Alexei Constantin.
That was who her fantasy was—the man hunting down her father’s company. Bitter irony pierced Eve. Of all the men, in all the world, her dream man was Alexei Constantin…
But even if he hadn’t been it would not have made any difference, she knew, with a sagging of her shoulders in defeat. She would still have had to run, like Cinderella, from a ball she could never go to. Condemned to the only life she had, never to seek escape again.
A voice pierced her bleakness.
‘Cherie, you are not thinking about me—I can tell. If you were, you would look happier.’
Eve gave an apologetic moue.
‘I’m sorry, Pierre. I’m not very good company tonight.’
‘Tant pis—I shall make you smile, and then I shall take you to bed.’
A reluctant twitch formed at Eve’s mouth. Pierre Roflet had been trying to take her to bed ever since she’d known him, and right now she was glad of his company. He’d sauntered up to the roulette table half an hour ago, exclaiming at finding Eve here in the South of France unannounced, and swiftly removed her to the nightclub below the casino. Her father had turned briefly, seen who it was, and nodded his permission.
Eve had gone with Pierre with relief. She’d wanted only to return to the yacht, but she knew her father would not permit it until he was ready to go, and that could be some hours away. His luck, so it seemed, had finally turned at the roulette table.
So instead she was whiling away the time to the throb of music in the dimly lit nightclub, with Pierre to distract her. He was amusing, very lightweight, but not unkind. And right now she could do with some amusing, kind and lightweight company.
She’d let Pierre dance with her once, then retired to a table set among armchairs, letting Pierre rattle on with gossipy anecdotes and bestow over-the-top compliments on her. She’d sipped coffee and felt some of the bleakness drain from her.
Yet even so, now, when Pierre had abandoned her to order another coffee and a cocktail, she felt it returning. Blankly, she gazed out over the crowded dance floor. So many couples—some permanent, most temporary. While she…
For a few pointless moments she let her imagination go where it wanted. To the fantasy that had her in its grip. Out over the dance floor, to where she would be, her hands at the nape of his neck, her head resting on his chest, his hands resting lightly, oh so lightly, at her waist…
Sharply, she set aside her fantasy. Indulging it would only feed it, and what was the point of that? None. None at all.
‘Dance with me.’
Her head whipped round. Shock widened her eyes. Her heart surged in her chest. Her mouth dried like a desert.
Alexei Constantin stood there, holding out a hand to her.
‘Dance with me,’ he said again.
His eyes were dark. Very dark. She could not see their pupils.
Like a sleepwalker she put her hand in his, and felt his fingers close over hers. A frisson jarred through her. He drew her to her feet.
He did not look at her. Simply walked her out on to the dance floor.
And put his arms around her.
Her hands splayed against his chest, slipping past the lapels of his jacket to press against the fine, warm surface of his dress shirt. She felt his breath still a moment, then his breathing resume. Beneath her palms she felt the smooth hard muscle beneath the thin material.
Heat flared through her body, out along her cheekbones. She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at all. Could do nothing except let his hands on her back steer her, in a slow, sensual rhythm, into the dance.
Time stopped.
Everything stopped. Except what was happening to her now. But only for now.
She shut her eyes and let her forehead lower slowly, until it was resting on him.
And then she danced with Alexei Constantin.
He was insane, he knew. Every brain cell in his head told him that. He was insane to have gone anywhere near her again. Insane to have watched her, à deux with Pierre Roflet.
Watched Eve Hawkwood in action.
Pierre Roflet. Son of the president of a French investment bank that could, if Roflet père so chose, provide sufficient financial muscle to shore up Hawkwood and fend off the takeover.
A very suitable target for Eve Hawkwood’s skills.
Was that why he had done what he had? To give Roflet fils a chance to escape her toils? Even as the words formed, he knew them for a lie. He knew exactly, exactly what had made him do what he had just done.
He had wanted, just once more, to have this woman in his arms again. For one last time to enjoy the fantasy of what he had thought she might be. He didn’t care that she was nothing but an illusion, unreal. For this last, brief time he would believe the fantasy.
The music throbbed in his blood. Soft, sensual.
Like the woman folded against him.
Her body was so pliant, so slender. Her head bowed against him, her hands resting lightly, oh so lightly, against the wall of his chest. Her hips resting against his.
He could feel his body react, damn it as he might. Instinctively he drew back a little, using what frail shreds of sanity remained to him.
He felt a shimmer go through her, a fine vibration of her spine beneath the tips of his fingers. His eyes swept down over her in the dim, pulsing light. Her hair was so pale, even without moonlight.
He did not mean to, but he could not help himself. Slowly, he dipped his head, letting his mouth graze the fine silk of her hair.
The shimmer came again, the vibration of her body. His fingers tightened on her spine, as if to arch her towards him.
Slowly, infinitely slowly, he circled the dance floor with her. Taking his time.
Savouring the last of his time with her. Before he put her aside for ever.
The music faded to silence. He stopped. His arms started to slip from her.
Slowly, heavily, as if it were the heaviest weight in the world, she lifted her head.
Looked up at him.
Just looked.
And in that moment doubt knifed through him.
Then sanity flooded through him again. He dropped his hands away, stepping back.
Without a word, he walked away.
Eve just stood there. It was all she could do. A knife blade had just slid between her ribs. It was a physical pain.
She turned around, catching her skirt with her fingers, so that she could hurry, stumble, back to her seat. As she did so, Pierre Roflet got to his feet. He must have returned to their table while she was dancing.
Dancing with Alexei Constantin.
Why had he done it? Her question was anguished. Why had he not just left her alone? What had he danced with her for? There was no point. No point at all. So why do it?
Heavily, she sank into her chair.
Pierre Roflet looked at her silently a moment. Then he spoke. ‘You know who that is, don’t you?’ His voice was unnaturally grave.
Eve nodded, biting her lip. ‘Yes. He’s trying to buy my father’s company.’
Pierre nodded, his eyes expressive. ‘It’s not a good idea, cherie. Dancing. Or anything else.’
There was kindness in his voice, as well as warning. For a second she just looked at him, a stricken expression in her eyes.