Tina Duncan - Playing His Dangerous Game

Her photograph didn’t do her justice.

Not by a long shot.

Even though Royce was watching her from half a room away, Shara Atwood was so alive she lit up the room. It wasn’t just the sinuous way she was dancing—which he had to admit was incredibly hot—she seemed to radiate a vibrant kind of energy that made it impossible not to look at her.

And people were looking—in their droves.

Royce was watching Shara because he had to.

Because as of an hour ago it was his job to watch her.

What irritated him was the fact that he was enjoying it. The prickling sensation under his skin told him that his body was enjoying it even more—a fact that he found doubly infuriating.

TINA DUNCANlives in trendy inner-city Sydney, with her partner Edy. With a background in marketing and event management, she now spends her days running a business with Edy. She’s a multi-tasking expert. When she’s not busy typing up quotes and processing invoices, she’s writing. She loves being physically active, and enjoys tennis (both watching and playing), bushwalking and dancing. Spending quality time with her family and friends also rates high on her priority list. She has a weakness for good food and fine wine, and has a sweet tooth she has to keep under control.

Recent titles by the same author:

HER SECRET, HIS LOVE-CHILD

DA SILVA’S MISTRESS

Playing His

Dangerous

Game

Tina Duncan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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HER photograph didn’t do her justice.

Not by a long shot.

Even though Royce was watching her from half a room away, Shara Atwood was so alive she lit up the room. It wasn’t just the sinuous way she was dancing—which he had to admit was incredibly hot—but she seemed to radiate a vibrant kind of energy that made it impossible not to look at her.

And people were looking—in their droves.

The young single men at the club were outright staring. The older men, or those accompanied by their wives or girlfriends, were not so obvious. Their eyes slid to Shara whenever they thought they could get away with it without being caught.

Royce fitted neither of those categories.

He was watching Shara because he had to.

Because as of an hour ago it was his job to watch her.

What irritated him was the fact that he was enjoying it. The prickling sensation under his skin told him that his body was enjoying it even more—a fact that he found doubly irritating.

Shara Atwood was the type of woman Royce despised.

She might be beautiful and sexy, but by all accounts she was also spoilt, selfish and self-centred.

He knew the type and tried to steer clear of them—except when his job made that task impossible.

The reminder of why he was here prompted Royce to straighten away from the wall. He made his way through the crowd towards the dance floor. Everyone moved automatically out of his way. At six-foot-four and being keenly muscled, he had that effect on people. They no doubt thought it was safer to move than to accidentally collide with him.

He stopped on the edge of the dance floor.

Now that he was closer Royce realised that Shara had her eyes closed. She was swaying and twirling in perfect time to the music and ignoring everything and everyone around her—including the eager young man with the light brown hair who was desperately trying to capture her attention.

As he watched, the young man reached out to take hold of her shoulders, but she shook him off without even bothering to look at him, as if he were no more important than a bothersome fly. The young man said something. Royce was too far away to hear what it was, but not too far to read Shara’s expression.

A flash of irritation she made no effort to hide crossed her face and then her full lips parted. Whatever she’d said, it must have been cutting. The young man jumped back as if he’d been stung by a wasp. His cheeks flushed a bright fiery red as he turned and stalked off the dance floor.

‘Keep on walking, mate,’ Royce muttered under his breath. ‘And don’t look back. She’s not worth it.’

The incident was a timely reminder to focus on business rather than on Shara’s lusciously full figure and thick fall of sable hair.

He walked across the dance floor and stopped right in front of her.

Then he said her name.

Shara kept right on dancing as if she hadn’t heard him.

But she had.

Royce knew she had.

To the casual observer her expression hadn’t changed, but Royce was an expert at reading body language. He was trained to scrutinise people and assess their reactions. That kind of attention to detail was essential in his line of work.

He’d captured the imperceptible tightening of her mouth and the barely there contraction of her brow. And even though her movements were still fluid and graceful there had been a momentary stiffness—so brief it had almost been invisible—that had run through her curvaceous frame.

It was clear she was irritated by the interruption.

Well, she could be irritated all she liked.

Royce was not like the young pup she’d just sent away with his tail between his legs.

He was a man.

And he didn’t like being ignored—particularly when he had a job to do.

‘Shara,’ he said again.

That was all he said. Nothing else.

But his tone, which fell somewhere between firm and harsh, was one people usually ignored at their peril.

Shara heaved a sigh.

Why couldn’t everyone leave her alone?

OK. So she’d made a mistake coming to the club tonight. She knew that. Had known it since the minute she’d walked through the door.

She wasn’t in the mood to party. She hadn’t been for a long time. The last twelve months had seen to that.

She’d also outgrown the crowd she’d used to run with—a fact she’d realised within minutes of arriving at the club. She could thank the last twelve months for that too.

She had to face it. Coming here tonight was just another poor decision in a long, long line of poor decisions. Stuffing up appeared to be a habit she just couldn’t break.

‘Shara.’

There it was again. That voice. She didn’t recognise it. She would have remembered if she’d heard it before.

It was male. Very definitely male. A deep baritone that made her toes curl in the stiletto sandals she was wearing.

Not Tony, thank goodness. How many times did she have to tell the guy she wasn’t interested? The way he kept coming on to her was bordering on harassment, and with one man already making a nuisance out of himself she didn’t need another.

Perhaps that was why tonight she’d given up on politely rejecting Tony’s overtures and given it to him straight.