Читать книгу: «Bound By Their Scandalous Baby»

CHAPTER ONE

LUKAS BLACKSTONE HATED CROWDS. But he hated dark rooms a whole lot more. Tonight, he would have to endure both at the same time. A humiliating trickle of sweat eased down his temple. He brushed it away impatiently with the cuff of his tuxedo jacket. The tailored designer suit felt like a straitjacket, squeezing the air out of his lungs. The irrational fear made his stomach knot.

He cast a jaundiced eye over the array of VIP guests below him—crammed into the Art Deco ballroom of Blackstone’s Manhattan, his company’s flagstone hotel on the corner of Central Park West.

Hollywood A-listers bumped shoulders with masters of industry, legendary rock stars mingled with media moguls, priceless jewellery sparkled and glowed, and vintage champagne flowed alongside a lavish buffet of delicacies produced by an award-winning chef. A thirty-piece orchestra brought the closing strains of a Viennese waltz to an end. Blackstone’s Full Moon Ball was the classiest event of the season. There was more money on display tonight than the GDP of most European countries, but to Lukas, unlike his twin brother Alexei, it had always looked like a seething mass of humanity ready to swallow him whole.

‘Don’t sweat it, bro. You don’t want to dance in the dark with one of these babes, I’ve got this. But don’t come crying to me when I score and you don’t.’

His brother’s voice, smug and irreverent and full of the reckless charm that had made Alexei irresistible to women the world over, whispered across Lukas’s consciousness. A leaden weight joined the tangle of nerves in his belly.

He sunk his fists into the pockets of his suit pants and let the moment of loss wash over him as he stared down at the ballroom floor. The cloying cloud of expensive perfumes and colognes rose to the mezzanine level where he stood, concealed from prying eyes.

‘Mr Blackstone, sir. Mr Garvey wants to know if you’ve picked your partner for the Dark Waltz?’

Lukas swung round to see one of his publicity chief Dex Garvey’s minions. He glanced at his watch. Ten to twelve. Damn.

He pushed the shadow of reminiscence to one side. He had to make an appearance on the ballroom floor at midnight—when the lights would be dimmed—and claim a woman to dance alone with her, creating a spectacle for the press which had been a highlight of the Ball since the Roaring Twenties.

It was a tradition started by his great-grandfather—a murderous Russian bootlegger—who had used the first Blackstone Full Moon Ball as a uniquely barbaric way to claim his unsuspecting bride from the debutantes of New York high society.

Unfortunately, Dex Garvey had decided Lukas could do the same.

‘Tell Garvey it’s none of his business,’ he barked. The minion took the hint and scurried off.

Irritated by the need to make a public spectacle of himself, and the tight knots still competing with the hollow ache in his stomach, he scanned the dance floor for a suitable candidate as the Dark Waltz was announced and the eligible women gathered in the centre of the room.

He ignored the cluster of girls from some of Europe and America’s best families. He knew Garvey had invited them in the hope he would choose one to create a buzz around the planted story about his supposed search for a wife—as Blackstone’s prepared to open its first luxury family resort on a private atoll in the Maldives.

The move into the family market was a sound business decision, nothing more—a chance to consolidate Blackstone’s as the leading luxury brand in all sectors of the global hospitality industry—but Lukas had absolutely no intention of becoming a family man himself just to promote it.

The knots in his stomach tightened as he left his sanctuary and descended the staircase. A sea of eager female faces watched him. The opening bars of the Dark Waltz drowned out the hum of anticipation from the crowd—and the rush of blood in his ears—when his gaze landed on a young woman standing alone.

Unlike the others, who waited with barely concealed anticipation at the thought that he might pick them, she stood apart, her stance brittle and guarded.

The jolt of awareness hit him. Her slender body was temptingly displayed in a green satin gown, its classic style a lot simpler than the expensive designer gowns of the other women. Pale alabaster skin was offset by a mass of wild red curls swept up in a haphazard style that made him itch to tug away the pins keeping it aloft.

As the lights dimmed, the girl’s skin took on an ethereal glow in the moonlight and he got close enough to make out her features. The visceral blast of heat was followed by the shock of recognition.

Darcy O’Hara. The girl who had attempted to blackmail Alexei four years ago—just before his death. What the hell was she doing in New York?

