CHAPTER SIX
TRISTAN sat opposite his sister at one of London’s most exclusive eateries and tried not to brood over Lily’s earlier comment. Because Jordana was right, damn it. He was one of the good guys, and he didn’t know why he was letting the two-bit actress beside him, laughing over Oliver’s unfunny jokes, make him question that.
Maybe because he’d kissed her the way a man kissed a woman he planned to sleep with and then blamed her for it. As if this maddening desire he felt for her was a deliberate spell she had cast over him…Which, come to think of it, was a much better explanation than the alternative—that he just couldn’t keep his hands off her.
Which was not the case at all. What had happened in his office earlier was the result of extreme stress boiling over. Nothing more, nothing less.
Tristan prided himself on his emotional objectivity when it came to the fairer sex, and really this constant analysis of what had happened earlier was ludicrous. Yes, he was a man who liked his ‘i’s’ dotted and his ‘t’s’ crossed, but Lily was just an anomaly. An outlier on an otherwise predictable curve.
So what if his reaction to her was at the extreme end of the scale? It happened. Not often to him before, granted, but…once she was gone and his world had returned to normal he’d forget about her—as he had done the last time.
As he had done every other woman who had graced his bed.
Only Lily hadn’t graced his bed, and maybe that went some way to explaining his almost obsessive thoughts about her. He’d never had her. Had, in fact, made her off-limits to himself. And he wanted her. No point denying the obvious. Maybe if he had her—no! Forget it. Not going to happen.
But that didn’t change the fact that now that his ferocious anger at being caught up in her situation had abated, and now he’d had a chance to observe her with Oliver and his sister all night, he had to admit he was starting to question his earlier assessment of her.
There was something so earthy and genuine about her. Something so lacking in artifice. He’d noticed it when she had engaged in a conversation with his PA and three of his paralegal secretaries.
She hadn’t tried to brush them off, or spoken down to them. She’d been warm and friendly and called them by name. Something he would not have expected a drug-addicted diva to remember, let alone do.
He couldn’t comprehend that he might have been wrong about her—but nor could he ignore the sixth sense that told him that something didn’t add up.
Especially since the police believed that the haul found in Lily’s bag, although small, had been intended for resale purposes. Lily just didn’t strike him as the type who worked for a drug cartel, and nor did she appear to need money. Which left the possibility that she was innocent, had been framed, or had been an unknowing drug mule.
Or she’d brought the drugs in for a lover.
In his business Tristan had come across people who did far worse things for love, and he told himself the only reason he cared about this possibility was because he felt sorry for her. If she was so in love with some jerk she’d committed a crime for him she would definitely do jail-time. Lots of jail-time.
As if all that wasn’t bad enough, the langoustines poached in miso—Élan’s signature dish, which he had enjoyed many times before—had failed to get the taste of her out of his mouth. And that was just damned annoying.
Lily shifted on the black leather bench seat beside him and for the millionth time he wished she’d just sit still. They had been given a corner booth, overlooking Hyde Park, and whenever she so much as blinked, or turned to take in the view, his mind thought it was a good idea to let him know about it.
He glanced around at the über-modern, low-lit interior and recognised some of the more celebrated restaurant clientele, who all seemed to be having a better time of it than him. Laughter and perfume wafted through the air, along with the sound of flatware on Limoges china, but none of it could distract him from his unhealthy awareness of her.
He reached for his glass and took a long pull of classic 1956 Mouton Rothschild Medoc, forcing his attention from the spoon Lily was trying to lick the last morsel of ice cream from, as if it was thousand-pound-an-ounce caviar, and back to Oliver’s discourse about his barbaric Scottish ancestors and some battle he’d no doubt claim they had won against the English.
God, his friend could talk. Had he known that about him?
Lily leaned forward and laughed, and Tristan refused to look at the way her low-cut silk blouse dipped invitingly, wondering where her tent-like cardigan had disappeared to.
When they had arrived at Jordana’s prior to dinner the two girls had cried and hugged for an eternity. Then Jordana had whisked Lily away to shower and change, berating him for not thinking of it himself. Tristan hadn’t told her that the last thing he needed was to have Lily Wild naked in his shower!
Now she was dressed in a red gypsy blouse, fitted denims and ankle boots, all provided by his sister. Her hair was brushed and fell in shiny waves down her back and she’d put on a bra. Pink. Demi-cup. Though he’d be a lot happier not knowing that. Because she had fabulous breasts and he couldn’t help wondering what they would look like naked.
‘It was love at first sight.’
Jordana’s words sounded overly loud to his ears, and brought his awareness sharply back to the conversation.
What was?
Tristan looked at his sister, who was thankfully gazing at her fiancé and not at him, and released a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding.
‘That’s rubbish,’ Oliver grouched. ‘It took a month of haranguing you to help me find the perfect anniversary present for my parents before you even agreed to a real date.’
‘I wasn’t talking about me!’ Jordana giggled pointedly, and then squealed when Oliver grabbed her leg under the table.
Lily laughed at their antics—a soft, musical sound that curled through Tristan’s abdomen like a witch’s spell.