Chapter 5

In receipt of a chilling glance from Emily, who was standing at the bar with Freddie, Layla hurriedly turned her head away, color sparking high over her cheekbones. Freddie had gatecrashed their night out. Emily had been overjoyed and, within minutes of Freddie’s appearance, had made it clear that Layla was a gooseberry. Layla sipped the sickly sweet concoction that Freddie had insisted on buying her. She pondered what she was going to do with the rest of her evening. Where was she to go? At least in a crowd, she was virtually invisible and drew no particular attention. Emily pushed her way through the crush and settled her impatient blue eyes on Layla. Why are you still here? I assumed you’d have left by now. Layla straightened. "I’m coming back to the apartment tonight," she warned her cousin. I’ve spent two nights sitting up in reception and I’m not doing it again. I can’t believe how selfish you’re being!’ Emily complained. You wouldn’t even be having a holiday if it wasn’t for me!’ Layla advised ruefully, weary of the constant battle to restrain her own nature and simply wanting to be herself. ' The "be grateful, Layla" is getting old. You asked me on this holiday and I’m afraid you’re stuck with me until we go home.’ As Layla averted her attention from her cousin’s furious face, she noticed a man standing on the stairs watching her. He was drop-dead beautiful, Mr. Fantasy in the flesh, with black hair, gypsy-gold skin, and stunning symmetrical features. He was also tall, broad-shouldered, and surprisingly formally clad in a business suit, as were his companions. Somehow, though, she couldn’t drag her eyes from him for long enough to scrutinize the other men. His brows were dark and straight; his eyes were deep set and glittered in the dim light; his nose had a classic arch; and his mouth was a sensual masterpiece. "Please don’t come back to the apartment tonight," Emily pleaded. ‘I haven’t got much time left to be with Freddie...’ Layla lived in California too, and Layla marveled at her cousin’s lack of pride. He’d already spelled out the message that he wanted nothing more than a fling. Emily flung her a last look of angry appeal before turning on her heel to return to Freddie. As Layla turned away, intending to leave the club and find a quiet café where she could read the book in her bag, she almost tripped over the large man in her path. "Mr. Jack would like you to join him in the VIP section for a drink." Involuntarily, Layla raised her brow as she glanced back at the stairs. Mr. Jack? He nodded in acknowledgement and suddenly he smiled at her and in the space of a second he went from stunning to downright breathtaking, the clear-cut austere lines of his darkly handsome face slashed by an almost boyish grin that was utterly and incredibly appealing. Later, Layla swore her heart, always the most reliable of organs around men, leapt in her chest and bounced with enthusiasm, leaving her feeling seriously short of breath and oddly dizzy. A drink? The VIP section? What did she have to lose? A bouncer undid the ceremonial velvet rope, cutting off the stairs, and Layla unfroze, moving forward with the strangest sense of anticipation. **** Lucas extended a lean tanned hand with unexpected formality. ‘Lucas Jack'. My friends call me Lucas.’ Layla touched his fingers in a glancing collision that made her teeth grit at her own ineptitude. But up close, he was so tall, so dark, and so strikingly handsome that he unnerved her and, given the smallest chance to scamper back down the short flight of stairs without making a fool of herself, she would have fled. ‘Layla White,’ she supplied a little gruffly, her heart beating very fast in what felt like her throat as she hurriedly sat down on the seat he indicated and nodded belated recognition of the presence of a second, smaller man. ‘Irish?’ Lucas quirked his brow. ‘My mother was, but I’m from California.’ Lucas asked her what she would like to drink. "Something plain and simple. This...’ Layla indicated the glass in her hand with its elaborate green concoction and umbrella with a faint wrinkling of her nose: ".. is like a sugar bomb." After introducing her to Randolph, Lucas informed her that they owned the club. Layla told him that she was a student on holiday with her cousin. A waiter arrived with a tray, and champagne was served with a flourish. The first waiter was closely followed by two more, who presented plates of delicate little snacks. Lucas asked her what music she would like, and within a minute, the DJ himself was surging upstairs and standing right in front of her while she told him. At first, Layla was entranced by the heady assault of Lucas’ full attention, and she sipped and nibbled, leaning closer to politely listen to the two men discuss the couples-only complex that Randolph wanted to design. By the time the older man had extracted a plan from an inner pocket along with photos of the site and its superb beach, Layla was getting bored and, what was more, by then her favourite song was playing and she scrambled up off her seat to stand at the rail, her feet shifting in time to the throbbing beat of the music. "Dance?" she directed hopefully at Lucas, who was welded to the spot by the luscious view of her swaying hips. He grimaced. He told her without apology, fighting the swelling in his groin. Layla told him with an easy smile and a glint in her green eyes as she headed back down the stairs to the dance floor. She thought rebelliously, her thoughts still dwelling on Emily’s humiliating attacks. She was going to be herself, her real self, that she never dared to show at home. And that meant that she would do and say what she wanted, rather than maintain her usual quiet role in which she worked to politely conform and meet other people’s expectations. Lucas was stunned by her departure. There had been no fuss, no drama, just an unobtrusive determination to do as she liked rather than try to please him. She hadn’t flirted or flattered either. His straight brows pleated in frank bewilderment. Women didn’t behave like that around Lucas. Even Beverly, who liked her own way, tailored herself to a neat fit of his preferences while in his company. Randolph remarked, "I believe you have met a woman with a mind of her own." And talking about such women, I am married to one, and if I am not home soon, I will be unpopular.’