‘I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here,’ he began, his lips twisting half sardonically, and Samantha took a choking breath. His upper lip was quite thin, she noticed inconsequently, but the lower one was full and sensual. The mark of a sensitive nature, she wondered wildly, or simply an indication of brute strength?
‘I—it’s nothing to do with me,’ she said, aware that her voice had risen half an octave. She edged one of the cold-boxes forward so that it hid the knife from his view. Then, as her fingers closed around the handle, ‘Is—is Mr Ivanov expecting you?’
A faint smile touched his mouth. His lips parted to reveal even white teeth, and his tongue appeared to dampen a corner in a decidedly amused gesture. ‘Mr Ivanov?’ he echoed, as Samantha’s scattered senses registered the powerful attraction of that smile. ‘I gather you don’t know him very well.’
Samantha’s lips tightened. Did he mean because she hadn’t addressed him as Prince Ivanov? Or simply because she had said Mr Ivanov?
‘I—don’t,’ she declared, realising he hadn’t answered her question. Her fingers took a firmer hold on the knife. ‘Wh-why don’t you go up and see him?’
It was a calculated risk she was taking. She had no idea what he might do when confronted with a roomful of Prince Georgio’s guests, but at least it would give her a chance to call the police. And there was no point in trying to be a hero—a heroine—when he was so much taller and stronger than she was. She might find the courage to use the knife to defend herself, but she couldn’t see herself using it to stop him from invading the party. Indeed, the very idea of sinking its cruel blade into his yielding flesh was enough to bring her out in a cold sweat.
‘Yes,’ he said now, pushing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, ‘why don’t I do that?’ But then, dispelling the feeling of relief that his words had kindled, his heavy lids narrowed the penetration of eyes so dark, they seemed as black as his outfit. ‘So what are you doing down here?’
‘Me?’ It was almost a squeak, and Samantha cleared her throat before continuing. ‘I—–’ It was still too high, and she consciously tried to lower her tone. ‘I—I’m just the ca-caterer.’
‘The caterer?’ he echoed, half disbelievingly, and she realised that in her hip-length sweater and black leggings she didn’t look like anyone’s idea of a waitress. But she had changed out of the neat white blouse and short black skirt she had worn to set out the buffet tables. In here, five minutes ago, she remembered, in horror. God! She should be grateful he hadn’t surprised her in her bra and panties!
‘I—yes, the caterer,’ she confirmed, the memory of what could have happened giving her a momentary respite. ‘That—that’s what I’m doing. Packing up my things.’
His frown was thoughtful, drawing his straight black brows together. He had nice eyebrows, she thought, dark and vital, like his hair, and his nose was straight and well-formed, between bones that accentuated the hollows of his cheeks. Altogether, it was a disturbingly attractive face, she acknowledged, and then inwardly flayed herself for thinking so. For pity’s sake, the man was an intruder, or worse! How could she find him attractive? She must be losing her mind!
He moved again, approaching the table this time, and all thoughts of his appearance fled. All her old fears flooded back in full measure, and when he put out a hand to examine the nearest cold-box her nerve snapped. Snatching up the knife, she positioned it against her midriff, holding it with both hands, the handle towards her stomach, the blade pointing viciously outwards.
‘Don’t touch anything!’ she cried, unable to hold down her panic any longer. ‘Get—get away from the table. Or—or I’ll use this. Believe me, I know how.’
His expression was ludicrous. If she hadn’t known better, she might almost have believed he was as shocked as she was. He stared at her as if she had really lost her senses, and his hands came out of his pockets to perform a soothing gesture.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘calm down—–’
‘Keep away from me!’ Samantha was shaking like a leaf, and her hold on the knife was desperate. Her palms were sweating with the knowledge that she had really burned her boats now. She had shown him she didn’t trust him, and there was no turning back.
‘Please,’ he protested, ‘put the knife down. You’re making a terrible mistake—–’
‘You made the mistake in coming here,’ she retorted, glancing behind her, measuring the distance to the stairs. ‘If—if you have any sense you’ll get out of here. If you’re still here when I get back, the police will—ouch!’
Her words were brought to an abrupt halt when he lunged forward and grabbed her arm. Taking advantage of her momentary lapse in concentration, he grasped her wrist and twisted sharply. The knife fell to the floor with a loud clatter, and before she could turn away he jerked her hard against him.
Her first crazy thought was that she had been right: his body was much harder and tougher than Paul’s. And the second was that he was no gentleman. A gentleman wouldn’t twist her arm up behind her back until it felt as if it might break, or hold her as if there was some danger of her laying a karate chop across the back of his neck. The only kind of chops she knew about were lamb, and pork, and if it weren’t so serious she could almost find it funny.
A sob escaped her, but it was as much a suppression of the hysterical laughter that was bubbling inside her as an expression of pain. Nevertheless, he heard it, and his hold on her arm eased ever so slightly, as he drew back to look down at her.
‘Are you crazy, or what?’ he demanded, and she was relieved to see he looked no more menacing than he had done a few moments ago. But he had been drinking. She could smell it on his breath.
‘You—you ask me that!’ she got out, trying to free her other arm that was imprisoned by her side. ‘After—after breaking in here!’
‘Are you kidding?’ He blinked now, and she thought what absurdly long eyelashes he had, for a man. But she was making far too many personal observations about him, and she determinedly schooled her thoughts along with her expression. ‘I didn’t break in,’ he added impatiently. ‘Believe it or not, I have an invitation!’
‘You do?’ Samantha wasn’t sure whether she should believe him or not, but as he was holding the upper hand—in more ways than one, she acknowledged painfully—what choice did she have?
‘Yes.’ He let go of the arm he had been punishing, and transferred his hold to her waist. ‘Can I trust you not to pull another stunt like that, if I let you go?’
Samantha’s lips trembled, but a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘I—I think so,’ she said, becoming conscious of the underlying intimacy of their situation. Whether he realised it or not, she was acutely aware of his lean hips inclined towards hers, and the muscled thigh that was threatening to part her legs. ‘Are you going to? Let me go, I mean,’ she appended, as the ambiguity of her words brought an embarrassed wave of colour to her cheeks.
Amazingly, the ebony eyes darkened. Samantha wouldn’t have believed they could, and it wasn’t so much an increasing definition of colour as a deepening of quality, a softening, that gave the pupils a curious lightness.
‘Do you want me to?’ he asked, and there was a distinctly husky timbre to his hoarse voice now that caused a feathering of flesh all over her body. Dear heaven, he was sexy, she thought, her senses racing out of control. It wasn’t exactly what he was saying, it was the way he was saying it, and her tongue appeared to wet her lips in unknowing invitation.
‘I—–’ she began, knowing how she ought to answer him, but hesitating none the less. And then a voice that she remembered rather too well broke over them in shrill accusation.
‘Matt! Matt, is that you? In God’s name, what are you