Paradise: The Masters of The Order Novel Two (4 page)

When he raised his glass with a slight nod and a knowing grin, she turned away, not daring to accept the decadent invitation in those smoldering eyes. Not that denial would be an option if a male like him decided to prowl her way.

Smooth, Isla. Real Smooth. Getting caught in an X-rated indulgence in the middle of a public gallery. ¡Qué vergonzoso!

She gulped her champagne and scampered back into the open space. Jerard had disappeared. So had Carlo. Craig was mingling in the crowd, probably looking for an alternate ending to his evening.

Isabella wandered around getting progressively more turned on by the erotic art intermixed with fleeting glimpses of copper eyes.

Is my mystery man watching me too?

No, he couldn’t be. The champagne had her imagination running wild. She never could hold her liquor and those tiny bubbles did dull the inhibitions. She shook off her folly and moved in front of a sculpture at the far side of the gallery, grabbing a fresh flute from a tray as she passed.

What should I do?

Maybe she should start treatment. Dr. Boucher said there was a chance and she was squandering it with indecision. Did she dare to hope for the silver lining? Maybe she would be the one to beat the odds.

Isabella downed a swig of champagne, inviting another wash of alcohol to drown the memories as images of the poor souls she’d met at the hospital crowded her mind. So much pain when hope was lost. No, she wouldn’t hope. She didn’t dare.

She told herself that she wasn’t afraid of death. She’d seen it firsthand. Many times. Looking into their eyes, holding their hands while they slipped away, there seemed to be peace at the end. But she was afraid. Terrified actually. Sexy clothes and a dark mask couldn’t save her from the destiny she believed was hers.

So there she stood, frozen by what she couldn’t face, stone-drunk and horny. She needed a miracle, but a distraction – a really hot distraction with wild eyes - would do. She scanned the room pretending to look for Craig, but really hoping for a glimpse of Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous. She giggled at the cliché.

But when the cliché fits…

When she spotted him, he was turned away slightly talking to Nicolai Stavros. Given the angle of his body, he wouldn’t notice her staring so she took the opportunity to study him unaware. Her skin flushed hot just looking at him. If she’d opened a sketchbook and drawn her ideal man, it would be him.

Although even my dirty imagination couldn’t dream up those to-die-for eyes.

He wasn’t beautiful like Nicolai, but he was inescapably compelling. A bad boy in black couture, he reeked of confidence and an overflowing bank account. His too pale skin contrasted dramatically with his jet black hair. It hung to straight, spiky points to frame his jaw. He wore an intense expression that made him appear as if he was deep in thought and spoke with graceful, almost feminine gestures. The overall impression was wicked. Masculine elegance with an edge. A man like that had to be a phenomenal lover. Simply had to be.

Oh, why not? You only live once.

Isabella pulled out a cigarette as she sauntered over to him. Her sex god turned, his glowing eyes burning right through her again, but her alcoholic armor held fast.

“Hey, handsome. Got a light?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“What are you going to do? Arrest me.”

“Do I look like a cop?”

Liquid fire eyes drifted over each feature of her face. She actually felt their warmth skimming over the arch of her brow, the line of her nose, the borders of her lips. They parted as those copper eyes returned to hers.

“No, but you do look like someone who knows his way around a pair of handcuffs.”

Crossing her wrists, she raised them in front of his face. A lightening grip locked around them while tight fingers entwined in the fall of her hair. His touch sparked through her like a flash of fire as he yanked her forward.

Ah, sí. Fuego.

She dissolved into his chest and inhaled.
Mmm, delicioso
. Expensive cologne and the more intimate scent of warm male skin. Spice, sex, even a hint of distant smoke.
Muy delicioso.

He lowered his head and rubbed his open mouth against her ear. “You think you can play with someone like me, do you?”

She closed her eyes on a soft moan when he licked up the tender fold of her lobe. Shuddered when the moist caress ended with a nip.

“Here’s a hint, baby girl. Don’t. I’m fire and you will get burned.”

Burn me, bad boy. Por favor, me quema.

