Rich as Sin Page 4

  Swallowing, Samantha decided she had no choice but to bluff it out. There was no way she could get round the table and make it to either of the other two doors without him catching her. Something told her he would move just as swiftly as the predator he resembled, but perhaps he would leave her alone if he thought she was no threat to him.

  ‘I—er—the party’s not down here,’ she said, stifling an exclamation as her shaking hands clattered two quiche plates together. God! She was trying not to do anything to agitate him. At this rate, he’d soon guess that she was scared rigid.

  But, ‘I know,’ he remarked, in a laconic voice, making no move to budge from his lounging position. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he added. ‘I assumed everyone would be upstairs. I imagine Ivanov’s guests have arrived by now, haven’t they?’

  Samantha blinked. Ivanov’s guests! So he knew whose house it was, then. Did that make it better or worse? She was too shocked to make a decision.

  And his voice disturbed her. It had a low gravelly edge that scraped across her nerves. Yet it was a cultivated voice, as well. Hoarse, but not the broad London accent she would have expected.

  He moved then and, in spite of herself, she flinched. She didn’t quite know what she expected him to do, but when her eyes alighted on the knife she had used to cut the pizza lying on the table beside her, her fingers flexed automatically.

  ‘I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here,’ he began, his lips twisting half sardonically, and Samantha took a choking breath. His upper lip was quite thin, she noticed inconsequently, but the lower one was full and sensual. The mark of a sensitive nature, she wondered wildly, or simply an indication of brute strength?

  ‘I—it’s nothing to do with me,’ she said, aware that her voice had risen half an octave. She edged one of the cold-boxes forward so that it hid the knife from his view. Then, as her fingers closed around the handle, ‘Is—is Mr Ivanov expecting you?’

  A faint smile touched his mouth. His lips parted to reveal even white teeth, and his tongue appeared to dampen a corner in a decidedly amused gesture. ‘Mr Ivanov?’ he echoed, as Samantha’s scattered senses registered the powerful attraction of that smile. ‘I gather you don’t know him very well.’

  Samantha’s lips tightened. Did he mean because she hadn’t addressed him as Prince Ivanov? Or simply because she had said Mr Ivanov?

  ‘I—don’t,’ she declared, realising he hadn’t answered her question. Her fingers took a firmer hold on the knife. ‘Wh-why don’t you go up and see him?’

  It was a calculated risk she was taking. She had no idea what he might do when confronted with a roomful of Prince Georgio’s guests, but at least it would give her a chance to call the police. And there was no point in trying to be a hero—a heroine—when he was so much taller and stronger than she was. She might find the courage to use the knife to defend herself, but she couldn’t see herself using it to stop him from invading the party. Indeed, the very idea of sinking its cruel blade into his yielding flesh was enough to bring her out in a cold sweat.

  ‘Yes,’ he said now, pushing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, ‘why don’t I do that?’ But then, dispelling the feeling of relief that his words had kindled, his heavy lids narrowed the penetration of eyes so dark, they seemed as black as his outfit. ‘So what are you doing down here?’

  ‘Me?’ It was almost a squeak, and Samantha cleared her throat before continuing. ‘I—–’ It was still too high, and she consciously tried to lower her tone. ‘I—I’m just the ca-caterer.’

  ‘The caterer?’ he echoed, half disbelievingly, and she realised that in her hip-length sweater and black leggings she didn’t look like anyone’s idea of a waitress. But she had changed out of the neat white blouse and short black skirt she had worn to set out the buffet tables. In here, five minutes ago, she remembered, in horror. God! She should be grateful he hadn’t surprised her in her bra and panties!

  ‘I—yes, the caterer,’ she confirmed, the memory of what could have happened giving her a momentary respite. ‘That—that’s what I’m doing. Packing up my things.’

  His frown was thoughtful, drawing his straight black brows together. He had nice eyebrows, she thought, dark and vital, like his hair, and his nose was straight and well-formed, between bones that accentuated the hollows of his cheeks. Altogether, it was a disturbingly attractive face, she acknowledged, and then inwardly flayed herself for thinking so. For pity’s sake, the man was an intruder, or worse! How could she find him attractive? She must be losing her mind!