He recoiled, fury and loss strangling him. But he couldn’t halt his steps or change direction as he strode across the floor towards her. A barrage of camera flashes went off around him like fireworks and the other women faded into the background—because the only woman he could focus on was her.

The knots of tension released in a rush, setting off a chain reaction throughout his body, the predatory instinct like a drug.

She tensed, her gaze fixed on his, and her body trembled as if she were poised to run—like a gazelle scenting a panther stalking her in the long grass.

But she stood her ground.

He would have given her points for that, except he didn’t buy the shocked and fragile act for a second. The sharp sweet taste of revenge overrode the familiar childhood fear that had dogged him for years as the darkness descended. The full moon’s beams through the ballroom’s glass ceiling provided the only illumination. The anxiety burned away on the focused wave of fury and the inexplicable flare of desire.

You should have run, Darcy, because you’re not going to like what happens next.

Reaching her at last, he grasped one narrow wrist in an iron grip and wrapped his other arm around her slender waist to yank her towards him.

Without asking permission, he swung her into a turn as the music began, trapping her against his body. She arched back against his restraining arm, the cello strings marking the beat. He could hear the gasp of distress, feel the shudder of her rapid breathing, the softness of her skin as his palm strayed down to where the gown’s back plunged low.

Holding her insultingly close, he forced her to follow his lead.

He didn’t care if he was treating her like a whore. Because that was exactly what she was.

Darcy O’Hara was going to pay for the lies she’d told Alexei, not to mention her decision to gatecrash this event. By the end of this dance, every single member of the paparazzi in Manhattan would know what a manipulative little gold-digger she was—because he planned to give the world’s press and every person here a graphic demonstration.

‘Mr Blackstone...’ she stuttered, the crisp English accent smokier than he remembered from their one brief meeting, as she struggled against his hold. ‘You’re hurting me,’ she said breathlessly.

He loosened his grip, but only enough to ensure he didn’t bruise her. He wasn’t the monster here—she was.

‘Call me Lukas,’ he snarled, thinking of Alexei—irresponsible, impulsive and far too easily fooled by a pretty face—and all he’d lost the day this woman had worked her way into his brother’s bed and messed with his head. ‘And stop wriggling.’

* * *

Bronte O’Hara’s head spun, her confusion almost as huge as her panic, as Lukas Blackstone’s arms closed around her like steel bands.

But as her brain knotted, trying to make sense of what had just happened, her body burned—so powerfully aware of this man she had never met before, further protests got lodged in her throat.

He whisked her around the floor, the kaleidoscope of flashing lights and sound whirling past her in giddying circles. Her skin stretched tight over her bones, and her breasts swelled in the too-tight bodice of the gown she’d found in a thrift store in the East Village the day before—so she could gatecrash this event and meet this man who might well be her nephew’s only hope. She’d already known Lukas Blackstone was a bastard, after the way he’d treated Darcy four years ago. Even so, she’d been prepared to beg him for his help, for his attention—but she hadn’t expected this.

The possessive press of one large hand scalded the base of her spine, her senses overwhelmed by the irresistible fragrance of juniper and pine from his cologne and his own musky scent.

She felt trapped, controlled, completely at his mercy. She’d never danced a waltz before in her life, but his confident, fluid steps made it impossible for her to stumble, her feet barely touching the ground.

The music built to a crescendo, her breathing becoming ragged, and her exhausted mind seemed no longer capable of engaging with anything but the sight and sound of him. The moonlight made it feel as if she were being propelled in a dream—a terrifyingly erotic dream—her body becoming one throbbing, pulsating bundle of nerve-endings. Through the maelstrom of conflicting emotions, her mind clung desperately to one coherent thought.

She hated this man, for everything he was and everything he stood for, and for everything he had done to Darcy and had tried to do to Nico. Four years ago, he’d attempted to bribe her sister into aborting his brother’s child.

But why then did she feel so alive in his arms? It was as if a veil had been ripped away to expose her, naked and yearning, the minute he had marched towards her and dragged her into his embrace.

Why did her body revel in his punishing hold? Why did she feel this desperate compulsion to rub against the unyielding lines of his powerful physique? Why did her lungs want to pull in greedy breaths of that intoxicating scent?

