The Silver Bride

Opulent cream leather seating, plush carpet, and elegant door. The cabin was far more like a luxurious reception room than mere passenger space. And did Dior Harlequin realize how lucky he was? Did he heck! Stella surveyed her reluctant host.

While they had waited endlessly at the airport for a fresh take-off slot for the jet he had paced the VIP lounge, exuding frustration and wrathful impatience in enervating waves.

Now they were finally airborne, but from what she could see he was in no better a mood. Even so, she still found herself studying him. The dense blue-black hair so perfectly styled to his well-shaped head.

The spectacular eyes enhanced by luxuriant ebony lashes. Eyes the color of midnight that could glint like diamond stars. The hard planes and hollows of his fabulous bone structure. Strong cheekbones added character. His arrogant nose gave warning.

And that wide, perfect mouth? Passion and sensuality. She pondered on the mystery of how a particular set of features could add up to such a devastating whole. And by the time she surprised herself at that stage, she'd got distinctly hot and bothered, and acknowledged a truth she would sooner have denied. She fancied the socks off Dior Harlequin!

Who had she been trying to kid when she'd told herself he revolted her? But it had been such a very long time since Stella had been physically attracted to a man that she was sincerely stunned by the revelation.

Just hormones playing a trick on her to remind her that she could be as foolish and fallible as any other woman, she told herself. Urgently. But even hi a filthy mood, Dior Harlequin was incredibly s.e.xy. If she had noticed, he had to be! Possessed of that rare fluidity of a male totally in touch with his own body, he moved like a big cat prowling on velvet paws.

And he was beautifully built. Broad shoulders, taut, flat stomach, slim h.i.p.s, long, lean powerful t.h.i.g.hs, she assessed, taking individual note of each attribute. Fantasy man...well, until he opened his mouth, she conceded, or left her carting the bags, or looked through her with supreme disdain while never once enquiring if she was hungry or thirsty. Not a feeling guy.

Tough, selfish, single-minded and utterly ruthless in attaining his ends... Caught staring, Stella clashed in shock with Dior's narrowed intent gaze.

Eyes that could turn to the glowing gold of topaz in sunlight, she registered, suddenly running alarmingly short of breath. But it was a kind of alarm new to Stella's experience.

Edge-of-the-seat excitement, she labeled in disbelief, finding it impossible to break free of that smoldering golden appraisal. Feverish tension held her fast, the thunder of her accelerated heartbeat pounding in her ears like surf as her mouth ran dry.

An arrow of twisting heat coiled up through her and warm color stained her face. 'It's three in the morning Greek time. You should lie down for a while and try and get some sleep,' Dior whispered thickly.

The very sound of that deep, dark drawl was like honey drenching her every straining sense, sending a delicious little shiver through her taut frame. Stella blinked like a sleepwalker waking up. 'Lie down?' she muttered.