Olivero's Outrageous Proposal. Kate Walker

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СКАЧАТЬ the end, exhausted by feeling harassed and oppressed, she’d resolved to come to the ball tonight and use the event as a way to break out of the predicament in which she found herself. Which was where the stranger across the room came in.

      Of course, this man obviously wasn’t slightly out of his depth like her. His height, stature and the fine cut of his clothes were the match of anyone here, and his expression showed that he wouldn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him. Which gave him an added advantage as the necessary partner in what she had hoped for tonight.

      Her partner in crime, as it were.

      It was as that thought crossed her mind that it seemed it had reached out and touched the man opposite. Because he stirred as if something had alerted him. That leonine head swung round, and his eyes clashed with hers.

      It seemed that in the moment her eyes met his the world suddenly tilted, lurching dizzily, so that she actually reached out a hand to press against the wall beside her and keep herself upright.

       Danger.

      The word seemed to flash wildly inside her head, making her bite her lip in a sort of a panic, but one that was mixed with excitement too. She’d wanted a way to put an end to Marcus’s over-persistent pursuit; it would be great if she could have a little fun as she did so. If fun was the way to describe the fizz this man put into her body.

      She’d started slightly in that moment of fierce contact, jerking her glass so that drops of the pale sparkling liquid splashed out of it, landing on the rich blue silk of her dress and marking it with damp, spreading patches.

      ‘Oh, no!’

      She had a tissue in her tiny silver clutch, but reaching for it with one hand while trying to balance the glass with the other only made things so much worse. The delicate stem of her glass flute was clutched between her fingers, the bag almost tumbling to the floor. Her desperate grab to stop it escaping made it slip dangerously in her grasp, slopping more wine onto the tops of her breasts exposed by the scooped neckline of her dress.

      ‘Allow me.’

      It was a cool voice, calm and smooth as silk, powerfully soothing. Alyse had barely enough time to recognise that it was deep, masculine and beautifully accented before a pair of hands—long, strong, bronze-skinned—reached out and took the vulnerable glass, the silver clutch from her, depositing them on a nearby table. Then he snagged up an immaculate white napkin and shook it loose before pressing it against her waist, padding at the spill that stained her dress.

      ‘Th-thank you.’

      The foolish weakness in her legs was still afflicting her, so she fought for the control she needed. But, in spite of her efforts, she still swayed awkwardly on the ridiculously high heels she was unused to wearing.

      ‘Steady.’

      That voice was closer, almost in her ear. Or perhaps that had something to do with the way he had stopped mopping her dry and now that powerful hand had closed around her own, holding her upright.

      ‘Thank you.’

      To her relief, her voice was stronger now, firmer, and she felt her balance return. She could stand upright at last, bring her head up, look him in the eye...

      And almost lost all that hard-won stability when she looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, deep and clear and bright as a Mediterranean ocean in the sun at the height of the day.

      The man who had been on the opposite side of the room now stood at her side, big and dark and disturbing. His tall frame blocked out the light, the sight of everyone else in the ballroom. The heat of his body seemed to reach out to enclose her, and the scent of his skin, mixed with some tangy cologne, was like a warm enchantment all around her so that inhaling it made her head spin in sensuous intoxication.

      ‘You.’

      This time she had enough thought left to twist her hand from under his and grab at the strong arm that was near to her. She felt the hardness of bone, the power of muscles bunch and tighten under the silk suit and knew a rush of heat and flame that seared along her nerves, threatening to melt her strength away in the same moment that she rediscovered it.

      ‘Me...’ he confirmed, the uneven smile that accompanied the single word strangely ambiguous.

      He took the napkin from the hand that still held hers, freeing it for use again.

      ‘Better get this dried off fast,’ he murmured, ‘before it ruins your dress completely.’

      ‘I—yes...’

      What else was there to say? And who else to say it to? It seemed that they existed in a private, closed off bubble, a world of their own while the buzz of conversation went on around her unabated.

      That proud dark head was bent, the brush of his waving hair soft against her cheek as he concentrated on the task of cleaning up the mess of wine. He was so close that she felt he must hear the unexpected thunder of her heart, see the way her breathing had sped up, bringing a rush of colour to her skin. That napkin was now moving over the edge of her neckline, crossing the point where blue silk met creamy flushed skin, stroking over the sheen of wine on the tops of her breasts.

      It was soft, delicate almost, but in the same second it felt like an invasion, far too intimate for the moment and their surroundings. Too intimate from him.

      ‘I think that will do...’

      She wanted to spin away, knocking his hands aside, so shaken by the effect his touch was having on her even through the folds of that starched linen napkin. But at the same time she wanted more of it. More of that touch and closer, nearer to skin.

      So she pushed the response from her mouth, afraid that if she wasn’t careful she would replace the words with others. Ones that her primitive female instincts wanted her to throw at him, the words more and please hovering dangerously close to her tongue.

      ‘I’m fine now—thank you.’

      ‘Yes, I think you are.’

      He was still so close that his warm breath stirred the blonde tendrils of her hair where they curled over her ear. But at least his hand had stopped that slow, caressing movement, and he had lifted it from her skin, bundling the napkin into a ball before dropping it back on to the table beside them.

      ‘So perhaps now we can start again.’

      The beautifully accented voice had a smile in it, one that was echoed in the curve of his lips. But those deep blue eyes had a cooler, assessing expression in them that made her feel uncomfortably like some specimen laid out on a microscope slide.

      ‘Or, rather, start.’

      He straightened up fully and it was only then that she realised just how tall he was, the way he had bent to his task disguising the long, lean frame that was approaching three inches taller than hers, even in the four-inch heels.

      ‘My name is Dario Olivero,’ he said, holding out a hand in a formal greeting that seemed ridiculous after that enclosed moment of heightened intimacy they had just shared. His voice sounded strangely rough, as if he was speaking from a dry throat.

      ‘Alyse Gregory...’

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