3

Simon's breath now caught in his throat as she looked over the top of the heads of the men surrounding her, glancing around the room in obvious uninterest—almost as if she was aware of someone watching her, but had no idea who or why. His earlier impression of her complete boredom with her admirers and her surroundings was confirmed as she repressed a yawn. At the same time as their glances met.

Met and then, as the woman’s gaze shifted slowly back to his, held…. Then boom…. She recognized him!

He knew she did by the way her eyes widened in surprise. He watched every move… The way she took a deep breath… The color rising to her cheeks… The frown on her face before she quickly looked away. Her reaction was even funnier than he'd imagined, and Simon grinned inwardly. It was even more surprising that he felt a weird kind of joy because she'd remembered him. Guess he'd made quite an impression, he thought.

She looked in his direction again. Probably making sure it was really him, and Simon quirked a questioning brow—only to receive a blank stare and then a uninterested shrug in reply, before the woman in the red gown, as Simon was already calling her in his mind, turned away to accept a fresh glass of champagne from one of the men surrounding her, to all intents and purposes as if she had already forgotten his existence.

While it might be a refreshing change after the past week and this last couple of hours of having women throw themselves before him like sacrificial offerings, this certainly wasn’t the reaction Simon was used to receiving when he showed an interest in a beautiful woman.

As one of the two Hamilton cousins, with business interests worldwide, and wealthy beyond imagining, Simon had never been naïve enough to believe it was his looks alone which attracted women to him. Nor did he believe that every woman he met had to find his height and dark looks attractive.

But still, it irked him that the woman in the figure-hugging red gown—a woman who made him hard just from looking at her!—had dismissed him so easily and completely.

Maybe she was married? Or engaged? Or perhaps in a serious relationship?

No, it certainly wasn’t either of the first two; the hand holding the glass of champagne she had just raised to those lush red lips—her left hand—a long and slender hand Simon could all too easily imagine moving caressingly over his much darker skin in a pastime his arousal also approved of as he felt his shaft throb in anticipation!—was as naked of jewellery as her throat and wrists. And if it was the latter then where was the man she was involved with?

If a woman as beautiful as that had belonged to him then he certainly wouldn’t have left her alone for a minute, at the mercy of the pack of hyenas currently in for the kill. If a woman like that belonged to him…?

What the hell?

Simon didn’t do belonging. Or even long-term. And definitely not permanent. A few days, in some cases a few weeks, of enjoying each other’s company— and bodies—was the limit of any interest he had shown in the women he had been involved with over the past eighteen years.

Liking—yes. Sex—definitely yes. Love or belonging—definitely no. His cousin Zach—a man who had been even more averse to permanent relationships than Simon until he’d met Evelyn a month ago, and fallen so quickly in love with her—might have succumbed to commitment to one woman, but Simon certainly wasn’t interested in doing the same.

He desired the woman in the red gown. He was more than a little annoyed at the ease with which she had dismissed him just now. At the same time as he was aroused and hard just from looking at the way that fitted red gown clung so lovingly to all those voluptuous and below the gown naked curves. It was an arousal Simon knew he would prefer her to satisfy, rather than another woman’s willing body.

It was with that thought in mind that Simon distractedly made his excuses to the women crowded about him before crossing the room towards the woman in the red gown.

—-----------------

Like Moses parting the Red Sea, Sara noted ruefully as the men around her stood aside for the tall, dark and arrogantly handsome man who had deliberately caught her gaze a few minutes ago before making his way so determinedly across the room towards her.

How was it possible that of all the people in the world, she'd attend a party with the man who had smashed her taillights, and refused to offer a simple apology? If this wasn't a sign to go home, then what was it? She had recognised him almost immediately she saw him, and couldn't seem to stop her eyes from wandering in his direction. What woman wouldn’t notice this dark and broodingly handsome man?

His looks didn’t hurt, of course. Sara stood five eleven in her three-inch-heeled red shoes, but the man was still several inches taller. Tall enough that he could look down at her with warm and broodingly sensual green eyes. His dark hair was inclined to curl over his ears and nape, and his emerald-coloured gaze was now narrowed and assessing, set in an arrestingly handsome face that looked as if it might have been carved from mellow gold stone: high and hard cheekbones, a long blade of a nose, chiseled lips, and a square and determined chin. The perfectly tailored black evening suit did little to hide the fact that he was also powerfully built—wide and muscled shoulders and chest, flat and tapered abdomen, lean hips, and long, long legs.

No doubt about it. When it came to charisma and good-looks, this man had it in spades! It was perhaps unfortunate—for him—that Sara knew just by looking at him that he was the kind of man she wanted nothing to do with. Personally or professionally.

"Isn't it amazing that we get to see each other again?" he asked, as one corner of his lips tilted upwards. "I'd have never imagined that we would meet again… And so soon too,"

Sara fought the urge to roll her eyes at him, "I wouldn't say it's amazing," she said, meeting his gaze, "I'd say it's rather unfortunate,"

He chuckled at her statement, and Sara wondered if what she'd said was funny, because she certainly had not meant for it to be.