cooled, to be replaced by an anxious fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Was he coming back? Was he expecting
her
to look for
him
after his impromptu seduction?
She didn’t know what game they were playing—had no idea of the rules.
Damn him
. Collecting her hat and parasol from behind the concierge’s desk, she made her way towards the bar.
Jake waved Ry and Stella off and headed straight for Reception. Business taken care of there, he stopped to collect a couple of sightseeing brochures on his way to the lobby bar.
He found a comfortable armchair in the corner, from where he could see the ballroom, and signalled the waiter. He knew Emma was still in there. He’d give her some space but if she didn’t materialise in ten minutes he was damn well going in there and hauling her out.
Folding the brochures, he slid them into his jacketpocket. His fingers collided with silk. Emma’s panties. He remembered her surprise, the passion in those deep blue eyes, when he’d stripped them off. The way her lips had parted on a moan of pleasure when he’d first touched that intimate flesh.
His body tightened all over again. The next time Emma writhed and moaned against him … He smiled to himself in anticipation. He had definite plans for the way their evening was going to go.
Han Solo and Princess Leia exited, with a lone cowboy in tow. No sign of Emma. He exhaled sharply through his nostrils and rechecked his watch. Was she saying a personal goodnight to everyone in the bloody ballroom?
His order arrived with a paper napkin and a bowl of peanuts. He set the unopened bottle of champagne and two glasses on the floor beside his chair and reached for his beer.
‘Good evening, Rhett.’
Jake took a second or two to catch on that the sultry come-hither voice was directed at him. He glanced up to see a well-endowed woman in her mid-thirties or thereabouts, in an embroidered medieval get-up, holding a cocktail glass brimming with blue liquid and a cherry on a stick.
He lifted his glass and drained half of it down then set it back on the table. ‘Hi.’
She took his half-smile as an invitation and spread herself out on the chair opposite him, placing her glass up close to his. She lifted the little stick to her mouth.
‘So.’ He kept his eyes off the cleavage obviously on offer and leaned back, crossed his legs. ‘Who are you tonight?’
Slipping the cherry between her glossed lips, she tossed her mane of auburn hair over her shoulder and aimed a killer smile at him. ‘The Lady of Shalott.’
He took his time to say, ‘No Mr Shalott?’
She giggled. The sound grated the way feet scrabbling down a rubbled cliff face to certain death grated. Clearly she thought he was interested in her as the night’s entertainment. And at some other time he might have been interested. Or not.
‘There
was
no Mr Shalott. It’s a poem,’ she informed him, in case he didn’t know.
‘Yes, Tennyson. Tragic circumstances. The girl loved Lancelot but he really wasn’t that into her, was he?’
She leaned forward on the edge of her chair. ‘But he didn’t
know
her. If he’d taken the time, things might’ve turned out different.’
‘But not necessarily for the better. Lancelot had his eye on someone else. The lady would’ve been disappointed.’ A thought occurred to him and he tried to recall if he knew her. ‘You and Ry weren’t …?’ He jiggled a hand in front of them.
She grinned. ‘No. I had no idea the groom was going to be Lancelot. I’m Ryan’s cousin. Kylie. From Adelaide.’
‘Ah … yes. Cousin Kylie from Adelaide.’
He’d heard about Wily Kylie—two husbands down, on the prowl for her third. He suddenly needed a drink, and lifted his beer.
Following suit, Kylie raised her glass and tapped it to his. Her eyes drifted to his mouth. ‘To a good night.’
Not if I hang around here it won’t be
. Like an addict, he suddenly craved the woman he’d partnered all day, not this silicone bimbo looking for
her
to look for
him
after his impromptu seduction?
She didn’t know what game they were playing—had no idea of the rules.
Damn him
. Collecting her hat and parasol from behind the concierge’s desk, she made her way towards the bar.
Jake waved Ry and Stella off and headed straight for Reception. Business taken care of there, he stopped to collect a couple of sightseeing brochures on his way to the lobby bar.
He found a comfortable armchair in the corner, from where he could see the ballroom, and signalled the waiter. He knew Emma was still in there. He’d give her some space but if she didn’t materialise in ten minutes he was damn well going in there and hauling her out.
Folding the brochures, he slid them into his jacketpocket. His fingers collided with silk. Emma’s panties. He remembered her surprise, the passion in those deep blue eyes, when he’d stripped them off. The way her lips had parted on a moan of pleasure when he’d first touched that intimate flesh.
His body tightened all over again. The next time Emma writhed and moaned against him … He smiled to himself in anticipation. He had definite plans for the way their evening was going to go.
Han Solo and Princess Leia exited, with a lone cowboy in tow. No sign of Emma. He exhaled sharply through his nostrils and rechecked his watch. Was she saying a personal goodnight to everyone in the bloody ballroom?
His order arrived with a paper napkin and a bowl of peanuts. He set the unopened bottle of champagne and two glasses on the floor beside his chair and reached for his beer.
‘Good evening, Rhett.’
Jake took a second or two to catch on that the sultry come-hither voice was directed at him. He glanced up to see a well-endowed woman in her mid-thirties or thereabouts, in an embroidered medieval get-up, holding a cocktail glass brimming with blue liquid and a cherry on a stick.
He lifted his glass and drained half of it down then set it back on the table. ‘Hi.’
She took his half-smile as an invitation and spread herself out on the chair opposite him, placing her glass up close to his. She lifted the little stick to her mouth.
‘So.’ He kept his eyes off the cleavage obviously on offer and leaned back, crossed his legs. ‘Who are you tonight?’
Slipping the cherry between her glossed lips, she tossed her mane of auburn hair over her shoulder and aimed a killer smile at him. ‘The Lady of Shalott.’
He took his time to say, ‘No Mr Shalott?’
She giggled. The sound grated the way feet scrabbling down a rubbled cliff face to certain death grated. Clearly she thought he was interested in her as the night’s entertainment. And at some other time he might have been interested. Or not.
‘There
was
no Mr Shalott. It’s a poem,’ she informed him, in case he didn’t know.
‘Yes, Tennyson. Tragic circumstances. The girl loved Lancelot but he really wasn’t that into her, was he?’
She leaned forward on the edge of her chair. ‘But he didn’t
know
her. If he’d taken the time, things might’ve turned out different.’
‘But not necessarily for the better. Lancelot had his eye on someone else. The lady would’ve been disappointed.’ A thought occurred to him and he tried to recall if he knew her. ‘You and Ry weren’t …?’ He jiggled a hand in front of them.
She grinned. ‘No. I had no idea the groom was going to be Lancelot. I’m Ryan’s cousin. Kylie. From Adelaide.’
‘Ah … yes. Cousin Kylie from Adelaide.’
He’d heard about Wily Kylie—two husbands down, on the prowl for her third. He suddenly needed a drink, and lifted his beer.
Following suit, Kylie raised her glass and tapped it to his. Her eyes drifted to his mouth. ‘To a good night.’
Not if I hang around here it won’t be
. Like an addict, he suddenly craved the woman he’d partnered all day, not this silicone bimbo looking for
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