Diana Palmer - Man of the Hour - Night Of Love

“I know that, and so will Steve. But—” he grinned as he took her arm and herded her out the door “—believe me, he’ll approve.”

David’s remark made sense until he escorted Meg into the restaurant where Steve—surprisingly without a woman in tow—and a tall, very dark Arab in an expensive European suit were seated. The men stood up as Meg and David approached. The Arab’s gaze was approving. The puzzle pieces as to why Steve would be happy with her outfit fell into place.

“Remember that the Middle East isn’t exactly liberated territory,” David whispered. “You’re dressed very correctly for this evening.”

“Oh, boy,” she muttered angrily. If she’d thought about it, she’d have worn her backless yellow gown….

“Enchanté, mademoiselle,” the foreigner said with lazy delight as he was introduced to her. He smiled and his black mustache twitched. He was incredibly handsome, with eyes that were large and almost a liquid black. He was charming without being condescending or offensive. “You are a dancer, I believe? A ballerina?”

“Yes,” Meg murmured demurely. She smiled at him. “And you are the representative of your country?”

He quirked an eyebrow and glanced at Steve. “Indeed, I am.”

“Do tell me about your part of the world,” she said with genuine interest, totally ignoring Steve and her brother.

He did, to the exclusion of business, until Steve sat glowering at her over dessert and coffee. She shifted a little uncomfortably under that cold look, and Ahmed suddenly noticed his business colleague.

He chuckled softly. “Steven, my friend, I digress. Forgive me. But mademoiselle is such charming company that she chases all thought of business from my poor mind.”

“No harm done,” Steve replied quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Meg said genuinely. “I didn’t mean to distract you, but I do find your culture fascinating. You’re very well educated,” Meg said.

He smiled. “Oxford, class of ’82.”

She sighed. “Perhaps I should have gone to college instead of trying to study ballet.”

“What a sad loss to the world of the arts if that had been so, mademoiselle. Historians are many. Good dancers, alas, are like diamonds.”

Her cheeks flushed with flattery and excitement.

Steven’s fingers closed around his fork and he stared at it. “About these new jets we’re selling you, Ahmed,” he persisted.

“Yes, we must discuss them. I have been led astray by a lovely face and a kind heart.” He smiled at Meg. “But my duty will not allow me to divert my interests too radically from my purpose in coming here. You will forgive us if we turn our minds to the matter at hand, mademoiselle?”

“Of course,” she replied softly.

“Kind of you,” Steven murmured, his dagger glance saying much more than the polite words.

“For you, Steven, anything,” she replied in kind.

The evening was both long and short. All too soon, David found himself accompanying the tall Arab back to his suite at the hotel while Steven appropriated Meg and eased her into the passenger seat of his Jaguar.

“Why is it always a Jaguar?” she asked curiously when he was inside and the engine was running.

“I like Jaguars.”

“You would.”

He pulled the sleek car out into traffic. “Leave Ahmed alone,” he said without preamble.

“Ah. I’m being warned off.” She nodded. “It’s perfectly obvious that you consider me a woman of international intrigue, out to filch top-secret information and sell it to enemy agents.” She frowned. “Who is the enemy these days, anyway?”

“Mata Hari, you aren’t.”

“Don’t insult me. I have potential.” She struck a pose, with her hand suspended behind her nape and her perfect facial profile toward him. “With a little careful tutoring, I could be devastating.”

“With a little careful tutoring, you could be concealed in an oil drum and floated down the river to Oklahoma.”

“You have no sense of humor.”

He shrugged. “Not much to laugh about these days. Not in my life.”

She leaned her cheek against the soft seat and watched him as he controlled the powerful car. It was odd that she always felt safe with him. Safe, and excited beyond words. Just looking at him made her tremble.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“That I’m sorry you never made love to me,” she said without thinking.

The car swerved and his face tautened. He never looked at her. “Don’t do that.”

She drew in a slow breath, tracing patterns in the upholstery. “Aren’t you, really?”

“You might have been addictive. I don’t like addiction.”

“That’s why you smoke,” she agreed, staring pointedly at the glowing cigarette in his lean, dark hand.

He did glance at her then, to glare. “I’m not addicted to nicotine. I can quit anytime I feel like it.”

“What’s wrong with right now?”

His dark eyes narrowed.

“What’s wrong? Are you afraid you can’t do without it?” she coaxed.

He pressed the power window switch, then threw the cigarette out when there was an opening. The window went back up again.

Meg grinned at him. “You’ll be shaking in seconds,” she predicted. “Combing the floor for old cigarette butts with a speck of tobacco left in them. Begging stubs from strangers.”

“Unwise, Meg.”

“What is? Taunting you?”

“I might decide to find another way to occupy my hands,” he said suggestively.

She threw her arms out to the sides and closed her eyes. “Go ahead!” she invited theatrically. “Ravish me!”

The car slammed to a halt and Meg’s eyes opened as wide as cups. She stared at him, horrified.

He lifted an eyebrow as her arms clutched her breasts and a blush flamed on her face.

“Why, Meg, is anything wrong?” he asked pleasantly. “I just stopped to let the ambulance by.”

“What amb—”

Sirens and flashing red lights swept past them and vanished quickly into the distance. Meg felt like sinking through the floorboard with embarrassment.

Steven’s eyes narrowed just a little. He looped one long arm over the back of her seat and studied her in the darkened car.

“All bluff, aren’t you?” he chided. “Didn’t I warn you that playing games with me would get you into trouble?”

“Yes,” she said. “But you’ve done nicely without me for four years.”

He didn’t answer. His hand lowered to her throat and he toyed with a wisp of her hair that had come loose from her bun, teasing her skin until her pulse began to race and her body grew hot in the tense silence.

“Steven, don’t,” she whispered huskily, staying his hand.

“Let me excite you, Meg,” he replied quietly. He moved closer, easing her hand aside. His mouth poised over hers and he began all over again, teasing, touching, just at her throat while his coffee-scented breath came into her mouth and made her body ache. “It was like this the first night I took you out. Do you remember?” His voice was a deep, soft caress, and his hand made her shiver with its tender tracing. “I parked the car in your own driveway after we’d had dinner. I touched you, just like this, while we talked. You were more impulsive then, much less inhibited. Do you remember what you did, Meg?”

She was finding it difficult to talk and breathe at the same time. “I was very…young,” she said, defending herself.

“You were hungry.” His lips parted and brushed her mouth open, softly nibbling at it until he heard the sound she made deep in her throat. “You unbuttoned my shirt and slid your hand inside it, right down to my waist.”

She shivered, remembering what that had triggered. His mouth had hit hers like a tidal wave, with a groan that echoed in the silence of the car. He’d lifted her, turned her, and his hand had gone down inside the low bodice of her black dress to cup her naked breast. She’d come to her senses all too soon, fighting the intimacy. He’d stopped at once, and he’d smiled down at her as she lay panting in his arms, on fire with the first total desire she’d ever felt in her life. He’d known. Then, and now…