  He moved again, approaching the table this time, and all thoughts of his appearance fled. All her old fears flooded back in full measure, and when he put out a hand to examine the nearest cold-box her nerve snapped. Snatching up the knife, she positioned it against her midriff, holding it with both hands, the handle towards her stomach, the blade pointing viciously outwards.

  ‘Don’t touch anything!’ she cried, unable to hold down her panic any longer. ‘Get—get away from the table. Or—or I’ll use this. Believe me, I know how.’

  His expression was ludicrous. If she hadn’t known better, she might almost have believed he was as shocked as she was. He stared at her as if she had really lost her senses, and his hands came out of his pockets to perform a soothing gesture.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘calm down—–’

  ‘Keep away from me!’ Samantha was shaking like a leaf, and her hold on the knife was desperate. Her palms were sweating with the knowledge that she had really burned her boats now. She had shown him she didn’t trust him, and there was no turning back.

  ‘Please,’ he protested, ‘put the knife down. You’re making a terrible mistake—–’

  ‘You made the mistake in coming here,’ she retorted, glancing behind her, measuring the distance to the stairs. ‘If—if you have any sense you’ll get out of here. If you’re still here when I get back, the police will—ouch!’

  Her words were brought to an abrupt halt when he lunged forward and grabbed her arm. Taking advantage of her momentary lapse in concentration, he grasped her wrist and twisted sharply. The knife fell to the floor with a loud clatter, and before she could turn away he jerked her hard against him.

  Her first crazy thought was that she had been right: his body was much harder and tougher than Paul’s. And the second was that he was no gentleman. A gentleman wouldn’t twist her arm up behind her back until it felt as if it might break, or hold her as if there was some danger of her laying a karate chop across the back of his neck. The only kind of chops she knew about were lamb, and pork, and if it weren’t so serious she could almost find it funny.

  A sob escaped her, but it was as much a suppression of the hysterical laughter that was bubbling inside her as an expression of pain. Nevertheless, he heard it, and his hold on her arm eased ever so slightly, as he drew back to look down at her.

  ‘Are you crazy, or what?’ he demanded, and she was relieved to see he looked no more menacing than he had done a few moments ago. But he had been drinking. She could smell it on his breath.

  ‘You—you ask me that!’ she got out, trying to free her other arm that was imprisoned by her side. ‘After—after breaking in here!’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ He blinked now, and she thought what absurdly long eyelashes he had, for a man. But she was making far too many personal observations about him, and she determinedly schooled her thoughts along with her expression. ‘I didn’t break in,’ he added impatiently. ‘Believe it or not, I have an invitation!’

  ‘You do?’ Samantha wasn’t sure whether she should believe him or not, but as he was holding the upper hand—in more ways than one, she acknowledged painfully—what choice did she have?

  ‘Yes.’ He let go of the arm he had been punishing, and transferred his hold to her waist. ‘Can I trust you not to pull another stunt like that, if I let you go?’

  Samantha’s lips trembled, but a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘I—I think so,’ she said,
becoming conscious of the underlying intimacy of their situation. Whether he realised it or not, she was acutely aware of his lean hips inclined towards hers, and the muscled thigh that was threatening to part her legs. ‘Are you going to? Let me go, I mean,’ she appended, as the ambiguity of her words brought an embarrassed wave of colour to her cheeks.

  Amazingly, the ebony eyes darkened. Samantha wouldn’t have believed they could, and it wasn’t so much an increasing definition of colour as a deepening of quality, a softening, that gave the pupils a curious lightness.

  ‘Do you want me to?’ he asked, and there was a distinctly husky timbre to his hoarse voice now that caused a feathering of flesh all over her body. Dear heaven, he was sexy, she thought, her senses racing out of control. It wasn’t exactly what he was saying, it was the way he was saying it, and her tongue appeared to wet her lips in unknowing invitation.

  ‘I—–’ she began, knowing how she ought to answer him, but hesitating none the less. And then a voice that she remembered rather too well broke over them in shrill accusation.