After what felt like an eternity, but could only have been a few minutes, the glide of violin and cello, the flutter of piccolo and flute faded into silence and they came to an abrupt standstill.

She could hear her own rapid breathing as her body hummed with a thousand tiny pinpricks of agonised sensation. Abruptly he let her go. She stumbled and his hand clamped around her upper arm.

Applause erupted around them. She heard his vicious curse, then suddenly she was in his arms again. But this time his lips were on hers, his tongue demanding entry. She opened for him instinctively, her gasp cut off as his tongue swept inside.

Strong fingers plunged into her hair, the stinging in her scalp as the pins scattered nothing compared to the brutal blaze of sensation firing up from her core.

Overcome, overwhelmed, she was unable to control her desperate, wanton response to the kiss. Part of her mind knew this was a punishment—she could feel his contempt, taste his disgust—but as he held her head and pillaged her mouth she was powerless to resist the heat firing through every one of those newly awakened nerve-endings.

She felt dazed, giddy with pleasure, as the darkness began to lift. But then he thrust her away from him. The applause had died, to be replaced with hissed whispers, taut silence.

She got her first proper look at the face that had haunted her for over three years. But he looked nothing like the pictures she’d seen of his brother. His identical twin. His dark onyx eyes glittered with heat and contempt. The scar that ran in an arc down the left side of his face mesmerised her for one crucial second—she had read he’d acquired the disfiguring injury in a childhood accident—but the wound which had marred the perfect symmetry of his features had turned what should have been a classically handsome face into something brooding and intense and a million times more compelling.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, which felt tender from the pressure of his kiss, and watched as if in a trance as his sensual lips moved.

‘I see you’re still the same little whore who seduced my brother,’ he said, his voice so low she almost couldn’t hear it above the rumble of speculation from the crowd.

The words exploded in her head, shattering the moment of stunned arousal, as he clicked his fingers above his head, signalling the security guards she’d been dodging all evening.

Fear and anger, and disgust—with herself as much as him—combined in the pit of her stomach and her fist shot out.

The thud of the punch sounded like canon fire. She heard the muscles in his neck pop as his head snapped back—and pain exploded in her knuckles.

‘Your brother was the whore,’ she shouted. ‘Not Darcy.’

Hard hands grabbed her from behind. She struggled against the security guard’s hold.

‘Get her out of here and hand her over to the police,’ Blackstone said as he tested his jaw.

Her hand throbbed but he looked barely fazed by the punch as he flicked a contemptuous glance down her body, then turned and walked away.

‘Wait, wait!’ she shouted as the guard hefted her backwards, the crowd in an uproar. But Blackstone didn’t even glance back.

Nico. What have I done?

Horror at her impulsiveness fired through her.

She’d spent the last of her savings, and precious days, trying to contact this man. Had used every last ounce of the ingenuity and bravery she possessed to set up this one chance to meet him. And now she’d blown it in a matter of minutes because of one insane dance and a mind-blowing kiss.

The despair that had dogged her for weeks—months—ever since her nephew had been diagnosed with a rare form of blood cancer threatened to descend, as the security guard kept a tight arm around her midriff.

She was going to be arrested, kicked out of the US, possibly even remanded in custody. Lukas Blackstone would take out a restraining order against her and Nico would have no one. And no chance.

Mustering the last of her strength, she kicked hard against the security guard’s shin. He dumped her on the ground with a muffled curse. Scrambling up, she raced through the phalanx of photographers after Blackstone, who was heading back towards the stairs he had come down, clearly intending to leave the dance floor as abruptly as he had arrived.

She grabbed his sleeve, tugged as hard as she could, her knuckles still stinging from connecting with a jaw harder than granite. He jerked round, the livid red mark on his chin taunting her.

‘I’m not Darcy. I’m her sister. Darcy’s dead—she died three years ago. But I have to speak to you about her son. Nico is Alexei’s son too. I... Oof.’

The hard arm of the security guard locked round her tummy again, with bruising force this time, but as she was hauled back, Blackstone raised his hand. ‘Put her down.’

She was dropped to her feet. She staggered and would have fallen, but for the iron grip as his hand snagged her upper arm.

‘What did you say?’ Blackstone demanded.

* * *

She’s lying.

