began idly flicking through it, just to pass the time, and might have missed her picture altogether if his attention hadn’t been attracted by the headline above it: MODEL GIVES UP BLOSSOMING CAREER TO MARRY NOTED SCIENTIST.
It had been years since Luke had made his living doing fashion magazine layouts, but during that time many of his friends had been models—and some had been more than friends—so curiosity had him open the double page in his lap and look to see if this particular model was anyone he knew.
His eyes skimmed the kissing couple to see if he recognised them, but it was impossible with their faces obscured—though he noted that the bridegroom had greying hair. So he scanned the words beneath, looking for names.
No bells rang in his brain when he read that a twenty-two-year-old model named Rachel Manning had married noted geneticist Patrick Cleary at St Mary’s Cathedral, Sydney, that Saturday afternoon four years previously. It was only when his gaze dropped further, to another smaller photograph of the bride alone, that he recognised her.
Had he gone as white as a sheet?
Luke fancied that he had.
His knuckles certainly went white as his fingers tightened around the pages, his eyes wide upon the photograph of the smiling bride—the gloriously golden-haired and exquisitely beautiful bride.
How innocent she looked in her white bridal gown, he thought savagely. The picture of perfect purity. The very essence of untouched womanhood.
A rage began to grow inside him as his shock gave way to anger. She’d been married! The bitch had been married!
My God, it explained so much. So damned much!
There had been so many elements of that night which had stayed to haunt him. So many unanswered questions.
Now he had the answers.
Or did he?
Just because she’d been married four years ago it didn’t mean that she’d still been married eighteen months ago. There was such a thing as divorce, wasn’t there? Maybe she wasn’t an adulterous little tramp. Maybe there were other reasons why she’d acted the way she had that night—why she’d chosen to disappear while he was asleep, without leaving a trace of her true identity.
And maybe pigs might fly, came the blackly cynical thought.
‘Dr Evans is ready for you now, Mr St Clair.’
Luke schooled his face into what he hoped was a normal expression, snapped the magazine shut and placed it back on the pile in the corner.
Forget her, common sense whispered. She’s bad news.
He stood up and walked over to where the dental nurse was waiting for him in the now open doorway. Her petite prettiness didn’t even register. He no longer felt nervous either. She dominated his mind again, turning his thoughts from the present.
Luke distractedly settled in the dental chair and closed his eyes, his mind whirling with memories. But how could he forget her now? Now that she had a name.
Rachel.
He hadn’t known her name when she’d picked him up at the exhibition that night eighteen months ago. Hadn’t known it the next morning, when he’d woken to find her gone.
Rachel...
It didn’t suit her, he decided viciously.
Oh, it suited the bride in the photograph, but not the sultry feline creature who had undulated into his sight that night. Rachel sounded like a lady—but it had been no lady who’d boldly approached him within seconds of spotting him leaning against a pillar, who’d stolen his drink from his hands and taken a deep swallow, who’d smiled seductively at him over the rim before uttering the most astonishingly forthright proposal he’d ever heard from a woman.
And he’d heard a good few in his time.
The dentist was talking to him as he worked, but Luke didn’t hear a word. He was back at that exhibition, hearing her say those astonishing words again, reliving every moment of that unforgettable but ultimately soul-destroying night.
CHAPTER TWO
‘I HAVE a hotel room nearby,’ she said in a huskily sexy voice, her incredible green eyes locked to his all the while. ‘If you’re as bored as you look, perhaps you’d like to join me there.’
Luke straightened, glad that his drink now rested between those long, elegant fingers with the equally long bronze-tipped nails. Otherwise he would surely have spilt his drink down his front. Though perhaps that might not have been such a bad idea. Things were happening down there which could do with a spot of cooling down.
He stared deep into those exotic green pools, because it was safer than looking at the rest of her. Not that he hadn’t already had a damned good look as she’d slowly sashayed towards him across the gallery floor.
She had a stunning face—exotic perfection framed by a wild tawny blonde mane—but an even more than stunning body. Tall and slender, with high, firm breasts, a riveting cleavage and long, long legs which ran right up to her tiny waist. Or so it seemed.
Dressed a touch obviously for his usual taste in women, her leopardskin-print mini left nothing to the imagination. Hell, if she was wearing anything underneath he couldn’t spot it. The silky material clung like a second skin, the halter-necked style leaving her shoulders and arms bare, the short, short skirt showing an expanse of firm tanned thigh which would do a stripper proud.
This last thought made him wonder what she did do for a living. Though perhaps it was better if he didn’t know.
Normally he was attracted to cool, classy types, sophisticated career women who exuded an understated and challenging sexuality which left it up to him to do the chasing. They sent out silent and very subtle messages for him to follow. They didn’t openly invite, like this bold creature.
‘Are you in the habit of propositioning perfect strangers?’ he drawled, trying not to sound as shocked as he was feeling. Or as aroused.
He told himself that it was because he hadn’t been with a woman since he’d broken up with Tracy a couple of months before. But underneath he knew this wasn’t so. He’d wanted this she-cat the moment he’d set eyes on her.
A slight frown drew her perfectly arched eyebrows close together. ‘You’re American,’ she said.
He could have enlightened her, but something... some indefinable tension which this mistaken conclusion was evoking in her, made him keep his Australian heritage to himself. He’d been told that he’d picked up an American accent, but he hadn’t believed it till that moment.
‘You don’t like Americans?’ he asked, taking the drink back from her suddenly still hands and draining it dry. He had a feeling he might need to be a little drunk to get through this evening.
‘That depends,’ she said, a touch warily. ‘Are you holidaying here? Or staying indefinitely?’
‘Holidaying,’ he said, quite truthfully. But I might stay indefinitely, came the dark thought. If it means I can spend every night with you.
Already he could feel the blood rushing hotly to his loins. Already...
His flesh might have become a painful and obvious embarrassment if he hadn’t been wearing a longer-line sports jacket loosely over casually fitted dark trousers which also had plenty of room. Luke could put up with the discomfort, if it was his alone to contemplate and suffer in private.
He had no intention of letting this feline huntress see that he was ready prey for her animal-like sexuality. As much as he was turned on by her amazingly forward approach and absolutely knockout body, his male ego insisted that he play hard to get for a decent amount of time.
At least a minute, came the drily self-mocking thought.
‘Does that disqualify me?’ he said lazily.