her blush. She had lied. Why had she lied? She couldn’t understand it.
‘Good old St Tropez!’ Liz was pouring herself a drink. ‘Patrick, did you tell her how many times you’ve been here?’
‘Yes, I did,’ Patrick lied, and now it was her turn to stare at him. He looked away from her, raking a hand through his jet-black hair. She saw him raise his glass to his mouth, take a drink, then look back at her with a hard, narrowed stare that focused on her eyes, then on her mouth, then moved slowly down her body in a rapid, unsmiling assessment, as though he had only just noticed her body—but how he noticed it now, in every detail, fast, fast, fast, whizzing over the curve of her full breasts, the narrow slenderness of her waist, down past her slim hips and on down over her legs—long, shapely legs—right down to her narrow ankles.
‘I love St Tropez.’ Liz was oblivious to their silent intimacy. ‘It’s such a beautiful place, full of so many…’
Patrick’s eyes met Emma’s suddenly, and the dark, dangerous desire she saw revealed in them made her want to run screaming from this sunlit deck.
‘Oh, look!’ Liz broke off her rhapsody of St Tropez. ‘Here come good old Toby and Charles!’
Emma dragged her hectic gaze from Patrick’s, breathing in shallow, inaudible little gasps as she struggled to come to terms with what she was feeling— and what he was so obviously feeling too. She told herself it couldn’t possibly be real. It must be some kind of mistake or accident. After all, nobody really felt physical attraction so powerfully. That was just something that happened in storybooks, films, romantic novels.
‘Evening all!’ called a jolly, boyish blond man in his mid-thirties. ‘Crack open the champers! I’ve arrived!’
‘Hi, Toby!’ Liz went to greet him with a kiss. ‘You’re looking awfully flushed! You must have caught the sun this afternoon!’
‘I always do. It’s the de Courcey skin. I think one of our ancestors must have been old Dracula himself.’
Emma was acutely aware of Patrick standing close to her, watching her with his heavy-lidded eyes. He was leaning against the rails, one strong hand close to the small of her back, and all she could think about was how close it was, and how very easily it could slide up on to her back, those long fingers moving lightly over her skin…
‘Toby, have you met my friend Emma Baccarat?’
‘No, but I can’t wait to do so! Look at that stunning figure!’
Emma smiled politely, shook his hand, aware of Patrick’s blue eyes on her, and of the long hand so close to her back.
‘What a cracker you are!’ Toby giggled. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me the new arrival was so gorgeous?’
Everyone laughed.
‘And have you met our cousin Charles?’ Liz was gesturing to the tall, elegant blond man who was with Toby. ‘He’s married to Natasha.’
‘The Wicked Witch of the West,’ Toby said, giggling.
‘Don’t be horrible about my poor darling Natasha,’ said Charles.
Emma barely noticed either Toby or Charles. She was too busy noticing Patrick Kinsella, standing beside her, stunningly gorgeous, unbearably handsome, frighteningly real…
‘How do you do, Miss Baccarat?’ Charles de Courcey said with infinite charm, shaking her hand, his dark eyes gentle and sweet.
‘Very well, thank you.’ Emma shook his hand and wished Patrick would disappear. ‘And you?’
‘Oh, marvellous. Had a lovely day; looks like it’s going to be a super night…’
Patrick finished his drink, moved with cool male grace to the table, put his glass down. Emma didn’t look at him but she saw every move he made, every ripple of muscle beneath that impeccable black dinner-jacket, every turn of his dark head and every flicker of his blue, blue eyes.
‘Uh-oh!’ Toby giggled suddenly. ‘Here comes The Evil One.’
Natasha appeared on deck looking drop-deadly in a shimmering silver sheath which she must have been poured into, for it clung to her every slender curve. Her dark hair was pushed back in a sultry swath, her heavy eyelids were outlined in black and her lips dripped bloodred gloss.
‘Vampirella, I presume!’ Toby joked.
‘Do be quiet, Toby,’ Natasha said, slinking towards them. ‘Don’t give Charles a drink, Patrick—he’s been knocking back the sherry all afternoon, and I don’t want him to lose consciousness too soon. Why, Miss Baccarat! Weren’t you told to dress for dinner?’
Emma barely registered the insult—she was too busy forcing herself not to feel what she was feeling.
‘I think Emma looks absolutely superb,’ Patrick murmured coolly, watching her from beneath those heavy eyelids and making her heart skip rapid beats.
‘Well, you would, Patrick!’ Natasha said waspishly. ‘No doubt you’ve decided to take up the challenge. After all, if anyone can get Miss Baccarat to fall wildly in love, it’s you.’
Emma stiffened like a board, her hand clutching her glass so tightly, she thought it might shatter into a thousand pieces. Over my dead body! she told herself furiously. Over my dead body!
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Toby.
‘Oh, we were having this conversation when they first arrived…’ said Natasha, but Emma wasn’t listeningshe was furiously remembering Patrick’s reputation as a lady-killer, playboy, seducer par excellence. She felt a fool, humiliated, aware now that Patrick Kinsella had probably elicited these responses in her through experience or cynical manipulation or some other technique which she had no defence against.
I knew they weren’t real feelings, she thought angrily, sipping her drink too fast. I knew feelings like these didn’t exist outside storybooks.
‘…and she said she didn’t believe in love or romance.’
Emma’s face was burning angry crimson. She didn’t know where to look or what to say. She wanted to die.
‘So I told her she must want someone to kiss from time to time…’
Patrick moved coolly, suddenly, and as his powerful body blocked the others from her view Emma looked up into his clever, serious eyes and felt breathless all over again because he clearly understood what was going on inside her mind. She swallowed hard, dragging her gaze from his. He hesitated for a second, then his long fingers touched her cheek, making her quite literally catch her breath and stare up at him again, horrified.
‘…and then Patrick asked her if she’d ever wanted to kiss anyone…’
Emma looked down suddenly at his mouth, then went scarlet, felt more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life, and had no option other than to bend her dark head because there was nowhere else to hide.
Turning from Emma, Patrick cut into Natasha’s diatribe. ‘I think it’s time we all left for dinner.’
They all turned to look up at him, as though he were a god.
‘I booked the table for eight o’clock, and it’s nearly that now.’ He studied the black and silver Rolex on his wrist, the crisp white cuff shooting back to reveal a tanned, black-haired forearm. ‘As we have to sail at midnight, I think an early start is advisable.’
They left the yacht, a glamorous set of people bathed in gold evening light, walking along the expensive shopping streets while open-topped sports cars zoomed past and little red Lambretta scooters whizzed along carrying young people in jeans, their hair blowing back in the hot breeze.
Naturally, they fell into pairs as they walked. Charles and Toby. Natasha and Liz…
Patrick fell into step beside Emma. She felt her heart beating too fast.