His Seductive Revenge

“With flowers?”

“You are colorful enough on your own. Your dress should be white, even. Something outwardly virtuous.”

She raised her brows. “Outwardly?”

“At first glance you would seem the very essence of innocence, then when the viewer focuses on your face, there’ll be something different. The hidden depths, not so hidden.”

“My father won’t see it.”

“It doesn’t matter. You and I will see. And understand” He watched her pluck a purple mum from an arrangement on the chest. She snapped the stem a little shorter and tucked the bloom into her hair, over her ear.

“Do you have a dress that would be right?” he asked.

“Nothing remotely close.”

He nodded. “We will go shopping.”

Cristina sent an army of control to quell her rioting nerves. She’d been edgy when she arrived, had gotten edgier since then. Now, pinpricks of panic stabbed at her. “I’m capable of choosing a dress myself.”

“If you’re worried about me seeing what size dress you wear...”

She stiffened. What was he, psychic? A mind reader? She couldn’t go through with this, after all. He was burrowing deep inside her, this man who saw beyond what anyone else had ever seen. It scared her, excited her, baffled her. And it made her acknowledge feelings she’d never had before. She hadn’t lied to him, not consciously. She didn’t want an affair. She just didn’t know what she was going to do with these physical cravings and sexual yearnings, however.

“You’re not going to have any secrets from me when we’re done,” he finished.

“None?”

He shook his head. “In designer clothes, you wear a fourteen. Off the rack, a sixteen. I don’t give a damn. Neither should you. You told me yourself that you hated being thinner.”

How did he do that? He knew way too much about women. Yellow warning flags went up all around her. She ignored them. “But I also hate having you know what size I wear. I may have come to some acceptance of myself along the way, but you’re a man, after all. An attractive man.”

“A man who’s telling you this truth, Cristina. I think you’re beautiful just as you are. And this is the last time we are discussing this.” He touched the flower in her hair. “Relax with me. Be yourself. Be playful when you feel like it. Sensual when you feel like it Angry, even. Be you. You know that’s what you want more than anything. Trust me.”

“My mother told me never to trust a man who said, ‘Trust me.’”

“She sounds like a wise woman.”

“I miss her.”

The simplicity of her words made his gut clench. There were many levels of loneliness. He’d known a lot of them himself. But he’d chosen his life, chosen to be alone most of the time, to stay out of the limelight. The only person he’d ever missed was Sebastian, who’d done nothing to harm anyone in his entire life. Sebastian, who’d insisted on forging a friendship between four completely opposite boys and one girl. A friendship that had endured for eighteen years but was floundering now without the bond that Sebastian provided.

Sebastian had watched Gabe track Richard Grimes’s every move through the years and understood Gabe’s deep hatred of the man. More important, Sebastian had taken it upon himself to try to expose Grimes’s unscrupulous business dealings, Gabe should have trusted his instincts and not allowed Sebastian to make himself the bait. Now he was struggling to walk again—and fighting for his reputation as well.

“Gabe?”

He breathed again. “Yes?”

“You keep disappearing on me.”

He lifted her hand to his lips, felt her retreat at first, then relax. “After lunch we’ll do a little shopping, shall we, Miss Chandler?”

Cristina held her breath. Inhibitions fled her body faster than she could count to ten. He was offering her a freedom she’d never known. Suddenly, she felt safe. Very, very safe. He was going to demand a lot of her, but he wouldn’t hurt her. If she got hurt, it would be her own fault. This wasn’t a man looking for commitment. She understood that.

She wished he would kiss her mouth. She waited a few seconds, hoping he’d take the hint, or read her mind, or whatever he did to figure her out so well. But he just waited, the patience she’d seen in him from the beginning settling around them.

Plus, she’d said no, after all. She supposed she should respect him for taking her seriously.

“You can’t act like my lord and master while we shop.”

He smiled. “I promise.”

“No leaning back in a chair and scrutinizing each dress. No twirling your finger indicating I should turn around like some model.”

“Agreed.”

“Do you have any idea how hard it’s going to be to find a white dress this time of year?”

“Not if you know the right places to shop.”

Four

The air of the War Memorial Opera House was redolent with perfume. The auditorium echoed with low murmurs, cool laughter and rustling fabric, sounds suited to the exquisite setting. And Lady Luck smiled on Gabriel Marquez.

From his usual box seat he spotted Cristina’s brilliant hair as she walked down the aisle ten minutes prior to curtain, Jason’s hand resting against the small of her back. Her floor-length emerald green dress was simplicity itself. No glitter for this woman, not even on opening night Just a classic design that flattered her figure and complemented her coloring.

And he was irritatingly pleased the gown offered little view of her cleavage to the tall, blond man hovering nearby—unlike the gown she would wear for her De La Hoya portrait.

After a great deal of debate the afternoon before, she’d agreed to a champagne-colored silk with skinny straps and a scooped bodice.

Oh, she’d argued against the cut of the gown, believing that a portrait destined to be hung in a family gallery for generations should be tasteful. From behind her, he’d caught and held her gaze in the mirror.

“Who do you look like, Cristina? Your mother?”

“No. Her maternal grandmother.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because her portrait—Oh. I see your point.”

“Your great-granddaughter will like knowing how she comes by her looks.”

“I yield to your expertise, Gabe. However, I don’t believe we need to show quite so much ‘looks.’”

His body had grazed hers as he moved a little closer. He fingered her dress strap where it touched her shoulder blade. Her flesh tightened under his knuckles. “It will be tasteful enough to hang in the White House.”

Gabe recalled the breath she’d held for a long time, then her silent assent. She was pitifully easy to read, and far too open with him for her own good. Plus, she was ripe for an affair, hungry to experience sexual freedom, which was part of the reason she’d embarked on a life independent of her father—even if she hadn’t acknowledged it to herself yet.

He understood the risk she was taking—be thrived on risks, after all—but he had to prevent the marriage-merger of Cristina and Jason. Could he do that without sleeping with her? His original plan had included intimacy—the graphically imagined rumpled sheets and morning sun. How else could he entice her away, not only from Jason’s persistent pursuit, but from her father’s influence?