Lukas fought to regain his cast-iron control. And locate the cold hard logic he relied on which had deserted him the minute he’d set eyes on the woman. But as he held the girl’s slender arm, watched her pulse batter her collarbone and studied her heart-shaped face, seeing the anguish and defiance in her vivid emerald eyes, the sprinkle of freckles across her nose, the full lips reddened by his angry kiss—one realisation blindsided him.

This girl was not the woman who had disturbed his brother’s mind with her insidious lies four years ago. The shape of her face was different; she was slightly shorter—and she had none of Darcy O’Hara’s guile.

Strangely, the knowledge quelled at least a little of his fury.

He would have hated himself if he had responded to Darcy in that way. If she were really dead, he certainly felt no regret. But then he registered what else the girl had said. She was Darcy’s sister, and still peddling the same damn lie her sister Darcy had used four years ago to extort money from Alexei.

So was his attraction to this girl really any better?

He shouldn’t have touched her, certainly shouldn’t have kissed her. But the compulsion to teach her a lesson had become mixed up in a host of unbidden and unwanted desires as her fresh, subtle scent had engulfed him and her body had surrendered to his during the steps of the dance.

One look at those damn lips as they’d finished dancing, her panting breaths making her full breasts rise and fall against the bodice of her gown—and all he’d wanted to do was feast on her mouth.

He didn’t like it. He mastered his urges. Controlled them. Unlike his brother, he had learned at an early age that impulse and need were a weakness, and dangerous if you indulged either one. But he’d never had that control tested until about five minutes ago, when he’d spied her in the crowd. Instincts beyond his control had taken over at that point. It was something he would have to examine carefully after he was finished with her—because he did not intend to let it happen again.

‘Please, you have to listen to me,’ she begged, even though the flash of defiance in her eyes told a different story.

He felt a certain admiration for her. She might be as much of a gold-digger as her sister, but she had none of Darcy’s acting ability—her enmity towards him was plain on her face.

‘I have to do no such thing,’ he said. But he didn’t let go of her arm. Instead he walked towards the staircase, hauling her with him—the crowd already closing in on him.

‘Mr Blackstone, the police are on their way.’ Jack Tanner, the head of his security team for Blackstone’s Manhattan, fell into step on his other side, looking ill at ease.

And well he should.

‘Find out how she got past security,’ he barked, fuming at that oversight. ‘I want a full report on my desk in an hour.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Tanner replied. ‘Do you want us to take her off your hands?’ he offered, two of his security detail following close behind as they mounted the stairs.

The girl hadn’t objected to being marched out of the ballroom, but he felt her stiffen at the suggestion.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, he could see the paparazzi firing off shots from behind the security cordon and Dex Garvey having a microphone shoved in his face. The eyes of the guests were on them. This little incident was going to be all over the gossip columns in the morning and would already have started hitting the celebrity blogs and websites. He’d helped with that—by not resisting the foolish urge to dance with her, and then kiss her—but the icing on the cake would be the girl’s fatuous claim about Alexei having a child.

The pulse of loss hit him hard. And then fury reverberated through him. He’d make sure she paid for that piece of theatre. He had no doubt at all she’d been waiting for an opportunity to announce the lie at a moment when it would get maximum exposure—to increase the price of her silence and her bargaining position. That he’d gifted her the perfect photo op with that kiss only made him more furious, with himself as much as her.

This girl was about to find out that he could not be as easily manipulated as he had been four years ago, when he’d parted with fifty thousand dollars simply to save Alexei the embarrassment of having to make a public announcement that he was not responsible for Darcy’s so-called condition.

Well, Alexei was gone now—the car crash that had killed him while he was out of his head on cocaine and champagne a direct result of Darcy O’Hara’s lies, to Lukas’s way of thinking. So Lukas had no reason and certainly no incentive to pay another cent. But this girl needed to be taught a lesson. Once and for all.

He wasn’t leaving that task to the police or anyone else. He owed it to Alexei.

‘I wish to talk to her in private,’ he said to Tanner. ‘Keep the police busy until then. And get rid of the press.’ He would speak to Garvey tomorrow about a press release to quell any rumours arising from this evening’s events. Alexei had always wanted to avoid just such a necessity, but Alexei was gone now. And the truth could no longer hurt him. If anything, it ought to stop any more gold-diggers like the O’Hara sisters coming out of the woodwork.

