused. The man had more layers than an onion and, frankly, anyone stupid enough to try deserved the tears that were sure to follow. She wasn’t stupid and had long ago come to the conclusion that men weren’t worth getting dehydrated for.
Shaking off the disturbing thoughts, Lilah paused at the ballroom entrance to scan the seating plan for her name. Besides, Luke Sullivan wasn’t her problem and she would do well to stay as far from him as she could.
Someone come up behind her and she knew by the way her entire back heated and tingled who it was, even before a deep voice said near her ear, “Table eight, near the far left French doors. We’re together.”
They were?
Lilah turned and found her nose practically touching a crisp white shirt. Startled to find him so close, she took a step back and slid her gaze up past a green-and-gold-patterned tie, strong tanned throat and hard jaw. Her gaze lingered for a couple of seconds on his mouth before lifting to look into deep green eyes surrounded by fringes of long dark lashes.
Her stomach gave an alarming little dip.
“Oh … uh … Dr. Sullivan,” she said lamely, and cursed the breathless quality of her voice. “It’s you.”
“Uh-huh.” He lifted one eyebrow in a move that made Lilah wish she could look as mocking. “Expecting someone? Webster, maybe?”
“Peter?” Lilah was confused. “Why would I be waiting for him?”
Luke rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Peter?” he demanded with a ferocious scowl. “Since when are you on first-name terms with the Emperor of ER?”
“Since it’s none of your business,” she shot back, angered and confused by his confrontational attitude. The last time she’d seen him he’d been dressed like a bad biker dude. But at least he’d been smiling. Right now, glaring at her as though she’d done something unforgivable, he looked like a sophisticated angel of doom. A very sexy angel of doom. Darn him. And darn those tingles.
She turned back to pretend interest in the seating plan and tried to ignore the way the hair at the nape of her neck lifted—as though straining towards him—like he was a giant magnet yanking at every atom of iron in her body. Then he leaned closer and the tingles turned into a full-body shiver accompanied by goose bumps and tightening nipples.
Her eyes widened and she sucked in a shocked squeak.
Stop that, she ordered, but her body ignored the warning despite every instinct alerting her to danger. Holy cow, his blatant masculinity called to something deep and primal and feminine within her—something that had chosen now, of all times, to awaken and unfurl deep in her belly. She held her breath and kept her body as still as she could. Maybe he’d think she was a statue and go away.
Please go away.
“Why did you tell everyone I saved the kid, wild thing?” he murmured softly in her ear, and the breath she’d sucked in escaped in a soundless whoosh. She felt at once dizzy and amazingly clear-headed; something that was not only impossible but alarming.
And she didn’t like it. And because she didn’t, her spine stiffened and she said, “You did.”
“Did not,” he denied softly, chuckling when she made an annoyed sound in her throat.
Schooling her features, she turned slowly to face him. “I have no desire to become a celebrity,” she informed him coolly. And she had no desire to become some rich playboy’s newest toy either.
Luke rocked back on his heels, his hands shoved casually in his pockets. One dark brow arched arrogantly. “And you think I do?”
Lilah shrugged. “You have broad shoulders.” She let her gaze drift over his wide, solid chest. “You can handle it,” she added, before turning on her four-inch heels and escaping into the ballroom.
THE INSTANT DINNER ENDED, Lilah escaped to the ladies’ room to freshen her make-up and shore up her shaky composure. What the heck had Jenna been thinking to seat her beside Luke Sullivan?
Okay, so she knew what Jenna had been thinking. It was what everyone else had been thinking ever since the tabloids had hit the stands this morning. Damn that picture. And damn the rosy cloud of romance Jenna was floating around on. She was madly in love and wanted everyone else to be too.
Little did she know that Luke Sullivan was the last person Lilah would ever consider having a romantic anything with. And although he wasn’t her boss, he was the boss’s nephew. In Lilah’s mind it was the same thing. It was a nightmare to go along with all the other nightmares she’d had recently. Like South America but with a guy she couldn’t ignore no matter how much she tried. A guy who refused to let her ignore him.
The harder she tried the more perverse pleasure he seemed to take in sabotaging her. Like brushing against her when she talked to the man on her left or accidentally bumping her arm and spilling her champagne down her cleavage.
And he smelled delicious. Like warm, virile man and cool, earthy forest. Every breath she took filled her senses with his wonderfully warm woodsy smell until she was dizzy with the notion of finding out exactly where it originated. With her mouth.
Or maybe that was just the champagne.
Whatever it was, she became excruciatingly aware of his every move, and soon found herself holding her breath, waiting for his next. And, boy, he made plenty. Playing with the stem of his wine glass, invading her space while he kept her champagne glass filled, or removing his jacket and tie, rolling up his shirtsleeves to expose the corded strength of his forearms and his big boney wrists. Accidentally brushing his knuckles against her thigh.
And breathing. Especially breathing.
It all combined to make her as twitchy as a preschooler in Sunday Mass, and if she’d gulped down more champagne than usual, it was his fault. As was the headache blooming behind her eyes.
Exhaling