  ‘Matt! Matt, is that you? In God’s name, what are you doing down here?’

  Melissa Mainwaring came down the stairs as she spoke, her short-skirted dress of crisp blue taffeta rustling as she did so. It also slipped enticingly off one white shoulder, drawing attention to the pearly quality of her skin, and the ripe, rounded shape it concealed.

  The man stiffened. There was no other way to describe the sudden freezing of his body. With unhurried but nevertheless decisive movements, he released Samantha and stepped back, his expression twisting oddly in the harsh track of a spotlight. It gave her the opportunity to try and gather her own composure, though the expression in Melissa’s eyes as she looked at her was not encouraging.

  She had reached the bottom of the stairs now, and her high heels rang noisily against the copper-coloured tiles. But, her attention was all on the man beside Samantha now and, although she clearly hadn’t liked their earlier closeness, his subsequent withdrawal had mollified her somewhat.

  ‘You came,’ she said, her expression changing to one of extreme satisfaction. ‘I hoped you would.’

  ‘Did you?’

  His response was scarcely enthusiastic, though Samantha sensed that he was holding his real emotions in check. There was a distinct tenseness in the way he held himself, in the way he spoke. Something was going on here, something she knew nothing about, and she wished, with all her heart, that she could escape before his control snapped.

  ‘Yes.’ The woman’s gaze switched to the girl beside him, and Samantha thought how ironic it was that she and Melissa should have had that altercation earlier. It made the present situation so much more awkward, and she just wanted to pick up her boxes and leave. ‘I see Miss Maxwell let you in.’

  ‘I let myself in,’ the man contradicted her, but Melissa was not appeased.

  ‘But you know one another,’ she probed, crossing her arms across her midriff, and massaging her elbows with delicate hands.

  ‘No.’ The man—Matt?—shifted his weight from one foot to the other, pushing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘Miss—Maxwell?’ He looked briefly at Samantha, and she quickly bent her head. ‘Miss Maxwell thought I was an intruder.’

  Melissa frowned. ‘Is this true?’ she asked, and Samantha sighed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was my fault for coming in the back way,’ declared Matt sardonically. He bent to pick up the knife that still lay glinting on the floor, but although he glanced at Samantha as he did so he made no mention of it. ‘So—I believe congratulations are in order. You finally got someone to take the bait.’

  If Samantha was shocked by his words, Melissa was more so. ‘You—bastard!’ she choked, and the look she cast in the other woman’s direction was eloquent of the fury she felt at Samantha’s being a witness to her humiliation. There would be no useful contacts from this dinner party, not if Melissa had anything to do with it, Samantha thought ruefully. But at the same time she felt a small sense of satisfaction that whatever was going on here, the man—Matt? Matthew?—was apparently quite capable of holding his own.

  ‘I—if you’ll excuse me,’ she murmured, deciding not to push her luck. It was one thing to be an unwilling witness; it was quite another to become a participant in their quarrel.

  Melissa took a deep breath. ‘Where are you going?’

  Samantha moistened her lips. ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘Like hell you are!’ Melissa shot Matthew a crippling glare. ‘People haven’t even started eating yet. It’ll be hours before the tables can be cleared. Go to the bathroom, or somewhere. Mr Putnam and I only need a few moments’ privacy.’

  ‘No.’ Samantha thrust the last of her belongings into the boxes, and fastened the safety clips. Right now, she didn’t particularly care if she smashed all her dishes. She just wanted to get out of there, for more reasons than she cared to consider. ‘I—your—that is, the prince knows I only—prepare the food. I don’t clean up afterwards.’

  ‘Why not?’ Melissa’s undoubtedly striking features were less than appealing at this moment. ‘You’re just a waitress, aren’t you? That’s what you’re doing here.’

  ‘No,’ said Samantha again, snatching up her jacket, and grabbing hold of two of the cold-boxes. ‘I just—deliver the food, that’s all.’ It was easier than trying to explain. ‘And now, as I say, I must be going. It—it’s getting late, and I’ve got a long way to drive.’

