Baby of Shame (3 page)

As for her face…

Smoky eyes looked back at her, deep set, with long dark lashes, her mouth, lipstick stained into her slightly parted lips, seemed
lusher
somehow.

She stared at herself

She looked…erotic.

The word stole into her mind, shocking her. She tried to push it away, but it was no use. She went on staring.

Everything, she
realised
slowly, was very slightly blurred, very slightly softened around the edges. She felt a creaming in her veins.

It made her feel…different.

And very, very aware of her body—her half-naked, erotic body—revealed in the mirror. And as she stared at herself she started to feel a tremor, deep inside her, as if something were stirring, had just awoken.

She pulled back. No, this was not on.
Totally, totally not on.

Hastily she returned her attention to her wet dress. As she did so her eyes caught sight of the bathroom’s courtesy hairdryer, tucked into its socket beside the basin. With relief, she seized it, spread out her dress over her free hand as much as possible, and turned the hairdryer on to it.

The thin material dried blessedly quickly, and without a stain. As she slipped the dress back on again it felt warm to her skin. She did up the zip, she checked her reflection again.

The heat from the hairdryer had brought a soft flush to her cheeks,
a warmth
to her exposed arms and shoulders. Her long hair had been lightly winnowed, lifted in silken strands. Again she felt that deep tremor stir within her, that creaming in her veins, that languor stealing through her.

What’s happening to me?

She felt strange…dissociated. As if she
were
moving through a dream.

Slowly, she walked out of the bathroom.

And stopped dead.

Alexis Petrakis was in the bedroom.

He had discarded his tuxedo jacket, his dress tie was unfastened, as was the top button of his shirt, and he was slipping the gold links from his cuffs.

As she stepped out of the bathroom he looked up and across at her.

His eyes flicked over her gown. An expression of slight, mocking surprise lit in his eyes.

‘Unnecessary. But…’ he started to stroll towards her ‘…it has its compensations.’

It was the leopard again.
Heading towards her.

But its leash had been slipped.

She couldn’t move. Could only stand, totally frozen, her heart starting to hammer in great, pounding thuds that sent the blood rushing in her veins through all her body.

It was his eyes. She could see it in his eyes. See the gold flecks deep within. See the intent in them.
The very, very clear intent.

Her lips parted, taking in breath. Instantly she could see his eyes narrow, that
edge of tension tauten
through him.

She had to move—but she was frozen.
Completely frozen.

Waiting.

Helpless.

He stopped in front of her. She could feel his presence, invading hers. Catch the male musk coming from him, overlaid by the spiced notes of expensive aftershave.

He was looking down at her, out of those obsidian night-dark eyes, and she couldn’t move—couldn’t move.
Could only gaze, helpless, up at him.

And drink him in. Drink in the sable hair, the lean planes of his face, the strong, straight cut of his nose, the faint masculine shadow along his jaw, roughening his smooth, tanned skin.

Oh, God, she thought. He is just so, so beautiful…

Her hand half lifted. She wanted to reach up, to cup her fingers along his jaw, feel the roughness of his skin, smooth her finger along the high arch of his cheekbones, reach with her mouth to his,
feel
the touch of it on hers. To slide her fingers into that silky sable hair and draw him to her, parting her lips…

She tried to stop herself.

But she couldn’t. Had no power over
herself
any more. She felt her body sway—sway towards him. She felt her hand lift, reach up…

He caught it.
A swift, sudden movement that stilled her.
His fingers closed around her wrist, pulling her towards him with slow, inexorable strength.

She gazed up at him, drowning.

His pupils were like pinpricks, flared with gold.

‘Indulge me,’ he said softly.

Her pupils dilated. She could not help it.
Did not know it.
Could only stand there, lips parted, wrist caught,
her
body swaying towards his.

‘Indulge me,’ he said again, more softly.

And then, with his other hand, he slowly, very slowly, slid one long finger underneath the thin strap over her shoulder and gradually, little by little, drew it down over her arm until he had peeled bare her breast.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said, his voice soft and low.

He let go her wrist and lifted his hand to the other strap.
Drawing it down her shoulder, slowly peeling down the bodice of her dress.

She couldn’t move. Not a muscle.

Could only stand while Alexis Petrakis bared her breasts.

For his delectation.

For one long, endless moment he just stood there, looking at her.

‘You really are,’ he said, in that same soft, low voice, ‘exquisite.’

Beneath his gaze she felt her breasts prickle, felt them engorge, her nipples harden, tighten.

Felt the tremor deep within her quicken.

She felt her body sway again.

A small sound came from her throat. She did not know what it was. It was inchoate, unconscious.

But reality had stopped. Stopped the moment she had stepped out of the bathroom and set eyes on Alexis Petrakis, stood still while he advanced on her. With one purpose, one purpose only, in his tread.

He smiled now.
His mouth curving.

‘Yes,’ he said, his lashes sweeping down over his dark, obsidian eyes. ‘I know.’

He reached a hand to lightly, oh-so-lightly, stroke her hair. She felt a soft, trembling shiver go through her at his touch. The unformed sound came from her throat again.

Her breasts—swollen, taut—had begun to ache. A low, slow throbbing was resonating through her body. Her pupils distended, her body swaying forward yet again.

She wanted…She wanted…

His hand tightened in her hair, cupping her head.

She gazed at him, eyes huge, quite, quite helpless.

Something flared in his eyes—something that was instantly, ruthlessly leashed.

She went to his bed without a word, without a murmur. Only soft, aching moans that he could stop with his mouth. But when his mouth left hers to shape her breasts, to close over her straining, aching nipples, they came again. They came as he trailed his lips along the taut contours of her belly, as his palms smoothed her loosening thighs. And when his teeth grazed at the tender lobes of her ears, bit softly, so softly, at her swollen lip, the low, aching moans deep in her throat came again.