When he lifted his gaze to hers, she shifted back until her bedazzled eyes could focus on his face. The danger in that molten stare kicked her survival instinct into overdrive, but she wasn’t about to run.

Liquid courage. ¡Hurra!

She pressed her cleavage into the hand holding her wrists and whispered against his lips, “What makes you think I’m the one who’ll get burned?”

Hah! Take that, you big sex bully.

He jerked back and before she could utter another drunken, sexed-up syllable dragged her out the door. The controlled violence in him frightened as much as it enticed.

Aye, caliente. The man really is fire.

Copper eyes stared as firm hands cupped hers to light her cigarette. Another spark, but not from the match.

Isabella took a long, defiant puff and promptly doubled over, unable to tolerate the nicotine rush on top of the alcohol.

“I’m going to be sick,” she murmured with a hand over her mouth. Her stomach heaved and her eyes went wide with the sight of all those sophisticated people spilling out of the gallery. The ones who were about to witness her in all her debauched glory.

“Damn it,” he cursed, his eyes following the path of hers, and threw a bracing arm around her to lead her away from prying eyes.

With his strong arm locked tight, she let it all go. Right there in a lovely array of potted flowers outside a graciously dark shop. A gentle hand brushed the wisps of loose hair out of the way while she wretched.

“Well, well. Isn’t life a bed of roses?”

Roses, huh? Not exactly.

3

Good Morning, Gorgeous

Isabella cracked open one lid.

“Yeow!”

The light slashed into her eye, making her wince and the curtains were still drawn. Only a tiny sliver of morning sun cut through the dark room. She rolled over to escape the source of her pain and practically bumped noses with the man from the gallery who was sound asleep next to her.

Buenos días, guapo.

She inhaled him again.
Mmm, mmm, mmm. Muy delicioso
. Coffee was no match for this wake-up delicacy and she love, love, loved her morning coffee.

Black hair spilled all over the pillow and the whisper of a beard darkened his jaw. Long black lashes curved over high cheekbones, tempting her fingers to run along the sinful brush. Over the stubble on his cheeks. Down the angle of his strong jaw. Over his smooth chest to the tempting trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the...she sighed as her eyes fell on the white joy kill.

And then she realized. She didn’t know his name.

Mierda.¿Qué hice?
Isabella shot out of her pornographic haze like a cold bucket of water had been thrown over her, trying to remember how she got here. The gallery, the sexy film, champagne, roses.
Dios mío
, getting sick. She bolted upright on the bed and her breasts popped from beneath the comforter.

Shit. What did I do?
She didn’t want to know. Well, not really. She would sneak away before Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous woke up and figure it out later.

You spent the night with a sex god and you can’t remember it. Just your luck, isn’t it, Isla?
She really hoped she could remember later as she climbed out from under the duvet and stumbled.

And you drank waaayyy too much champagne, borracha
. Her head throbbed and that blaring light was killing her eyes.

Where are my clothes?
She looked around the room.
Black shirt, check. Black pants, check. Slut shoes, double check. No 850€ dress
. She ran her hands over her hips.
Gracias a Dios
. Her 15€ thong was still there.

She grabbed the sex god’s shirt and darted out of the room.

*****

Jacques pretended to be asleep. He didn’t want to interrupt the show.

If his pretty new friend thought she was being quiet, she must still be drunk. His little bull was kicking up a racket that could wake the dead. She’d woken to the shock of her life; her startled panic clearly not the reaction of a girl who slept around. He was no prude, but for some reason, he was glad about that.

He wasn’t sure why he decided to bring her with him. Oh, hell, yes he was. She turned him on. Big time. He’d spent the entire night at Nicolai’s opening trying to ignore the sexy ingénue yet riveted to her every move. Even ran interference as several wannabe boyfriends tried to cozy up to her. No surprise there. The girl was hot. But what she was putting out didn’t seem to match her character and his protective instincts took over.

Or was it your possessive instinct, caveman?

Whatever it was, something about her stirred a need to watch out for her. Underneath the man-killer persona, he sensed goodness and vulnerability. By the time she finally mustered the courage to saunter up to him, he couldn’t resist his curiosity.

