The Billionaire's Contract Bride. Carol Marinelli

had been the first and last time she would play the part of his girlfriend. Zavier’s snide comments had seriously hit a nerve; the whole thing was starting to get out of hand. She would join the family for breakfast, make all the right noises, and then that would be it. Aiden would have to find someone else to fool his family.

      Her hopes for a discreet exit were foiled, though, when Marjory descended with a grim-faced Zavier.

      ‘There you are, darlings. How come you’re not dancing?’

      Tabitha forced a bright smile. ‘Aiden’s feeling a bit tired.’

      ‘Well, that’s no reason for you not to be dancing.’ For an awful moment Tabitha thought Marjory was suggesting they grab their handbags and dance around them together! The reality was far worse. ‘Zavier, why don’t you take Tabitha for a dance?’

      She braced herself for rejection. Zavier Chambers didn’t look like the kind of man who did anything he didn’t want to, and after the way he had addressed her earlier she was dismally confident of one thing: dancing with a money-grabbing gold-digger wouldn’t be high on his list of priorities. Not that she wanted to dance; ten minutes alone with this man had truly terrified her.

      ‘I’d love to.’

      She looked up with a start, and as he offered his hand had no choice but to accept. Standing, she turned somewhat anxiously over to Aiden for some support, but he really was the worse for wear now.

      Zavier’s hand was hot and dry, closing over hers tightly. As he led her to the dance floor Tabitha had the strangest urge to make a bolt for it, to wrench her hand away and run to the safety of her hotel room. As if sensing her trepidation, he closed his hand more tightly on hers, only letting go when they were in the middle of the tightly packed dance floor.

      Slipping his hand around her slender waist, he rested it there. She could feel the heat through her flimsy dress. A couple dancing past bumped her, forcing her closer to him. Zavier gripped her more tightly, steadying her as she toppled slightly.

      ‘You’re having a terrible night, aren’t you?’ He had to stoop to meet her ear, and as he did he held her closer. His hot breath tickled her earlobes, and despite the heat of the room Tabitha broke out in goosebumps as she felt his hands tighten around the small of her back.

      ‘Of course I’m not. Everyone’s been charming,’ she lied, in what she hoped was a convincing voice.

      But Zavier begged to differ. ‘You’ve been sitting on your own most of the night, trying to pretend you don’t mind. I’ve been watching you.’

      That he’d noticed Tabitha found strangely touching; that he’d been watching her she found pleasantly disturbing. But she didn’t answer at first. His hands on her back were having the strangest effect. All she wanted to do was rest her head on his chest, to let the heavy beat of the music fill her, to lose herself in the moment.

      ‘So this is a sympathy dance?’

      ‘No, I don’t do anything out of sympathy.’

      She wanted so badly to believe him, wanted to believe it was her stunning good looks that had brought him over—hell, she’d even settle for her witty personality—but the facts spoke for themselves: Marjory had commandeered the whole thing. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was high and slightly breathless.

      ‘For what?’

      Dragging her eyes up, she was stunned to see the change in him; the icy stare had melted, replaced by the moist sheen of lust, but his dilated pupils in no way softened the intensity of his gaze. Running a tongue over her lips, she forced a reply, confused at the sudden shift in his demeanour. ‘For you being forced to dance with me.’

      He didn’t say anything at first; then he bent his head and she felt the brush of his face against her hair. All her senses seemed to be standing rigid to attention.

      ‘Don’t be sorry,’ he said huskily. ‘After all, it’s only a dance.’

      This was the man who thought she was a conniving gold-digger—the man who had blatantly told her he was suspicious of her motives. But he was also the man holding her now, making her feel more of a woman than she had ever felt in her life. Everything about him forced her senses into overdrive: the exotic heady scent of him, the expensive cut of his suit beneath her fingers, the quiet strength of the arms holding her, the scratch of his cheek against hers. She gave up fighting it then. Nestling against his chest, she swayed slowly against him, relaxed under his skilful touch. Closing her eyes she inhaled deeply, every sense in her body attuned to the perfection of the moment.

      It wasn’t only a dance.

      To describe it as such was a travesty.