Annoyed with the direction of his thoughts, but unable to stop himself, he looked up at the mirror above the bar, his eyes fixing on her reflection. Instantly he regretted his lack of self-control, for she was laughing at something one of the men was saying, her hand brushing against his arm as she leaned in closer to him.
Luis scowled. No doubt he was her boyfriend—for now. The rest were just watching and waiting. Or maybe she was watching and waiting to see which of the men in the room were prepared to make a move.
His eyes narrowed and he felt a swirling anger mingle with his desire as he realised that he himself was included in that demographic.
Why, then, did he find her so damn desirable?
It didn’t make any sense that someone like him would be attracted to someone like her—especially not now. Tonight of all nights he needed to stay detached. Yet, like a bull mesmerised by that flash of red, he could feel himself being drawn to her.
He ran his hand wearily over his face. It must be tiredness...or the heat.
Right, he mocked himself. Or maybe, like every other man within a five-mile radius, he wanted what she was offering.
Glancing over his shoulder at the group of men, he felt his chest tighten. Even from here he could feel their longing, spilling into the dark club.
Like it or not, he was no different.
His heartbeat slowed. Except that he was.
Sure, he’d had girlfriends. No one special, though. And nor was there likely to be any time soon, for more than anything he needed to be certain—and certainty was not a part of the dating equation. Chasing women was definitely not his thing either. It was Bas who had loved the thrill of the chase.
His hand tightened involuntarily around the glass.
The thrill of the chase—even just thinking the words made him feel slightly sick and, tilting his glass, he gazed down at the swirling contents and tried to distract himself from the guilt and remorse building inside his chest.
It didn’t work. And suddenly he knew that it was time to leave. That his little adventure was over.
Keeping his eyes low, he breathed out softly, then still clutching his glass, he turned and—
The glass slammed against his chest, beer slopping down his T-shirt.
He heard a soft cry of surprise, and then the reflexes honed by years of riding motorbikes kicked in. Reaching out, he grabbed the arm flailing in front of him just as his startled brain realised that it was her—the red-haired woman.
* * *
Cristina Shephard gasped.
One moment she’d been taking a selfie on her phone—the next she was falling forward. Her one conscious thought was, I knew I shouldn’t have worn these heels, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, she was being pulled upright, strong hands curving around her wrist and waist.
She breathed out in a rush as those same hands spun her round. ‘Sorry...’
Why was she apologising? she thought dazedly, almost forgetting to breathe. He’d walked into her. But she knew why, and as her fingers curled into warm, hard muscle she gazed up at the man in front of her.
All evening she’d been aware of him. How could she not be? He dominated the whole club—and not just because he was handsome in a way that made you look twice...actually, three times. First to check you weren’t seeing things. Then to marvel at such blatant perfection. And finally just to savour his extraordinary masculine beauty.
He was just so cool. With or without the leather jacket, he had an aura of calm assurance that suggested he was bigger than the sum of his problems. Or hers.
Although obviously not hers. She might never have shared them with anyone, but she knew her problems were too much for most people to handle. Or maybe it was her that was the problem. Her last boyfriend had more or less told her that—shortly after she’d found him in bed with her flatmate.
Her stomach clenched and, pushing aside that thought, she said quickly, ‘Thank you for catching me—and sorry about your beer.’
Luis stared at her. Up close, she was more than beautiful. She was devastatingly lovely. Her huge, melting turrón-coloured eyes with their fringe of probably fake eyelashes were perfectly offset by her flushed cheeks and the scarlet bow of her mouth. He wondered just how soft the skin was on her throat, and then instantly wished that he hadn’t as his brain began tugging him on an imaginary tour beneath her clothing.
Imposing an indifference he didn’t feel onto his features, he shrugged. ‘I was leaving anyway.’
Looking down into her beautiful, curious face, he couldn’t actually remember why that was the case. In fact he appeared to be having trouble remembering how to do a lot of things—like breathing and speaking. It was her fault, though, he thought irritably. Her beauty kept catching him off guard, so that each time he looked at her he forgot what he’d been planning to say.
As the silence grew, Cristina felt her lungs contract.
What was she doing here?
Tomorrow was going to be the biggest day of her life and she should be back in her hotel room, having a quiet night in on her own—just as she’d promised her mum. Only ‘quiet and alone’ were not a great combination, for that was when the thoughts came creeping into her head—thoughts that left her breathless with misery and doubt.
And so she’d come out, bumped into some people at a bar, and ended up here.
With him.
Her mouth felt dry and her breath was suddenly scratchy in her throat. It actually hurt to look at him.
She’d been surrounded by men all evening, but none of them had felt real. They were like chameleons—constantly changing according to their environment. It had made her feel nervous and unsteady, as though the solid floor of the club was actually quicksand.
Her heart tripped in her chest.
And then there was this man.
She liked it that he had ignored the dress code. Liked it, too, that he was happy with his own company. Not that he needed to be. She wasn’t the only women in the club who’d clocked him—for obvious reasons.
He definitely ticked all the boxes in the ‘tall, dark and handsome’ category. In fact his hair was almost black, and so long it curled loosely over the collar of his now damp T-shirt. Stubble that was definitely not ‘designer’ shadowed the clean lines of his jaw, and he had a small infinity tattoo on his wrist.
How on earth had he got past the gorilas on the door? she wondered distractedly. Even she’d had trouble getting in.
But probably he’d just walked straight in. Men with his kind of aura didn’t stop for doormen.
Aware suddenly that she had been staring at him for what felt like for ever, she glanced down at his almost empty glass and said quickly, ‘Please. Have mine.’
She held out the bottle but he shook his head.
‘Okay, then let me buy you another one? To make up for spilling yours.’
Pulse racing, she reached into her bag, pulled out her purse and—
‘Oh.’
Groaning inwardly, she gazed down at the handful of coins. She’d meant to go to the cashpoint on her way out but she’d forgotten.
‘It really doesn’t matter.’
He spoke quietly, but there was a firmness to his voice that cut through his casual manner and made her breathing accelerate in time with her heartbeat.
‘It does.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Look, Tomás will buy you one. He won’t mind.’
Luis