So here she was. This was going to be fun and he needed a little fun.

He tried to suppress a chuckle as she stumbled around the room. God Almighty, she had a great body, curvy and full, absolutely perfect. He couldn’t stand bony women and never understood the societal obsession with skinny girls. A woman should be lush, like an oasis against the hardness of life. Something soft for man to sink into.

Pity all that gorgeous hair was black, but what a mane. Tousled by sleep, her wild locks curled over her shoulders, covering her breasts as if trying to preserve her modesty. He wanted to reach out and sweep that hair away, replace it with his hands. His tongue. Beautiful tits, she had really beautiful, bouncy tits. So tempting as he watched her scurry around the dark room.

When she grabbed his shirt, he knew she was about to bolt, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he decided to let her go. He nestled into the pillow and inhaled her seductive scent while he waited for his little bull to come back.

*****

Isabella stumbled into the hallway on loose legs. The world tilted beneath her feet.

Whoa, how much did I drink?

She felt so disoriented and wobbly. The hallway was very narrow and she moved quickly, if not gracefully, to the light at the end, steadying herself with both hands against the wall as she made her hasty escape. Only to step outside and stop dead.

Water?

She looked left. Water. Right. More. She suddenly became aware of the rumble and the gentle sway of the floor beneath her feet. It wasn’t the booze that was making her wobbly. It was the rocking of a boat.

I'm on the sex god’s boat
. She bit her lip.
¡Mierda! Forget what I did. What did HE do!

Anyone else would be afraid, but not Isabella Rey. The youngest sister of four brothers was pissed off. Her sex god may have a yacht and a scent that could make a woman drool, but he was obviously stupid.
Muy estúpido
if he thought it was a good idea to call down the wrath of a Spanish woman. Especially one without coffee.

She stormed back down the narrow hallway.

Gorgeous or not, she was going to rip that guy’s head off.

*****

Jacques sat up as his hurricane swept back into the state room and glared at him.

“We’re on a boat. A goddamn boat!”

“Hope you’ve got your passport, sweetheart, or those guys at customs are going to have a good time with you.”

“What the hell are you saying? Where are we going?”

She was screaming and waving her fist at him. When she raised her arm, his shirt fell open to reveal the luscious curves of her full breasts. Man, she looked pretty in his shirt. Would look even prettier out of it, but this girl was hopping mad. With emotion like that, she would definitely be a hot lover. Not that he actually knew, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. Her angst was gorgeous and he was really enjoying the show.

“Don’t worry if you don’t. I know people who know people,” he offered with a nonchalant shrug. “Worst case, I bail you out.”

“I have my passport,
pendejo
. In my purse. Where did you put my stuff? I’m leaving. Right now.”

She was flying around the room, looking under the bed, under the chair, and grunting. But the best part? She’d just called him, Jacques Meszaros, an asshole. Fantastic.

“Afraid not. Unless you’re a really strong swimmer. We should be in port in an hour.”

“What port?”

“Hercules Port.”

“In Monaco?”

“Last I checked. We sailed from Chalon-Sur-Saône last night.”

“I can’t go to Monaco. Not with you. I have a job.
¡Joder!
This is a nightmare.”

She thrust her hands into her hair and the shirt opened wider.

“That depends on your perspective.” He leaned over and slipped a cigarette from the pack on the bed table.

“You shouldn't smoke. It's bad for your health.”

“That’s pretty funny coming from you.” He blew out a puff of smoke, “They’re yours,” and tossed the matches down next to the pack.

“You still shouldn’t smoke,” she huffed and drew open the drapes.

His hands shot over his eyes. “Have mercy, sweetheart. After our night, the last thing I need is a blast of morning sunshine.”

“I’m making you suffer,” she glanced over at him, “good!”

If looks could kill, he would have been dead on the spot. Instead, he was turned on.

“And what exactly did we do last night?” she asked as she opened the window.

“You don’t remember?”

She shook her head without turning.