Reality fled. It was somewhere else.
Another universe.
A universe where pain and problems were, where worry and anxiety bit deep into the bones, where dread and fear pressed from all directions.

But here—here there was only bliss. Bliss such as she had never known, had never known existed.

How could the human body feel so much? How could the sense of touch be so exquisite?
So all-consuming.

And how could she want more of it?
And more, and more, and more?

Until her body was a single living flame, a flame that was burning, burning ever
fiercer.

His body pressed her down. She felt its strength, its power. Her hands
revelled
in the taut, sculpted muscles of his back, his shoulders. Her thighs strained against the
sinewed
cords of his. Against her belly she felt the long, hard shaft of his manhood.

A hunger started to grow in her. She writhed against him. His tongue was laving the swollen, aching peak of her nipple, sending flames shooting through her breast, making her fingers claw over his shoulders. From her throat tore the soft, aching moans she could not suppress.

She writhed against him again, the hunger mounting and mounting.

He smiled against her breast, lifted his head.

His dark eyes, flared with gold, looked down at her.

She felt the quickening pressure of his probing manhood.

Hunger bit through her again, fierce,
unsated
.

She twisted instinctively against him, feeling the pressure surge.

She wanted…

She gazed up at him, helpless, wanting.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I know.’

The moan came from her throat again. Her eyes dilated, distended.

Pleading for what she wanted…

His features tensed, as if he were suddenly exerting a huge, overpowering control. Then, with slow, deliberate descent, he entered her.

Rhianna
stirred. Her body felt heavy, languorous. She didn’t want to wake. She wanted to stay within the dream she was having, enfolded within the circle of strong arms, clasped tight against the warm, hard body of the man cradling her in his sleeping embrace.

An embrace that had come only after an ecstasy so intense she had cried out, lips parting, throat arching, while her body writhed like a living, burning flame of bliss, on and on and on, until her whole being was one molten sheet of unbearable, exquisite sensation.

Only then, as the burning brand that was her body cooled to nothing more than
a softly
pulsing warmth, had he rolled back against the pillows in a fluid, exhausted movement, pulling her against him, folding her against his body. He had murmured something to her—she knew not what.
Soft, sibilant words that were a breath in her ear.
His hand had splayed possessively across her abdomen, his mouth warm against her shoulder.

She had felt weak with wonder, glowing with the last embers of the fire that had consumed her, warm and safe and sated.

She had slept a deep, deep sleep in the circle of his arms, her dreams capturing this moment of perfect happiness.

But now brightness was pressing on her lids, bringing her to reluctant wakefulness. She blinked open her eyes.

He was leaning over her. His eyes were heavy with desire. Deep within, they stirred her, warming the blood in her veins. Slowly he bent down to softly kiss her, his lips warm and tender.

‘Good morning,’ he said, his voice low, husky. ‘I should ask you whether you slept well, but I happen to know…’ long lashes swept over dark eyes ‘…that you slept very little last night.’

His gaze washed over her as she lay back against the pillows, her hair tumbled, her lips
beestung
from the night’s long, long passion.

‘You are even lovelier than you were last night.’ The husk was thicker, and long lashes swept over his eyes again. ‘I only wish…’ His voice trailed off.

She gazed up at him, breathless, as he stood up.

He looked—breathtaking. He was freshly shaved, his hair very slightly damp from showering—and he was fully dressed in a business suit.

She felt a coldness start around her heart, a pooling of dismay nascent in her stomach.

He was looking at his watch, shooting back his cuff. He spoke again, but now his words were clipped, his voice terse.

‘Unfortunately I have a business meeting this morning which I cannot avoid. So, much as I regret, I will have to leave you now.’

She heard the words, but for one dissociated moment she did not understand what they meant.

Then their meaning hit her with a sickening blow.

Oh, God, he was going—walking out.

She’d been taken for a one-night stand.

That was all it had been.

A convenient, handy, fast-food snack to stave off night starvation.
He’d eyed her up, made his move on her, had sex with her, taken his fill, slept it off—and now he was going.

She felt sick.
Reeling.
And then, out of nowhere, another shockwave hit.

MML.

Horror
galvanised
her. Oh,
God.
This wasn’t just
any
man she’d gone to bed with within hours of meeting him for the first time,
who
was now walking out on her in the customary brutal morning-after ritual. This was
Alexis Petrakis
—the one man in
all the
world who could stop her father’s company going under…

And instead of getting him to approve the MML takeover, she’d fallen into bed with him—like a ripe, wanton peach.

Sickness drenched through her.

He was speaking again, drawing out a mobile phone from his inside jacket pocket.

‘However, I will be—’

‘No! Please—wait—don’t go yet.’

He stopped speaking in mid-sentence.

‘
Rhianna
, I—’

‘No! Wait—please wait. There’s something I must—something I wanted—’

She broke off. Oh, God—she had to do this. She would have given a million pounds not to, but she had to!

She pulled herself upright, clutching the sheet to her. Her heart was pounding. But she had to do this. However horrible it was to do it now…

‘Before you go—there was—there was something I wanted to talk to you about!’ She took a hectic breath. ‘MML,’ she said.

She stared at him wide-eyed, still clutching her sheet to her, her hair tumbled around her naked shoulders.

Alexis Petrakis had gone still.

‘Go on.’ His voice was controlled.
Very controlled.

She swallowed. Forcing
herself
to speak. He’d told her to go on—she had to do so.

‘You’ve frozen all its corporate investments. One of them is my father’s company—Davies Yacht Design. I came to the dinner last night to meet you. To persuade you—’

‘Yes?’ The voice cut across her.
‘To persuade me—?’

She stared at him. Something was happening to his face. The expression was draining out of it.
Completely.
Absolutely.