‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘He’s a better man than me, then,’ he said as he pulled up in front of Patrizio’s house. ‘I wouldn’t take back my wife if she slept around. No way.’
Keira tightened her mouth. ‘How much do I owe you?’ she asked.
He told her and she handed him a fifty-dollar bill. ‘Keep the change,’ she said, and scooping up her bags, left with the colour of her shame flooding her cheeks.
CHAPTER SEVEN
KEIRA was bending towards the mirror in the en suite bathroom reapplying her lipstick when Patrizio came home. He stepped into the room behind her, stopping in his tracks momentarily as his gaze swept over her.
She turned around to look at him, her chin tilted at a defiant angle. ‘How do I look?’ she asked.
Patrizio could barely breathe with her delectable body so close. The delicate but intoxicating fragrance of her perfume made his nostrils instantly flare, the tempting shadow of her cleavage in her low-cut gown making his hands ache to reach out and free her breasts from the silky fabric that was defying all odds to keep them covered. She surely couldn’t be wearing any underwear beneath that dress; there wasn’t a line in sight, just smooth uninterrupted alluring curves. The thought of her, totally naked beneath that length of silk, made his groin spring to life, hot surging blood filling him with a need so strong he wondered if she could smell the musky male scent of arousal coming off him. He could lift that dress right this minute and sink inside her; the temptation to do so was almost unbearable.
‘You look very beautiful,’ he said, stripping his voice of all emotion. ‘Give me ten minutes to shower and shave and change into my tuxedo and we will get going. I have organised for someone to drive us. I don’t want to be bothered with parking in the city.’
‘I’ll wait for you in the lounge,’ she said, brushing past him.
He clenched his fists once she had gone, his teeth grinding together as he faced his reflection in the mirror. ‘Only a fool makes the same mistake twice,’ he reminded himself harshly. ‘Do not forget that.’
The stretch limousine arrived just as Patrizio joined Keira in the lounge and he ushered her outside with a hand cupping her elbow, reminding her in a low tone that they had a role to play.
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ she said, flashing him a little glance of annoyance.
His fingers tightened around her elbow. ‘Drivers have ears and eyes, cara,’ he cautioned her.
Keira got in the car with a forced smile on her face, her breath sucking in sharply when Patrizio slid along the seat to reach for her hand, placing it on the long muscular length of his thigh.
She swallowed as he moved her hand to rest between his thighs where his body was already stirring. She felt the rise of his flesh beneath the pads of her fingertips, her stomach stumbling over the trip-wire of instantaneous desire that raged through her like a flash flood of fire.
His eyes met hers, the glitter of rampant desire in his coal-black gaze making her spine feel as if it had been unhinged, vertebrae by vertebrae. Her mouth went dry as one of his fingers traced a scorching pathway from the base of her neck, past her breasts, skating over each ripe curve that peeped out tantalisingly.
‘You are not wearing anything under that dress, are you, Keira?’ he asked in a husky low voice.
‘Two bits of tape,’ she said, running her tongue over her lips. ‘That’s all.’
His mouth curved upwards in a smile that didn’t seem to her to be entirely genuine. ‘Did you do it deliberately to tempt me?’ he asked.
Keira glanced towards the driver’s compartment but the glass partition was shut, and she hoped, totally soundproof. ‘No, of course not. You told me to dress sexily and glamorously and I followed your orders. That’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it? Follow your orders to a T.’
‘That is correct,’ he said, removing her hand to place it back on his thigh. ‘As long as you do as you are told we will get through this with ease.’
The function centre was packed with guests when they arrived, every head turning as they entered the room. Keira knew what everyone was thinking. She could see it in their eyes each time they met hers.
Harlot.
Jezebel.
Tramp.
Whore.
The double standard sickened her. She knew a conside
rable proportion of the married men in the room would have cheated on their wives at one time or another. Sociological research statistics proved it, but it was an entirely different story when a woman was unfaithful.
The press had hounded her relentlessly in the last two months; their large black lenses of accusation aimed at her at every opportunity. And as they surged towards her now she felt herself shrinking inside, as if someone were stitching her belly button to her backbone.