The Sweetest Revenge. Emma Darcy

But she’d made it to here without being accosted—the all-black funereal garb probably an intimidating factor that had worked for her—and now she was being invited to enter by his voice.

      She had to go through with it.

      Stupid not to, at this point.

      Nevertheless, her heart was thumping erratically as she turned the knob and pushed the door open. Her mind was so highly energised, she had the weird sensation of floating as her quivering legs took the few necessary steps to move into the room to face the man and the feelings she’d come to confront.

      Except he wasn’t facing her at all.

      Nor even looking at her.

      His attention was trained entirely on … her fairy princess wings!

      ‘See?’ he said, gesturing to a length of fabric draped over a nearby chair. ‘A perfect match!’

      Shock held Barbie speechless. Her gaze moved slowly from the silvery organza to the man who had gone to the trouble of acquiring it. Would a shallow rat want to fix her wings? Wasn’t Leon Webster in the process of paying the cost of replacing them? What was going on here?

      She wished she could read Nick’s mind. His expression in profile seemed relaxed into a smile, but what did the smile mean? Was he remembering her as the fairy princess, anticipating more from her? Or calculating how to get more?

      A convulsive little shiver ran down her spine as she stared at him. He was so very handsome, even in profile, so strongly male. His thick black hair brushed the collar of his white shirt. He had the broad shoulders of a star swimmer and a taut sexy butt, outlined by the grey trousers he wore. She remembered her thighs being pressed to the hard ungiving muscularity of his, her breasts squashing against the hot wall of his chest …

      Her nerves leapt in shock as he suddenly turned, looking directly at her, his vivid blue eyes sharp and probing. The lingering smile was instantly wiped from his face and a frown creased his brow as his gaze raked her from head to foot and back again.

      Panic plunged Barbie’s mind into a fog of fear and set her heart fluttering in wild agitation. Would he—could he—recognise her, despite the large dark sunglasses and the black hat that covered her hair and dipped over her forehead? Her fingers closed more tightly around the base of the cone of black tissue paper which held the dead roses. She could use it as a self-protective weapon if she had to.

      ‘Who are you?’ he rapped out.

      Relief! He didn’t know. Barbie struggled to re-gather her wits. She was here to do a job, not get shattered again by this man. Every self-protective instinct screamed—get it right and go.

      ‘Mr. Nick Armstrong?’

      Her voice came out too soft and husky. She should have swallowed first. He was frowning more quizzically at her now. Had her tone struck a familiar chord with him? Was he matching it to the way she’d sung at his birthday party?

      ‘Yes,’ he answered belatedly, his gaze zeroing in on her mouth, studying it with highly discomforting intensity.

      Barbie was drawn into staring back at his, remembering how it had felt, how it had aroused such a stampede of wild sensations and needs …

      Rattled at finding herself so treacherously distracted from her purpose, she rushed into the set speech for this job. ‘I hereby present you with a Drop Dead Delivery.’

      ‘What?’ he demanded incredulously.

      Her nerves jangled at the sharpness of his tone. Somehow she found the strength of will to step forward, holding out the bundle of black tissue for him to take. ‘This was ordered for you,’ she explained.

      ‘By whom?’

      He didn’t take delivery. His arms remained at his sides, his refusal to accept her offering an innate challenge to her presence, and by stepping closer to him, Barbie had the overwhelming sense of having put herself in a danger zone. It was as though he emitted an electric charge. Her whole body was tingling with an extreme awareness of his powerful masculinity. She wished she could turn tail and run but knew instinctively he wouldn’t let her.

      The black tissue paper rustled slightly. She was shaking. Desperate to get past this contretemps with him, she quickly spelled out, ‘I understand from our client that you will know who the sender is.’

      ‘Someone who wants me to drop dead?’ he quizzed sardonically, still not taking delivery. His eyes were like blue lasers, boring through the dark cover of her sunglasses. ‘Now who would that be?’