Chantelle Shaw - Postcards From Rio - Master of Her Innocence / To Play with Fire / A Taste of Desire

‘How did you know my size?’

‘I asked your sister.’ He stepped closer and murmured in her ear, ‘Besides, I have an excellent memory of your body, querida.’

Fortunately the guests began to arrive and Diego moved to greet them, but Clare’s hope that she would be able to disappear amongst the crowd was thwarted when he slipped his arm around her waist and kept her clamped to his side.

‘Tonight you are my hostess,’ he reminded her when she suggested he might want to circulate on his own and chat to the countless beautiful women who watched him hungrily as if they wanted to devour him.

‘Why do I get the feeling that you’re using me as a shield? Aren’t you flattered that you could have just about any woman in the room without even having to try?’

She looked up at his handsome face, expecting to see his mouth curve into an indolent smile, but he trapped her gaze and the heat in his eyes burned her. ‘There is only one woman I want but she told me she’s not interested,’ he said softly.

Clare was aware of the pulse at the base of her throat beating so hard she was afraid it was visible through her skin. She reminded herself that Diego was a womaniser and he was flirting with her because it was second nature to him. But sexual chemistry had sizzled between them in the steamy rainforest and it was no less potent in the semi-dark nightclub with the thudding beat of the music echoing the frantic thud of her heart. She opened her mouth to reiterate what she had told him in his office, that she would not be his mistress at any price. But instead she heard herself murmur, ‘I said I wasn’t for sale. I never said I wasn’t interested.’

* * *

What the hell had Clare meant by that? Diego wondered as he watched her walk away from him. He was damned sure she had deliberately made an excuse that she needed to visit the bathroom, and he was tempted to go after her, lock them both in a cubicle and take her up against the wall with all the finesse of a hormone-fuelled teenager.

He raked a hand through his hair, his eyes lingering on the sway of her hips and the taut curves of her bottom beneath her twinkling sequin-covered dress. He couldn’t remember when he had wanted a woman as much as he wanted her. But perhaps his inexplicable possessive feeling was because there was a possibility that she was carrying his child, he told himself.

His common sense urged him to put her out of his mind. As she had pointed out, he could take his pick from any of the single females at the party, and probably a few married ones, he thought sardonically. Money was a powerful aphrodisiac, but even before he’d become a multimillionaire women had desired him; strangely, and it was a funny thing, the less he had cared, the more they’d pursued him.

Clare was the only woman who had ever stood up to him. She had even stood up to the ruthless drugs lord, Rigo. He admired her, Diego acknowledged. Hell, he liked her as well as desired her, and he knew, because he always knew with women, that she was halfway to falling in love with him. What troubled him most was the realisation that he did not want to hurt her, which of course he would. He wasn’t looking for love. The blank space in his memory of what had happened when he was seventeen hid a truth about himself that he did not want to uncover. It was safer to be a playboy who did not give a damn about anyone.

Across the room he caught the eye of one of his ex-mistresses. Belinda was an attractive blonde, wearing a minuscule dress that showed off her long legs. Like most of his exes, Diego had parted from her on good terms and her body language sent him a message that she was available. He started to walk towards Belinda but then he noticed Clare standing by the bar and scanning the room for him.

The bright lights above the bar danced over her long auburn hair, which fell in rippling waves down her back and shone like silk. Santa Mãe, she looked as if she had been poured into the gold dress that hugged her tiny waist and framed her full breasts. She was tying him in knots, Diego acknowledged grimly. The only way to get her out of his system was to get her into his bed.

* * *

The finest champagne and exquisite canapés were served to Diego’s guests, who had paid hundreds of dollars for tickets to the party, with all the proceeds going to his charity. After the cabaret came the main fund-raising event of the evening, when donated items were auctioned. Earlier, Clare had looked at the variety of items for auction, which included fabulous jewellery, a number of valuable pieces of artwork and, most astonishing of all, a sports car. The only item she considered bidding for was a rare first edition copy of poems by English Romantic poet Lord Byron, but when she saw the starting bid price she realised it would exceed her credit card limit.

In fact, the poetry book was sold for three times the amount expected. ‘You looked disappointed that the bidding for Byron’s poems was so high,’ Diego commented.

‘Surprised, but certainly not disappointed because all the money raised at the auction goes to the Future Bright Foundation, doesn’t it?’

‘Every dollar,’ he said with quiet pride. ‘The money is put to good use. Cruz and I know from our own experiences growing up in a favela that education is the key to escaping poverty.’

Clare looked at him closely. ‘You donated the poetry book, didn’t you? And then won the bid to buy it back again.’

He shrugged. ‘I do the same at every fund-raising auction. When I was a young man and borrowed books from Earl Bancroft’s library, reading novels and poetry opened my mind to the realisation that there was a whole world waiting for me beyond working in a mine. I hope to give all deprived children not only a dream of a better life, but the means, by educating them, to turn their dreams into reality.’

His words touched something inside Clare. ‘Do you really not have any family who care about you?’ she asked softly, remembering what he had told the drugs lord Rigo. ‘You told me that your father abandoned your mother before you were born and you grew up living in a favela. Is your mother dead too?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I lost contact with her when I was seventeen.’

‘Have you never tried to find her?’

‘No.’ Diego’s brusque tone warned her not to ask any more questions.

‘Well, here is your book to put back on the shelf in your library,’ Clare said when a waiter delivered the leather-bound book to their table.

‘Actually, it’s yours,’ Diego murmured, sliding the book towards her. ‘I bid for it on your behalf.’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t take on any more debt when I already owe you a million dollars for the Rose Star diamond.’

‘You don’t owe me for the book. It’s a present.’

Diego saw Clare’s look of surprise and cursed himself. Why was he behaving like a damned fool in love? He was simply wooing her a little so that she would have sex with him, he assured himself as he opened the book at a random page, which happened to be Lord Byron’s famous poem, She Walks in Beauty.

It was a poem Diego had read many times, and his eyes were drawn to Clare’s lovely face as he quoted softly, ‘“She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes...”’

* * *

It was the champagne making her feel light-headed, Clare told herself, not Diego’s deep voice seducing her with Byron’s beautiful poetry. The two men had something in common; Byron had been notorious for his scandalous affairs and Clare had no doubt that Diego’s reputation as a womaniser was well deserved.

But when he asked her to dance with him she found herself being led on to the dance floor and swept into his arms. And when their eyes met and his mouth curled into a lazy smile that stole her breath she gave up trying to resist him.