ELLA STARED INTO eyes that held not a whit of humour.
The hairs at her nape rose at the weight of that heavy-lidded regard.
Her, as her sister’s replacement.
For a split second Ella felt triumph, elation at the prospect of being his. Of experiencing all that intensity, not as a curious specimen to be studied but as a lover.
Her gaze slewed to the breadth of those shoulders, the lean strength of the man beneath the exquisite tailoring. What would it feel like being held in those arms?
She reared back, water spilling from her glass.
‘I’m not my sister’s stand-in.’ The words jerked out from her constricting throat.
‘Of course not. You’re a unique individual.’ His smile was all smooth charm. If you didn’t look into those eyes, calculating and aware.
‘Don’t patronise me.’
‘My apologies. I assumed you’d prefer me to be frank.’
‘Of course I do.’ She gripped her glass in both hands.
He watched assessingly. ‘Then let me say nothing appeals more than the prospect of knowing you better.’
There was nothing salacious in his tone, or his expression, yet those words—knowing you—held hidden depth. Knowing as in sexually knowing.
It should have horrified her yet it didn’t.
She wanted him. Here. Now. With an immediacy that overrode every cautious, pragmatic, sensible bone in her body. With a raw hunger that totally disregarded the fact he was caviar and champagne in a crystal flute or perhaps arctic vodka, strong and lethal, while she was brown bread and tea in a good, sturdy pot.
‘Don’t be absurd. We have nothing in common.’
‘I suspect we have a great deal in common, Ella.’ He paused, as if savouring her name. ‘Your father and his business, for instance.’
She spun away, stalking half a dozen steps before turning to face him. He was just as imposing, and smug, from here.
Then, to her dismay, he closed the gap with a couple of easy strides. Annoyance fizzed in her belly.
‘You’re not interested in getting to know me.’ A man like Donato Salazar would want a high-profile trophy wife. Not a plain Jane woman whose feet ached at the end of a long day.
‘I thought we’d already established that you don’t know what goes on inside my head?’
He didn’t look annoyed. Instead he looked...engaged. His tall body canted towards her as if drawn by the same force she felt urging her closer to him.
She stepped back, ignoring the knowing uptilt of those slashing eyebrows.
She understood attraction. Even understood the lure of the dangerous, though she’d always chosen a safer, more prosaic route through life.
Yet she’d never experienced this heat of desire. It saturated her, made her imagine impossible things. Like grabbing Donato’s collar and yanking that proud, scarred face down to hers. She wanted to savour him, lose herself in the passion she knew was hiding below that veneer of polite calm.
His nostrils flared, his chest rising sharp and sudden, as if he’d intercepted her thoughts. His gaze dropped to her mouth.
The night air zapped and thickened.
‘I don’t know anything about you.’
‘But that doesn’t matter, does it?’ His deep voice wove around her. ‘It doesn’t stop what you’re feeling.’
Ella opened her mouth to snap that she felt nothing.
But he was watching keenly, waiting for her to flutter and fuss and deny this awareness between them. She wouldn’t play coy. It would be an admission of fear and showing fear to this man would only invite trouble.
Ella jerked her chin up. ‘I don’t know what sort of women you usually mix with, Donato. But know this. I’m not about to act on impulse with a stranger.’
‘No matter how tempting.’ He gave voice to her thoughts, making her start.
‘What?’ he drawled, his voice like honey and gravel. ‘You think I’m not tempted? You think my hands aren’t itching to slide over your luscious body? To pull you tight against me and feel how well we fit? To taste you?’
The sudden change from amused outsider to consummate seducer slammed her heart against her ribs.
‘You think I’m not tempted to make you acknowledge exactly how much you want me?’
Ella’s breath disintegrated. His gaze flickered to her heaving breasts and fire exploded within. She was burning up and nothing, she suspected, could put out the conflagration except Donato.
The idea appalled as much as it excited her.
She looked at the glass shaking in her too-tight grip. Had her drink been spiked? How she wished she had such an easy excuse.