He felt the girl’s body sag, no doubt with relief. As he marched her down the corridor towards his private suite he felt an answering surge of satisfaction. She thought she’d just got what she wanted. He was going to enjoy proving the opposite.

He entered the suite and hauled her in after him, then let her go. As she stumbled to a stop in the centre of the room, he slammed the door and clicked the lock.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, angered anew by the pulse of heat in his crotch which hadn’t subsided since that ill-advised kiss.

She wrapped her arms around her midriff, the tremors racking her body a nice touch, he thought, as she lifted her chin and faced him, the leap of defiance still sparkling in the green depths of her irises. Her freckles stood out against the vivid flush of exertion on her cheeks—but he noticed for the first time the shadows under her eyes.

He ruthlessly quelled the prickle of sympathy.

Maybe she was an even better actress than her sister, after all. From the look of her, anyone would think she was an avenging angel on the verge of collapse, not an accomplished little blackmailer.

His gaze roamed over her, and he let every ounce of his contempt show. In the brighter light, the dress looked considerably less impressive. It didn’t even fit her properly, the soft mounds of her breasts pressed indecently against the satin. His gaze snagged on the outline of her nipples. He jerked it away again, before the heat in his crotch swelled.

She’d lost her shoes in the struggle with the security guard, her bare unpainted toes peeping out from underneath the gown’s frayed hem.

His gaze rose to examine her face. She wore no jewellery and minimal make-up. Her dewy skin was as soft and clear as a child’s. He flinched inwardly—exactly how old was she? She looked like a teenager, eighteen or nineteen at the most, playing dress-up.

The Little Orphan Annie look wasn’t one he’d been susceptible to before now—which only made the incendiary effect of having her in his arms, her mouth at his mercy, all the more galling and inexplicable.

‘Talk,’ he said. The curt demand made her flinch. ‘You’ve got five minutes to explain exactly how much you think your little revelation about Alexei fathering a son is worth before I hand you over to the cops.’

At which point he would take great pleasure in adding a charge of extortion to the ones of trespass and assault.

* * *

‘What?’ Bronte’s voice broke on the word, her shock almost as huge as her exhaustion. And her confusion.

‘You heard me. How. Much.’ The jagged scar on his cheek pulsed, emphasising his hatred.

And, as much as she hated him in return, she didn’t understand it.

Exactly how cruel and arrogant was this man? She’d just told him his dead twin had a child. And all he seemed concerned about was money—and humiliating her.

He’d treated her with complete contempt, from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He’d as good as ravaged her in front of hundreds of people—and said the most vile things imaginable about a woman who couldn’t defend herself—and now he was accusing her of being some kind of blackmailer.

She bit into her lip, hard enough to taste blood. And held on to the diatribe she wanted to scream at him.

Don’t punch him again, Bronte. You need his co-operation. Nico needs his cooperation.

She flexed her fingers, pressing the bruised knuckles under her arm, and tried to channel Mahatma Gandhi. Not easy when she was feeling more like Genghis Khan.

Unfortunately, Lukas Blackstone was the one with all the power here. Not just in terms of his money and influence, but even within the confines of this room. He towered over her. In her bare feet she was barely five foot three; she suspected he was at least a foot taller, with an impressively fit build for a man who had probably spent every moment of his existence being pampered to within an inch of his life. There wasn’t an ounce of softness or give about him. He looked completely indomitable—and completely furious. Like a lion in his prime—who could devour her and all her hopes with one vicious swipe of his paw, and then forget about her.

‘I don’t want your money,’ she said, as clearly as she could while her knees were shaking.

She wasn’t scared of him, she told herself staunchly. This was just a reaction to everything that had happened in the last few minutes, and hours, and days and weeks. It felt as if all her hopes and fears, all her dreams and all her nightmares, were centred in this one room, concentrated on this one man—and, for better or worse, she had to come out on top in this battle of wills or she would lose everything that mattered to her.

Unfortunately, she had never been the sunny, flirtatious, irresistible sister. That had always been Darcy. Darcy with her sweet smile and her effervescent laugh and her determination to always see the best in people, even the father who had discarded them both to start another family. And Alexei Blackstone, who Darcy had been convinced had fallen madly in love with her, even if all the evidence from their one-night stand and its aftermath had suggested the opposite.