His Secretary Mistress(31)

‘Actually, I’m dying for a drink.’ Anything was better than suffering the torture of dancing with Alex, praying that he didn’t hear the pounding of her heart or notice the way her pulse raced. It would be agonisingly embarrassing if he should guess how much she wanted to rest her cheek against his chest, draw his head down and be kissed senseless.

‘Another one?’ Alex’s brows rose as he escorted her to the bar. ‘What would you like? Water or orange juice?’

‘Well, I rather like champagne,’ Jenna admitted with a giggle. She had never drunk champagne before, and it was a revelation: she felt happy and relaxed, and just the tiniest bit light-headed.

She couldn’t understand why Alex looked so grimfaced. She had been aware of glowering looks from him all evening, when he hadn’t been flirting with a variety of beautiful women. It was lucky she had been able to rely on Seb for company; Alex was in such demand that she might very easily have spent the evening as a wall-flower.

‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you,’ she said, staring dismally at the glass of iced water he handed her. ‘We’re supposed to be cheering Seb up.’

‘You seem to be doing that all by yourself—although I’m not sure Madame Roussel meant for you to get blind drunk and seduce her grandson on the dance floor.’

‘I am not drunk.’ Somehow Alex had steered her out onto a large balcony, the blast of cold air making Jenna’s head spin so that she grabbed hold of the balustrade. ‘How dare you suggest that I was making a play for Seb? I was being friendly, that’s all.’

‘It looked a lot more than friendly from where I was standing. Your behaviour is the talk of the party. If you’re determined to commit adultery, then do it with me. Seb has enough problems. The last thing Ellisa needs right now is to hear rumours that her husband had to fight off the attentions of a red-haired bimbo at his grandmother’s party.’

Behind his sarcasm lurked blind fury, Jenna realised, and her own temper was instantly at boiling point; the crack of her hand against his cheek sounded like gunfire as it ricocheted around the balcony.

‘I don’t intend to commit adultery with anyone—least of all you,’ she bit out, but beneath her bravado she felt horribly sick. She despised physical violence, but she had never felt so angry or humiliated in her life.

‘Is that so? Then why have you been throwing out signals ever since we arrived in Paris? Don’t try and deny it,’ he said coldly. ‘Every time I turn around I find those big grey eyes on me, inviting me, inciting me.’

‘Inciting you to what? You’re the one who keeps staring at me but tries to hide the fact whenever I look at you.’

‘And you find that unsettling, do you? Maybe even embarrassing? Do you want to run home and tell Chris that your boss wants you in his bed?’

‘No.’ She stared at him miserably, tears burning behind her eyelids as she studied the livid handprint that stained his cheek. Her anger quickly dissipated to be replaced with shame. ‘I want us to go back to being…friends.’

‘We can never be friends,’ he told her bluntly, and suddenly he was too close, his hands resting on the balustrade on either side of her body, caging her in although he did not touch her. ‘And you know why.’

He lowered his head, his lips hovering millimetres above hers, so close that she could feel his warm breath on her skin, could count his eyelashes. His face was a sculpted mask, the skin drawn tight over prominent cheekbones, his eyes no longer cold, hard sapphires but burning with an intensity that caused an answering hunger to unfurl in the pit of her stomach. She had wanted this since the first time he had kissed her after Charles Metcalf’s party, and suddenly her job, Lee, everything faded into insignificance as she faced up to the fact that she wanted him.

With helpless fascination she waited as his head lowered still further, until his mouth closed over hers, and with a stifled murmur of surrender she closed her eyes, giving herself up to pure sensation.

‘Open your eyes,’ he demanded. ‘I want you to know it’s me you’re kissing.’

His mouth was hard, demanding her response, his tongue forcing entry between her lips with barely leashed savagery, as if determined to crush any sign of resistance. He need not have worried; she was powerless to prevent her response, her lips parting willingly under the pressure of his as the kiss went on and on, stoking a fire that was in danger of blazing out of control.

Still he did not touch her, his hands clenched so tightly around the balustrade that his knuckles were white, his face rigid with the effort of holding back, until with a groan he relaxed against her and she felt the glorious, rock-hard proof of his arousal. The effect was like pouring petrol onto a bonfire. She ran her hands over his chest with unashamed hunger, feeling the frantic thud of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips before winding her arms around his neck as if afraid that he might draw back.