Prince Nadir's Secret Heir(53)

                She cleared her throat and lifted her chin and he knew she was about to try and call an end to the evening. ‘Well, I hope the night was okay from your point of view but—’

                ‘The night was excellent. You were brilliant.’

                ‘Oh. Well, thank you.’

                He studied her. ‘Why were you nervous tonight?’

                ‘Who said I was nervous?’

                He felt a small smile touch his lips. ‘I could tell. But I don’t know why.’

                ‘Because I knew everyone would be looking at me.’

                ‘But you’re a dancer—you must be used to being on show in front of people.’

                ‘Being in a performance is totally different from being myself.’

                So he’d been right about the insecurity. He frowned, wanting to reassure her. ‘People like you. You’re a natural. And a waterskier, I understand. How was it that the Prince of Mana knew that you had once won the Australian championships and I had no idea?’

                ‘Maybe because he asked and you didn’t.’

                Nadir scowled. ‘I’m asking now.’

                She shrugged. ‘It wasn’t that big a deal. My mother was into waterskiing, which is how I came to do it, but when I was sixteen my ballet teacher told me that I needed to give up all dangerous sports if I was to take the dance seriously and I stopped.’

                ‘But you loved it,’ he guessed.

                Her eyes glowed with an inner light that made them sparkle. ‘The speed was pretty exhilarating.’

                He grinned. ‘Something we have in common.’

                In Paris he’d been too obsessed with touching her to get to know her properly. Now he realised he wanted both. ‘Have a nightcap with me.’

                ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

                Nadir walked over to the wet bar and smiled. ‘Have one anyway.’

                * * *

                Imogen knew that smile. He’d used it often when they’d been out and he’d come up and wrap his arms around her and tell her something, like how tired his feet were from walking or how cold he was and how he really thought they should head indoors. What he’d meant was that they should be in bed. Usually she’d melt against him at that point and he’d hail a cab, her need for him just as overpowering as his was for her.

                Even that first night her need for him had eradicated her natural cautiousness around men and overshadowed her commonsense. She closed her eyes in the vain hope that the memories would go away but instead she felt as if she was back in Paris inside his elegant apartment.

                The only reason they’d even shut the main door that first night was so he could crush her up against it. After her show he had prowled into the backstage area, his eyes hot with intent. Imogen had quivered with raw excitement, a deep feminine instinct having already warned her that he would come for her. And he had. He’d told her his name and asked her how long it would take her to change. When she’d told him ten minutes to scrub off the stage make-up he’d said, ‘I’ll wait.’

                He’d made it sound as if he’d wait for ever. One of the other girls had rushed to lend her a short black dress since she’d only brought her jeans and a T-shirt to change back into and had sighed as if she wished she’d been the chosen one. Heels had materialised and the girls had tittered around her and told her who he was. Imogen hadn’t really taken any notice, her mind buzzing with a sexual excitement she’d never felt before. He had taken her to one of Paris’s exclusive supper clubs in his black Ferrari and been the perfect gentleman while they ate.