Free The Billionaire's Desire by Kate Lambert Page A

tossing his expensive linen garments onto the bed and pulling on the freshly-pressed white dress shirt and black suit. Luc stood before his full-length mirror, adjusting the sleeves and smoothing down the collar of his shirt. He stared his reflection down, his eyes as dark as twin pools of obsidian. It was time to go downstairs and begin greeting guests.
    *
    She was standing by herself, a solitary figure in a short black sheathe. Luc had noticed her when she arrived, had been momentarily distracted by the freshness of her appearance, in stark contrast to the jaded glitterati, celebrities and social climbers who normally populated Gemme parties. But Catherine had called him over to introduce him to a new photographer that she insisted was the next big thing, and the blue-eyed, blonde-haired beauty hadn’t crossed his mind since, and that was hours ago.
    Catherine had disappeared, which was just as well as far as Luc was concerned, because she normally clung onto him so in these publicized events, as if photographs in People magazine gave their relationship security. The enchanting blonde stood off on her own, one foot crossed in front of the other as s he looked, intent, at one of the newer pieces Luc had bought from his friend, Alec Albert, to add to his personal collection. The woman before him was shorter, shorter than Catherine (who wasn’t?), but strapped into chunky five-inch heels that made her slim white legs look as long as anyone’s. She’d accessorized her short tunic simply, a string of pearls that hung low in the back, little diamond studs in her ears, her white-blonde hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Luc took her in even as he moved closer, drifting away from the cluster of partygoers who spoke in rapid, trill French.
    He thought he might have noticed her at some point regardless of where she stood; like him, her attire for this avant-garde celebration was almost too formal, too polite among the wildly-printed and sequined cocktail dresses and boldly colored and patterned suits.
    As Luc closed the distance between them he could breathe in her scent: lemon and raspberries , he thought, his mouth watering suddenly.
    He pressed his hand against the small of her back as he spoke.
    “You gaze at this piece with such intent. Do you like it?” he asked simply, in English.
    Ally turned her head to look at the new presence at her shoulder. “Yes,” she murmured, looking back at the painting as if she found its allure irresistible – even more irresistible than Luc.
    He kept his hand where it was but scrutinized her more fully. There was no especial warmth, no melting into him, as most women did the moment he touched them.
    Ally gradually realized in the silence he was touching her – touching her at the small of her back, an intimate gesture, which he only disrupted to take a flute of champagne from a passing server and press into her hand. She side-stepped him, trying to ignore the expensive, clean scent of him and took a small sip.
    “Then it’s yours.”
    Ally blinked, almost unaware for a moment that he had spoken. “I’m sorry, what?” she asked. His accent was thick, she must have misheard.
    “The painting that you so admire that you cannot turn and talk to me…I give it to you. A gift.”
    Ally knocked the glass back and chuckled. “Oh, okay,” she remarked with equal nonchalance. Her eyes swam for a moment from the bright, expensive champagne. She crossed her arms and turned to face him.
    She recognized him instantly, of course. Even if she hadn’t seen his face, that same half-smile, on the cover of Tattle-Tale earlier she would have known who he was. The question, however, especially after he had offered to personally gift her with a painting she’d been sent to St. Tropez to acquire for the museum and gallery where she worked back in NYC (with a budget of no more than $500,000) was: what does he want ?
    Armed with a purposeful sense of business and the knowledge that this man took