He didn’t say anything, only raised the cigarette to his lips to hide his not-so-subtle amusement. Some may say it was cruel not to let her off the hook, but then again, some may say he was cruel and playing with her like this was fun.

She whirled around. “
¡Chingate!
You’re not going to tell me? You’re going to leave me hanging?” Her hands shot toward the ceiling and dropped with a loud clap against her thighs.

“I’m not the one who drank a magnum of champagne.” He sat up, dragged on the cigarette and ran a hand through his hair, unable to hide his grin. He couldn’t believe the fury coming out of this girl. No one ever talked to him like that and it was hilarious.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what, sweetheart?”

“Sit there looking sexy. You can’t seduce me. I am not a slut.” She jacked her chin into the air to emphasize her point.

“I am.” He gave her a lascivious look.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“That too.” He let the smoke escape his lips as he spoke. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.”

“Really, a come on? I am not your sweetheart.” She pointed an accusing finger at him. It may have been a hard gesture, but she had pretty hands too. “You kidnapped me!”

“
Au contraire
. You begged me to take you with me. And given the state you were in after the opening, you’re lucky I did.” He let a hint of reprimand slip into his voice and her eyes widened.

“
Pfft
. I did NOT beg you to take me to Monaco.”

He leaned forward, putting his elbows onto his knees, and pointed at her with the hand holding the cigarette. “I wasn’t about to leave you stumbling around the Paris streets dressed to kill and drunk as a skunk,” he announced as if she owed him a favor.

She glowered at him, unappeased, and the look made him lean back.
This one is fearless
. Now he was really turned on.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I have a house in Monaco. You know, a little place to get away. I’m having a small get together to celebrate my cousin’s success last night. Why don’t you relax and stick around? It’ll be fun. You can call in sick.” He winked at her. “I’ll even write you a note.”

“Funny. He’s a kidnapper and a comedian.” She gave him a skeptical once-over. “
You
are Nicolai Stavros’s cousin? The Nicolai Stavros. The famous artist with the fancy gallery and the pretty wife.”

“Yeah, except she’s not his wife. Not yet. I’m Jacques Meszaros.”

Those chocolate eyes flared wide before she forced a bland expression. “Jacques Meszaros. The CEO of Meszaros Enterprises?”

“At your service.”

Damn, she recognized my name
. Now she would get all serious and deferential like they all did.
Bye, bye fun
. “Kidding aside. If you really want to go home, I’m not going to force you to stay. I’ll take you to the airport and you can fly home.”

“How? By flapping my arms. I can’t afford a plane ticket.” She made a short, sharp sound. “But you probably have a private plane, don’t you,
Señor
Meszaros Enterprises?”

Okay, maybe not
. “Yeah,” he laughed, “but it’s not mine. Darion will let us borrow it though.”

“Borrow it. Who the heck is Darion?”

She was shouting again, but at least she’d calmed down enough to stop cursing like a Spanish sailor. No pun intended.

“Darion LeClair.”

“The art guru?
Jesucristo
,
Señor
Meszaros Enterprises has some fancy connections. My roommate babbles about Darion LeClair all the time like the man’s some kind of a god. I suppose you know François Hollande too?”

“Yeah...” Jacques grinned as her hands shot into the air.

“
¡Por supuesto!
”

“…but he’s not invited to the party. The guy’s a stiff.”

“Well I’m sure the President of France would be delighted to know that a pillar of the French business community took advantage of an innocent citizen.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you?” She swung her hand around the room and down her exposed chest. As soon as she noticed the open shirt, she pulled it closed.

“I did no such thing.”

“Don’t act innocent. I woke up naked in your bed.”

“You were naked because I didn’t want to get puke on the sheets. Your dress is being cleaned. It was very sexy, but I have no interest in fucking a drunk.”

“I am not a drunk!” She practically lunged at him.

“You were last night,” he sang.

Her head fell forward and that black hair swung down to hide her face like a veil. “So we didn’t, um, you know.”

“No, I don’t. We didn’t what, sweetheart?”
Come on, sexy girl. Look at me and say it
.