Sarah Holland - Master Of Seduction

‘Evening all!’ called a jolly, boyish blond man in his mid-thirties. ‘Crack open the champers! I’ve arrived!’

‘Hi, Toby!’ Liz went to greet him with a kiss. ‘You’re looking awfully flushed! You must have caught the sun this afternoon!’

‘I always do. It’s the de Courcey skin. I think one of our ancestors must have been old Dracula himself.’

Emma was acutely aware of Patrick standing close to her, watching her with his heavy-lidded eyes. He was leaning against the rails, one strong hand close to the small of her back, and all she could think about was how close it was, and how very easily it could slide up on to her back, those long fingers moving lightly over her skin…

‘Toby, have you met my friend Emma Baccarat?’

‘No, but I can’t wait to do so! Look at that stunning figure!’

Emma smiled politely, shook his hand, aware of Patrick’s blue eyes on her, and of the long hand so close to her back.

‘What a cracker you are!’ Toby giggled. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me the new arrival was so gorgeous?’

Everyone laughed.

‘And have you met our cousin Charles?’ Liz was gesturing to the tall, elegant blond man who was with Toby. ‘He’s married to Natasha.’

‘The Wicked Witch of the West,’ Toby said, giggling.

‘Don’t be horrible about my poor darling Natasha,’ said Charles.

Emma barely noticed either Toby or Charles. She was too busy noticing Patrick Kinsella, standing beside her, stunningly gorgeous, unbearably handsome, frighteningly real…

‘How do you do, Miss Baccarat?’ Charles de Courcey said with infinite charm, shaking her hand, his dark eyes gentle and sweet.

‘Very well, thank you.’ Emma shook his hand and wished Patrick would disappear. ‘And you?’

‘Oh, marvellous. Had a lovely day; looks like it’s going to be a super night…’

Patrick finished his drink, moved with cool male grace to the table, put his glass down. Emma didn’t look at him but she saw every move he made, every ripple of muscle beneath that impeccable black dinner-jacket, every turn of his dark head and every flicker of his blue, blue eyes.

‘Uh-oh!’ Toby giggled suddenly. ‘Here comes The Evil One.’

Natasha appeared on deck looking drop-deadly in a shimmering silver sheath which she must have been poured into, for it clung to her every slender curve. Her dark hair was pushed back in a sultry swath, her heavy eyelids were outlined in black and her lips dripped bloodred gloss.

‘Vampirella, I presume!’ Toby joked.

‘Do be quiet, Toby,’ Natasha said, slinking towards them. ‘Don’t give Charles a drink, Patrick—he’s been knocking back the sherry all afternoon, and I don’t want him to lose consciousness too soon. Why, Miss Baccarat! Weren’t you told to dress for dinner?’

Emma barely registered the insult—she was too busy forcing herself not to feel what she was feeling.

‘I think Emma looks absolutely superb,’ Patrick murmured coolly, watching her from beneath those heavy eyelids and making her heart skip rapid beats.

‘Well, you would, Patrick!’ Natasha said waspishly. ‘No doubt you’ve decided to take up the challenge. After all, if anyone can get Miss Baccarat to fall wildly in love, it’s you.’

Emma stiffened like a board, her hand clutching her glass so tightly, she thought it might shatter into a thousand pieces. Over my dead body! she told herself furiously. Over my dead body!

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Toby.

‘Oh, we were having this conversation when they first arrived…’ said Natasha, but Emma wasn’t listeningshe was furiously remembering Patrick’s reputation as a lady-killer, playboy, seducer par excellence. She felt a fool, humiliated, aware now that Patrick Kinsella had probably elicited these responses in her through experience or cynical manipulation or some other technique which she had no defence against.

I knew they weren’t real feelings, she thought angrily, sipping her drink too fast. I knew feelings like these didn’t exist outside storybooks.

‘…and she said she didn’t believe in love or romance.’

Emma’s face was burning angry crimson. She didn’t know where to look or what to say. She wanted to die.

‘So I told her she must want someone to kiss from time to time…’

Patrick moved coolly, suddenly, and as his powerful body blocked the others from her view Emma looked up into his clever, serious eyes and felt breathless all over again because he clearly understood what was going on inside her mind. She swallowed hard, dragging her gaze from his. He hesitated for a second, then his long fingers touched her cheek, making her quite literally catch her breath and stare up at him again, horrified.

‘…and then Patrick asked her if she’d ever wanted to kiss anyone…’

Emma looked down suddenly at his mouth, then went scarlet, felt more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life, and had no option other than to bend her dark head because there was nowhere else to hide.

Turning from Emma, Patrick cut into Natasha’s diatribe. ‘I think it’s time we all left for dinner.’

They all turned to look up at him, as though he were a god.

‘I booked the table for eight o’clock, and it’s nearly that now.’ He studied the black and silver Rolex on his wrist, the crisp white cuff shooting back to reveal a tanned, black-haired forearm. ‘As we have to sail at midnight, I think an early start is advisable.’

They left the yacht, a glamorous set of people bathed in gold evening light, walking along the expensive shopping streets while open-topped sports cars zoomed past and little red Lambretta scooters whizzed along carrying young people in jeans, their hair blowing back in the hot breeze.

Naturally, they fell into pairs as they walked. Charles and Toby. Natasha and Liz…

Patrick fell into step beside Emma. She felt her heart beating too fast. The warm sun was on her skin, the breeze in her hair, and all the lights of St Tropez seemed bright, hot, blazing with glamour.

‘Do you think you’ll enjoy the cruise?’

It was small talk, and Emma was grateful for that, answering, ‘Yes. Particularly Morocco. I’ve never been there.’

‘Rabat is very beautiful.’ His voice was deep, cool, very male. ‘It’s the capital, but it’s quite a way inland from Casablanca, which is where we’ll be stopping. I’ll hire a car, drive you into the city for——’

‘No, that’s quite all right!’ Emma tried hard not to sound as though she was afraid of spending an entire day alone with him, although she had a sneaking suspicion that she was. ‘Casablanca will be fine for me. I don’t need to see Rabat.’

He just looked at her coolly, analytically, from under those heavy eyelids, and her heart skipped so many beats she was surprised she didn’t have a cardiac arrest.

‘How much longer till we get to this restaurant?’ she demanded with a brittle laugh, and then blushed hotly, aware of his serious blue eyes burning through her pretence. ‘I’m really quite hungry!’

He looked at her in cool enquiry, and his eyes wanted to know why she was resorting to such artifice.

Feeling sick, she looked away from him.

‘Here we are!’ Natasha said suddenly, stopping at a vast restaurant surrounded by black iron grilles, plants and flowers and trees in the garden beneath the long blue and white canopy. ‘Well done, Patrick! You unerringly pick the most exclusive restaurants.’

He gave a cool, wry smile. ‘Just for you, Natasha,’ he said, and pushed open the gate of the private enclosure, watching Emma as she walked past him, making her very aware of his every look, his every flicker of thought.

The maître d’ swept up to them, bowed low. ‘Monsieur Kinsella! How wonderful to see you again! May I show you to your table…?’