And then barking at her to wait. What did he expect her to do? Hang around like some sort of obedient minion? Hah, she thought, bending down to pick up her shoes. As if. She had to go and find out whether any journalistic or photographic prying eyes had caught what had just happened and if necessary execute a hasty damage-limitation exercise.
Who did he think he was anyway, creeping up on her like that and scaring the living daylights out of her? And manhandling Mark like some sort of brutish Neanderthal.
Kind of attractive though. That single-mindedness. That decisiveness. That strength…
Phoebe slapped her hand against her forehead. No no no no no. That was so wrong on so many levels she didn’t know where to start. Focus. That was what she needed. Focus. And her heels.
As she searched for something sturdy to lean against while she put her shoes back on again Phoebe’s skin suddenly prickled all over.
Her head shot round and her eyes narrowed in on the man striding in her direction, alone. Tall, broad-shouldered and flexing his hands, he moved in a sort of intensely purposeful way that had her stomach clenching.
In irritation, she decided, straightening and preparing herself for confrontation. Definitely irritation.
As his long strides closed the distance between them she could see that his face was as dark as the suit that moulded to his body. But what he had to glower about she had no idea. If anyone had the right to be furious it was her.
Phoebe’s heart began to thud. Forget the shoes. Damage limitation could wait. Adrenalin surged through her. ‘You frightened the life out of me,’ she said, when he got within hissing distance, her voice low and tight with anger. ‘Who are you and what on earth did you think you were doing?’
He didn’t reply, merely took her arm and wheeled her off towards the pergola at the bottom of the wide stone steps that led up to the terrace. Phoebe had no option but to stagger after him, shoes dangling from her fingers as panic and shock flooded back into every bone in her body.
‘Hang on,’ she said, desperately trying to keep her voice down. ‘You can’t throw me out too. Ow!’ The smooth paving stones had turned into sharp gravel, which dug into the soles of her feet.
He stopped, looked down as she hopped madly while trying to put her shoes back on and then, muttering a brief curse under his breath, swept her up into his arms. Phoebe let out a tiny squeal as her shoulder slapped against a rock-hard chest. One of his hands planted itself on the side of her breast, the other wrapped around her bare thigh.
‘Put me down!’ she whispered furiously, her legs bouncing with every step he took as she tried to tug down her dress in a vain attempt to protect her modesty.
He stopped beneath a lantern and set her on her feet, her body brushing against his in the process. A flurry of tingles whizzed round her and she wobbled. He wound one arm round her waist and clamped her against him.
‘I have no intention of throwing you out,’ he said roughly, raking his gaze over her face.
‘So let me go.’
If anything, his arm tightened and Phoebe felt as if someone had plugged her into a socket. What else could explain the tingles and sparks that zapped through her? What else could account for the searing h
eat that swept along her veins, making her bones melt and turning her spine to water?
‘My name is Alex and you should choose your boyfriends more carefully.’
At the icy restraint lacing his voice, Phoebe’s eyes jerked to his and for a moment she forgot how to breathe.
Oh, dear God. His eyes were mesmerising. Grey. No, not just grey. Silver, rapidly darkening to slate, and fringed with the thickest eyelashes she’d ever seen on a man. Set beneath straight dark eyebrows and blazing down at her with fierce concern.
As she dragged her gaze over the planes of his face in much the same way as he was now doing to her Phoebe’s mouth went dry and the blood in her veins grew hot and sluggish. He wasn’t just handsome. He was jaw-droppingly gorgeous. But not in the pretty way the men who occupied her world were. This man looked like the sort of man who knew how to do, and probably did, the things that real men were supposed to do.
The little white scar above his right eye and the hint of a broken nose gave him an air of danger that she might have considered to be intoxicating if she’d been in the market for a man. Which she wasn’t. But heavens, that mouth. What a mouth…
Her hands, currently curled into fists and jammed between his chest and hers, itched to unfurl themselves, creep their way up the thick white cotton shirt, maybe taking in a quick detour to the V of tanned flesh exposed where his top button was undone, and up, round his neck to wind themselves in his hair so that they could tug that delicious-looking mouth down and weld it to hers.
Phoebe blinked. Agh. What on earth was she thinking? Her body had no business behaving like this, especially without her prior approval. And that would not be forthcoming this evening. Or ever, she reminded herself belatedly, pushing all thoughts of what sort of things a real man might be required to do out of her head.
Giving herself a mental shake, she forced herself to concentrate. What had he been saying? She thought frantically. Boyfriends. That was it. ‘What boyfriend?’ she managed, squeezing her hands tighter and hauling back some of the self-control that had fled when he’d pulled her against him.
‘The jerk in the pond.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ After her last disastrous relationship, she was off men. For ever. Especially ones who crept up on her and nearly gave her a heart attack. However good-looking.
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No. Of course not.’ What was he talking about? She struggled to pull herself out of the steel circle of his arm, but it was no good. Alex didn’t seem inclined to let her go.