His to Defend - Em Petrova Page 0,1
much personality as an eggroll.
Eyes glittering, she drank in his appearance. “I haven’t seen this side of you before, Lars.”
Surprise was hard to come by in his line of business, where he must expect the unexpected at every turn, and Julianna’s statement surprised him. Leaning forward, he said, “It seems unlikely we’ve met before. I’d remember you.”
“We didn’t meet. I just asked my friend about you. I believe at the time you were on your way to Toronto.”
Now that got his attention. He hated bad weather, and Toronto could never draw him as a visitor. He’d spent four miserable weeks there guarding a woman from several men who thought they owned her. After having paid good money for her, of course.
Julianna went on, “Did you enjoy your visit?”
“No.” He sipped his vodka. “I despise the cold.”
The joke of the century—a full-blooded Russian who preferred the tropics.
She issued a tinkling laugh. “My friend said as much.”
He lowered his glass to the table. “Who is your friend again?”
She met his stare. “If I tell you, I believe it will lower my chances of getting you to follow me to my bed.”
Lars sat back in his chair, studying the woman. “Bold. I’d expect nothing less from a redhead wearing that dress. What makes you think I still won’t follow you to bed despite our mutual friend?”
She leaned forward, giving him another glimpse of her ample breasts. “Because once I tell you, I know you’ll get up and leave the party. Then I’ll be stuck here with all the bores.” She cast a look around.
Too many times to count, Lars acquired intelligence in just this manner. A chance meeting, a person slipping in and out of his life. Never one this beautiful, though he knew one of theirs when he saw her.
“You’re acquainted with Madeline.”
She nodded and perfected a small pout. “Now you will ask me what I have come to tell you, and I won’t even get to peel that tuxedo jacket off your broad shoulders.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m ready to hear whatever you have to say.”
“Let’s find someplace more comfortable to chat.” She tossed him a come-hither look and stood. He watched her drift through the crowd for a moment, admiring the long lines of her back and the curve of her ass sashaying away from him.
When he located her again, she sat in the corner of a very cozy loveseat. He sank to the cushion, crowding her. At once, she raised a hand to his jaw and scuffed her fingertips along his five o’clock shadow.
“I love a rugged man.”
He leaned in and captured her earlobe with his teeth. “Tell me what you know.”
She sucked in a gasp and turned her lips into his. Her murmur brushed across his lips. “Pierre Moreau.”
“The racecar driver?” he whispered back, moving his lips lightly over hers.
“Yes.” She closed her eyes. He couldn’t tell if she really enjoyed the caress or if it was all a very good act meant to fool others. “There’s a hit on him, and it will take place at 24 Heures du Mans,” she said, referring to the upcoming racing event.
Lars tipped her head back, nibbled at her lips and then kissed down her throat to the pulse in her neck. Far too fast to be just an act.
He sighed.
When he pulled back, Julianna gave him a disappointed smile. “Go. I knew I couldn’t distract you from your work.”
Gripping her fingers, he brought them to his lips. “You’ve been enchanting. Maybe we’ll meet another time.” He left her sitting there, feeling only the slightest pang of regret that he didn’t get a chance to make love to a woman like her. Though she was right—nothing could throw him off course, and the biggest race in France, 24 Hours of Le Mans, took place in days. He didn’t have spare minutes to waste, not even for test-driving a sexy redhead.
* * * * *
“Mademoiselle Delphine, where is your client?” The harsh bark of the question filled her ear, and she quickly switched the phone from speaker and slapped it to her ear.
“Monsieur Brun, what do you mean? Pierre assured me he’s already in the restaurant awaiting your meeting.”
“Well, he’s not here.” His tight, clipped French left no question that the sponsor wouldn’t put up with more of her client’s antics. She could hardly blame the man—they shelled out millions of dollars on Pierre Moreau each year, which basically paid him to be at their beck and call for press