  Melissa looked as if she would have liked to try and stop her by force, but, instead, she contented herself with a sarcastic sneer. ‘Well, you can tell your employer we weren’t very impressed with the service,’ she declared spitefully. ‘Oh, and mention the caviare, won’t you? You have heard of caviare, I assume?’

  Samantha gritted her teeth, intensely aware of the man standing listening to the proceedings, with a faintly mocking expression on his dark face. ‘I’ll remember,’ she said tightly, bumping the boxes against the cupboards as she struggled to the door. Just a few more yards, she thought, wondering how she could turn the handle without wasting time putting her boxes down, and then the man intervened.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said, reaching past her to pull open the door, and she gave him a grateful smile. ‘Drive carefully,’ he added, as she hurriedly ascended the steps, but any response she might have made died on her lips. As she glanced behind her, Melissa came to grasp his arm, and drag him back into the kitchen. Samantha’s last glimpse was of the two of them standing very close together, and of Melissa’s scarlet-tipped fingers spread against his chest.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE HONEY POT was hectic, and Samantha was busy microwaving dozens of the individual earthenware dishes of her home-made lasagne when she saw him.

  It was odd, that sudden awareness, but she noticed him the moment he entered the café. Afterwards, she told herself it was the stir his leather-clad appearance caused among the bank clerks, shop assistants, and other office workers, who made up the bulk of the lunchtime crowd. But, whatever it was, she knew an unfamiliar sense of panic, as he threaded his way between the tables.

  Debbie Donaldson, her assistant, whose job it was to serve the customers and clear the tables, intercepted him before he could reach the refrigerated cabinets, where delicious plates of sandwiches and salads were on display.

  ‘A table for one?’ she enquired, her wide blue eyes assessing, taking in his dark attractive features and leanly muscled frame.

  ‘What?’ His eyes had been on Samantha, who was hurriedly preparing another of the pre-cooked pasta dishes for the microwave, and trying to pretend she hadn’t seen him. ‘Oh—–’ He expelled his breath on an impatient sigh, and glanced briefly round the small restaurant. ‘Yes. Why not?’ His gaze narrowed to enclose only Debbie. ‘Can you fit me in?’

  ‘I’m sure I can.’

  Debbie’s lips parted to reveal a provocative tongue, and Samantha, unwillingly aware of how impressionable the eighteen-year-old was,
felt a surge of raw frustration. What was he doing here? she wondered, stifling a curse as she burned her thumb on a hot dish. He was a long way from Eyton Gate and Belgravia. How on earth had he found her? And who the hell was he anyway?

  A surreptitious glance across the room informed her that Debbie had seated him at a small table in the bow window. It was one of the only two tables left vacant in the café, and was usually reserved for Mr Harris, the manager of the local building society. But Debbie wasn’t looking her way, so Samantha couldn’t signal that that table was unavailable. Debbie’s attention was firmly fixed on her customer—as was the attention of most of the females present.

  Not that she could blame them, Samantha admitted ruefully, trying to concentrate on what she was doing. He was clean-shaven this morning, and the hooded eyes and stark uncompromising features possessed a potent sensuality. Two sausages, one cannelloni, and two egg and cress sandwiches, she recited silently, struggling to remember the orders. But his presence disturbed her, reminding her as it did of that evening two nights ago, when he had invaded Prince Georgio’s kitchen.

  She had tried to put the memory of that evening out of her mind. She didn’t want to think about her emotions at that time. She had told herself it was natural not to want to dwell on the scare he had given her. But the truth was, her fears had been superseded by the way he had made her feel when he’d disarmed her.

  Disarmed her in more ways than one, she thought drily, trying to make light of it. And who would want to remember the things Melissa Mainwaring had said to her? No, the whole evening had been a disaster. She was actually having second thoughts about continuing that particular side of the business.

  ‘He says he wants to speak to you.’

  Debbie’s vaguely resentful voice rang in her ear, and Samantha stopped spreading the egg and cress mixture on the bread and looked at her assistant.

  ‘Who?’ she asked, keeping her back firmly to the tables, and Debbie gave her a disbelieving look.