His mind slewed away from the prospect of Hans believing that he and Tara were engaged to be married...the hassle and misunderstanding it would lead to...the absolute impossibility of it ever being real, Hans would not understand.
That was what he must cling to now—the fact that his outburst of sheer exasperated temper, when he had been goaded beyond endurance by Celine, was for her consumption only, serving only to convince her to give up any hopes of an adulterous affair with him.
‘So,’ he said now, ‘are we clear on that? We’ve let Celine think we are engaged—that I’ve proposed to you and you’ve accepted—but, as you so adeptly persuaded her, that I am waiting to tell my old friend Hans myself, and we’ll be announcing it formally later on. And on that basis...’ he took a final heavy breath, his eyes skewering Tara ‘...we’ll get on with the rest of this damn evening. Which I am not looking forward to—Celine’s appalling friends and their even more appalling party to endure!’
He held out a hand to Tara, not wanting her to say a word...not wanting her to do anything but meekly go along with what he was paying her to do—acting the part of his fiancée.
For a moment it looked as if she was going to argue with him—something no employee of his had ever dared to do. And Tara was no different from any other employee—that was what he had to remember. What she had to remember.
Then stiffly, ignoring his outstretched hand, she marched to the door, pulled it open.
He caught up with her, and they walked down the stairs. ‘Smile,’ Marc urged grimly, sotto voce, ‘you’re my secret fiancée, remember!’
He saw her mouth set in a smile—tight, but there, even if it was totally at odds with the glacial expression in her eyes.
As they walked into the salon he saw Celine was already there, looking gaudy in a new gold lamé gown, Hans, totally ignored by her, stood dutifully at her side.
A basilisk glare shot from Celine to Tara beside him, far stronger than any animosity she’d displayed so far towards the woman she perceived as getting in her way. Marc’s mouth compressed tightly. Well, maybe his announcement and Tara’s outrageous kiss had hit home—even if he was still furious that she’d had the temerity to do such a thing off her own bat.
His simmering anger—and the prospect of a party with a bunch of Celine’s friends—made him stiffer than ever in his manner, and his ‘Shall we set off?’ was made through gritted teeth. His jaw tightened even more when he felt Tara slip her hand into his arm. And nor did his black mood improve when they boarded a yacht lit up like a Christmas tree, music blaring and the deck heaving with just the kind of people he disliked most—those who showed off their money as conspicuously and tastelessly as possible.
Celine, however, was clearly in her element, and she swanned around, discarding Hans as soon as she could, knocking back champagne as if it was water. Marc watched her flirting openly with other men and did his best to keep talking to Hans and to avoid as much as possible any contact with anyone else.
Including Tara.
He was burningly conscious of her standing at his side, not saying a great deal—partly because of the noise of the party and partly because he was quite deliberately talking business with Hans, attempting to block his friend’s view of his wife, currently cavorting on the small dance floor with unconcerned abandon with some man. He had no idea who and doubted Hans did either.
But, for all his efforts to ignore Tara, he could still catch her elusive fragrance, hear the rustle of her gown as she shifted position, and he knew that he wanted only to turn his head so his eyes could feast on her...
Was it the hypnotic rhythm of the music, or the champagne he’d imbibed to get him through this ordeal, or the oh-so-occasional brush of her bare arm against his that was building up inside him a pressure he was finding it harder and harder to resist?
He didn’t know—only knew that Tara standing beside him was a torment.
I want her. I should not want her, but I do. It’s madness to want her, and I know it—and it makes no difference. Whatever it is about her, she makes me forget all the rules I’ve lived my life by...
‘Marc, cherie, dance with me!’
Celine had abandoned her partner, was sashaying up to him. Her eyes were glittering and the overpowering scent of her perfume was cloying. She leaned towards him, as if to lead him out onto the dance floor.
‘Dance with Hans,’ he answered shortly. ‘I’m about to dance with Tara.’
The moment he said it he regretted it. The last thing he needed to endure was taking Tara out on the dance floor. But it was too late. Celine’s eyes flashed angrily at his blunt refusal as he turned to Tara.
‘Mon ange? Shall we?’ His voice was tight, and the expression in his eyes warned her not to refuse him.
He saw her stiffen, saw her obvious reluctance to be taken into his arms and danced with. It fuelled his anger. He reached out, helping himself to her bare arm, and guided her forward. Stiffly, she looped her arms around his neck, barely touching him, and his hands moved to rest on her slender hips.
He could feel the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her gown. Feel, too, how stiffly she was moving as they started to dance. He made himself look down at her face, which was set in stark lines, as if dancing with him were the most repugnant thing in the world.
‘Celine is watching us,’ he gritted. ‘Let’s make this a bit more believable, shall we? After all,’ he added, ‘we’re an engaged couple now, aren’t we? So give it all you’ve got, mon ange.’
His taunt was deliberate, and she knew it—he could see by the sudden flash in her eyes. It gave him a perverse satisfaction to see it, to know with every male instinct in him that there was only one reason why she was reluctant to make this look real.
And it was not because he repelled her...
It was time to make that clear to her—and if it helped convince Celine too...well, right now he didn’t give a damn about Hans’s benighted wife or keeping her away from him. Right now only one intention fuelled him. Consumed him...
His hands at her hips drew her towards him, closing the distance between them, and one palm slid to the small of her back to splay across her spine. The supple heat of her body was warm beneath his palm.