event.
Willing herself to calm down, she took a deep breath and looked back at the sultry red number mocking her from the corner of the room.
‘Did Signor Valente choose this gown for me?’ she asked in a deathly quiet whisper, watching with narrowed eyes as the blond man’s bravado faltered.
‘He picked it out himself this afternoon, mademoiselle.’ He stood up straight to emphasise his point. ‘It is one of a kind.’
Just like the man himself, she thought snidely. This was the same kind of stunt as the cocktail last night. No other man would be so obnoxious as to choose a gown for a woman he barely knew.
She walked across the room and ran her hand down the jewelled fabric. If Leo had sent her here to unsettle her...well, he had succeeded. The thought of wearing something so blatantly sexual was akin to tearing out her own fingernails. Dara did not do sexual—she didn’t even do sex any more.
For the first time in five years she felt once again as if she wasn’t good enough. As if she needed to change herself to fit the items on someone’s list. And that just wouldn’t do.
The blond man and his team of beauty assassins stood silently, watching her, hairbrushes and make-up wands like weapons in their utility belts.
She turned to face them, her eyes blazing with determination. ‘I will be choosing something for myself.’
The Frenchman shook his head. ‘Monsieur Valente has made his wishes very clear to my team.’
‘Tell me, honestly, does this dress look like something I could pull off?’ Dara gestured to the gown.
He turned his head to one side, examining her from head to toe with agonising intensity. ‘Truthfully, no. Your chest is too flat to wear such a low neckline. And the colour is far too rich for such a pale complexion. Nonetheless, I refuse to go against my client’s wishes.’
Dara ignored such blunt description of her flaws, crossing the room to stand in front of him, hands on her hips. ‘Let’s make one thing clear. I am your client. What will it do to your business if you send me out in such an ill-thought-out ensemble? It will be such a high-profile event too...’
She let her voice trail off and watched as his eyes widened with horror.
‘I’m glad we understand each other.’
She smiled with satisfaction as he turned to his team and began barking orders to bring more dresses.
* * *
Leo looked at his watch as the guests started to filter in for the champagne hour. He was beginning to think that Little Miss Proper had decided to chicken out. His limo had gone to collect her over an hour ago. Taking another sip of the whisky he’d been nursing, he passed his gaze lazily around the room that Dara and his team had spent the afternoon finalising.
His coveted glass water features now sat in each corner of the dance floor. The overall effect made the room seem wider and brought much more attention to the features themselves. Low sofas flanked the dance floor, now an ideal space for the younger celebrity scene. The open area of the club was filled with loud pumping music, and the dance floor glowed with sultry lighting, giving it an almost mystical appearance.
In the entrance lounge a ten-foot champagne tower had been placed centre stage, and a clever little mechanism was sending glittering liquid down in an endless waterfall. The guests met at this feature and spread out easily, making the overall vibe sleek and relaxed. The upper lounge area had been transformed into a cocktail bar for the social elite crowd, its lower ceiling and distance from the dance floor making the noise less obtrusive and ideal for hushed business deals.
All in all, he was impressed.
He wasn’t entirely sure what had compelled him to offer her this little audition—probably a mixture of curiosity and a mild attraction. Okay, so maybe mild wasn’t the word for it...
He stood at the bar in the lower lounge, watching the guests arrive one by one. The night was just getting started but he was in no mood to play host.
Usually he would be the one in the middle of the crowd, with people hanging onto his every word. They would beg to hear about each of the once-in-a-lifetime adventures he’d been on. The wild parties, the daredevil stunts that the tabloids loved to cover. He had created an image for himself and his brand that drew people to him. But lately he had become steadily more jaded by the repetition in his lifestyle.
Until last night.
Dara had awoken a spark in him, and he felt the familiar hum of attraction driving him for the first time in months. Women had been far from his agenda while he dealt with the aftermath of his father’s passing. His usually insatiable sexual appetite had been non-existent as he threw himself into his work.
He thought of how she might have reacted, seeing that red dress today. He knew she would be unprepared for such a high-glamour event, but admittedly his intentions were not entirely innocent. He was on edge, waiting for the inevitable explosion when she arrived. He was even considering making a phone call to his driver when a hand touched his shoulder.
Leo turned and immediately grasped the hand of the grey-haired man standing in front of him. ‘Gianni—you got the invitation.’
‘Well, I was hardly going to refuse a chance to see what else you’ve done to my club, boy,’ he rasped.
Leo fought the urge to smile. His old friend hadn’t changed one bit. Gianni Marcello was a dragon, but he was the closest thing to a father Leo ever had.
‘The last time I checked this was still my club,’ he corrected.
The old man waved a hand. ‘A technicality. You smart-talked me into selling—just like you smart-talked your way to where you are now.’ He paused to bark an order for two glasses of grappa at a startled waiter. ‘You came to my hotel today. Since when did you start hand-delivering invitations?’
Leo smiled. ‘I thought you might appreciate the gesture.’
Gianni snorted, unaffected. ‘I was under the impression that you had forgotten where I live after all this time.’
Leo shrugged one shoulder casually, but inside he felt hot shame creep up his neck. He’d known Gianni wouldn’t make this reunion easy, but perhaps this wasn’t the best of settings to hash out their differences. Leo contemplated walking away, under the pretext of having business responsibilities, but the old man knew him better than anyone.
Looking around the lounge, Gianni scoffed loudly. ‘Do you have any damned chairs in this place, or do I have to build one myself?’
Leo laughed, leading the way up the mirrored steps to the upper lounge. He found them a quiet seat in the corner furthest from the crowd. A few business contacts from Paris sidetracked him, requiring the usual chit-chat before he could slide comfortably into the seat opposite Gianni at the low table.
Their drinks arrived promptly and Leo took a sip of the strong liquid, feeling it burn down his throat and warm his chest. Gianni remained silent for a moment, watching him over the rim of his glass. The old man had always liked an air of suspense.
‘You have made some powerful friends, I can see.’ He gestured to a group of well-known city officials, sipping champagne down on the lower floor.
‘A wise man once told me never to call a politician a friend,’ Leo corrected.
Gianni nodded his head once. ‘You always listened to me, boy.’ He downed the rest of his drink in one go, setting it down harshly on the dark tempered glass. ‘Except when it came to one thing.’
Leo sat back in his seat. He knew what was to come next. Had known the moment he’d decided to invite his old mentor. ‘Go ahead and say what you came here to say. I owe you enough to listen this time.’
‘Is that an apology for walking away from me six months ago?’
Leo averted his