‘This is your table, sir,’ the waiter said, distracting him.
He thanked the man, who had recognised him immediately. The seat was perfect. It gave him an excellent view of Emma. Seated between the bride and the chief bridesmaid, she appeared relaxed and animated, not a bit like the girl who had confronted him with such icy self-control outside the cloakroom. Of course she would have changed, he mused, trying to make sense of her manner. He’d learned only after she’d left his bed of the tragedy that would have brought her down to earth with a bump. Losing both her parents in a car chase with the police, only to discover they had been criminals on the run, would have been enough for anyone. The Fanes had been selfish and uncaring of their only child, by all accounts, but that didn’t stop a person hunting for love, even if they knew their quest was hopeless.
When he’d first seen her, Emma had been full of fire, but she looked exhausted now. The job here, he reasoned as he studied her. She was more composed than she had been in London. An attractive air of maturity had settled over her, as if life had taught her some harsh lessons and she had come through. She’d been wild the night they’d wound up in his bed. Her zest for life had been contagious. Now he guessed her behaviour that night had been an attempt to blot out the pain, he suspected that Emma had used him in an attempt to forget.
That piqued his pride. It made him all the more determined to seduce her—to have her want him for more than forgetfulness. But why was she still here, working a job with no future? Surely she could have stayed in Scotland for the funeral and then returned to her job and the training course in London? Was she trying to avoid him? And, if so, why?
‘Three beautiful women, aren’t they?’ the older woman sitting next to him commented.
He only realised now that he had been ignoring his dining companion and had been staring fixedly at Emma. There was only one beautiful woman in this room as far as he was concerned. ‘All the women in Scotland are beautiful, from what I’ve seen.’ he said, in an attempt to make amends for his lack of manners.
‘And you are another charmer from Brazil,’ the older woman observed shrewdly. ‘But our women seem to like you dangerous men.’
He huffed a smile as he stared at the groom. Tiago Santos had been a notorious heartbreaker until the bride, Danny, had tamed him. The matron of honour, Lizzie, was married to another member of the Thunderbolt polo team, and Chico Fernandez had hardly been noted for his scrupulous behaviour when it came to women before he’d met his wife.
He had no intention of changing, Luc determined as he turned to make up for his poor manners at the dinner table. ‘I trust you won’t find me too threatening tonight?’ he teased his wily companion.
‘I shall keep you at arm’s length,’ she assured him with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Forty years ago it might have been a different story. Just don’t hurt her,’ the matriarch added, her face turning serious as she stared at him unblinking.
‘Who are you taking about?’ he said, frowning as if he didn’t know what she meant.
‘Emma Fane.’ She gave him a look. ‘It’s no use trying to fool me, young man. I know exactly who you’ve been looking at. And my warning stands firm. That one’s had more trouble in her life than she deserves.’
He knew better than to deny his interest in Emma. She was in his sights. Hearing the affection with which his neighbour had just described her made him all the more determined to hunt her down. Emma Fane intrigued him. She aroused him. He wouldn’t let her get away from him a second time.
* * *
The band was playing. The ballroom was glittering with chandeliers, crystal and silver as it played host to an elegantly dressed crowd. But all Emma could see was Lucas. She pretended not to notice him. She had thought it would be easy to save all her attention for her friends, but couldn’t stop her gaze wandering, and each time she looked at Luc he was looking back. She found that thrilling and dangerous, like a promise that this wasn’t over yet. When the time came for her to leave her seat and help the bride get ready to leave the party with the groom, Luc was waiting for her in the hall.
She wasn’t ready for this. She would never be ready for this.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, adding a regretful smile, ‘I really can’t talk to you now.’
‘When?’ Luc demanded, his voice uncompromising.
‘I’m busy. Can’t you see?’ She stared pointedly after the bridal party as they started up the stairs.
‘Make time.’
‘I beg your pardon.’ She shot him a look.
‘You heard what I said,’ he repeated harshly.
‘You make it sound irresistible,’ she countered.
Luc glared at her. His voice held that same edge of command she remembered from London. It was the voice that had made her body thrill. Ignoring the pulse of lust, she moved past him.
He stopped her with his hand on her arm.
‘Let me go.’
‘No.’
His face was close, his eyes were blazing messages she didn’t want to see. ‘Are you always so direct?’ She pulled away, tightening the tension between them.
‘You should know,’ he murmured drily.
Sensation rocked through her. She remembered every one of Luc’s instructions. It didn’t help that his wicked mouth was tugging in the faintest of smiles as he stared into her eyes. He was letting her know that he understood the effect he was having on her. ‘I seem to remember you like me to be direct—and to direct you,’ he said.
‘How could you bring that up now?’ Her voice was low and tense as she glanced around, wondering who might have heard him.
Luc shrugged.
‘Excuse me, Senhor Marcelos. I need to go.’
‘Luc,’ he corrected her, his mouth tugging faintly.
Shaking her head with impatience, she tried again to move past him, and hated herself for being disappointed when he moved away first, holding his hands up as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Was she so easily seduced by Luc’s black charm?
No. She was not, Emma decided. Running up the magnificent staircase to catch up with the bride, she didn’t give him a backward glance.
* * *
He showered at first light with the temperature turned to ice. Nothing helped. He huffed a smile at his physical reaction to thoughts of Ms Emma Fane. She was only a matter of yards away, which didn’t help. She slept in the staff quarters beneath the eaves, the floor above his room, one of the housemaids had told him with a cheeky smile.
Securing a towel around his waist, he glanced at his face in the mirror and raked his hand through his hair. He couldn’t get Emma out of his head. He had to do something about this. She had bewitched him in London and that memory hadn’t died. Having slept on the problem, he thought he knew why she’d come home. Sometimes in life it was necessary to reboot before moving on, and where better could she do that than here amongst friends?
Towelling down roughly, he threw on his jeans, wondering where she was now. She had run away last night like Cinderella when the clock struck twelve—to look after the bride, she’d said. To avoid talking to him, he’d thought.
Maybe she had a boyfriend?
He swore viciously at the thought—then remembered he hadn’t seen her with anyone at the party.
Maybe her boyfriend worked at the hotel and couldn’t get away from his job?
Maybe. Emma Fane was an attractive woman. It seemed unlikely that she was on her own.
And who cared? It was none of his business. To hell with Emma Fane!