The Purest of Diamonds? - Susan Stephens

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at Britt’s wedding when she had been playing with the children. He remembered it now.

      ‘Britt’s dress,’ Leila said, seeing him look at it. ‘I wore it at my sister’s wedding.’

      ‘I remember.’ And Leila would win any Who-looks-best-in-this-dress? contest hands down.

      ‘It’s the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen,’ she rattled on as if she had to excuse the fact that she was wearing something that suited her so well. ‘I begged Britt not to go to the expense of buying some silly bridesmaid’s dress I’d never wear again—and, look! Here I am, wearing it again! That’s what I call getting your money’s worth...’

      As Leila’s hectic explanation petered out, he hummed, wondering why she didn’t have any pretty dresses of her own to wear.

      And why should he care?

      ‘It’s a bit too tight,’ she said, getting her second wind. ‘Britt’s so slim—’

      The tighter the better, as far as he was concerned. He’d never gone for the half-starved look. The dress would always look better on Leila because she was voluptuous.

      ‘I don’t go to many parties. Don’t feel sorry for me,’ she insisted before he had chance to say a word. ‘I usually hang out somewhere quieter than this—’

      ‘My preference too,’ he said, shielding Leila with his arm as more guests piled into the lobby. Quiet rooms and hot women would be his preference every time. ‘Here’s an idea—’ He had stopped in front of the elevator. ‘There’s a quiet lounge just down this corridor. Why don’t we take five? It would give you chance to recover your composure.’ And calm down a bit, he thought.

      ‘You mean, I look a mess?’

      She looked adorable and so trusting as she turned her face up to his. Well, she was safe tonight. He had already reined in his thoughts from champagne and seduction to soft drinks and a few very necessary moments of calm for Leila. She needed to relax before facing the bright lights of the party, and, surprising even himself, he wanted to get to know her a little better. ‘Come on—let’s get out of this crush. The party isn’t due to start for another half hour,’ he reassured her when she looked doubtful. ‘We won’t be missed.’

      ‘But my sisters are expecting me.’

      ‘Your sisters will be so busy doing what they do well, they won’t miss either of us.’

      Opening the door on the tempting setting of a quiet lounge, he stood back. They wouldn’t be alone. There were quite a few residents who weren’t going to the party sitting around reading newspapers and chatting quietly, and there was a big, welcoming log fire burning lustily in the grate. There were still plenty of cosy armchairs where they could sit and chat without being overheard. It was the perfect spot for a girl who wasn’t sure of herself yet, or of her companion.

      ‘This is lovely,’ Leila said with relief, gazing round.

      ‘Orange juice?’ he suggested.

      ‘With a splash of lemonade, please. How did you know?’

      He loved the way Leila’s smile lit up her face. ‘Lucky guess.’ Not such a stretch. It was going to be a long night, and, though Leila was reputedly the shyest of the Skavanga sisters, there was a hint of steel about her that suggested she would face the party clear-headed or not at all.

      Leila intrigued him, if only because she was so different from her sisters. The middle sister, Eva, whose eve-of-wedding party this was, could be a headstrong handful, while Britt was a hard-nosed businesswoman who only softened for her sheikh. Leila’s sisters and her brother, Tyr, had clearly protected her when their parents died, as Leila had been so very young when the tragic plane crash happened, but the intuition that had never let him down so far said there was more to Leila Skavanga than simply a sheltered girl who worked in the archive department of the Skavanga mining museum, and he was keen to find out what that was.

      CHAPTER TWO

      WHAT EXACTLY WAS she doing with Raffa Leon? What could they possibly have to talk about?

      Anybody?

      She had never done anything so out of character in her life. Yes, Raffa was charming, but he was practically a stranger—and a dangerous one at that, according to her sisters and the rather more scandalous tone of the press. Leila had always been glad she worked in a separate building from the mining company, if only because it put some space between herself and these high-powered, fast-living types.

      But didn’t this unexpected encounter with a leading player in the consortium dovetail nicely with her determination to make this her breakout year?

      Roar mouse?

      Great idea, if she had the courage to summon up something more than a squeak. And what was Raffa up to? Why choose to spend time with her?

      ‘Shall we sit here?’ he suggested, indicating two comfortable armchairs facing each other across a sleek glass table.

      ‘Thank you.’

      Even this close to such a powerhouse of testosterone made her feel incredibly aware and wary. His deep, velvety voice with that intriguing accent played in her head, and she had to remind herself that sweeping a woman away with whatever means he chose to employ was Raffa Leon’s stock in trade. Though he was hardly out to seduce her with so many other attractive women at the party.

      Out of the archive department into the fire, she concluded with amusement as Raffa turned to give their order to the waiter. He looked so relaxed, while she was more like a schoolgirl on parade, sitting stiff and upright in her chair, waiting for the pronouncements of the headmaster.

      Raffa knocked that idea on its head the moment he turned back to her. No headmaster on earth looked like this—such compelling dark eyes with that touch of humour, and a wickedly curving mouth.

      ‘I’m looking forward to a refreshing drink, without having it knocked out of our hands,’ he said, turning up the voltage on his smile.

      It took her a moment to speak, she was so captivated, and then she experienced a moment of panic. What could she possibly say to him? How did you launch into a conversation with a notorious billionaire? How’s your yacht? Would that do?

      ‘What are you smiling at, Leila?’ he enquired, raising one sweeping ebony brow in a way that made her heart stop.

      ‘Am I smiling?’ She stopped smiling immediately. ‘I was just thinking, this is a great place, isn’t it? Such a good idea of yours.’ She made a point of staring round. Anything was safer than looking at Raffa.

      ‘It’s good to see you relax,’ he said, his eyes dark like the night and just as full of danger.

      Relaxed? Was that what he thought? She doubted any woman could relax around Raffa Leon. He had this way of staring directly into your eyes that made it hard to look away. Impossible to look away, she amended.

      So come out of your shell. Live boldly for once.

      ‘Here’s your juice,’ he said. ‘With a splash of lemonade as requested.’

      As he handed it to her he was doing that eye thing—the curving smile, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes. It was all too easy to fool herself into thinking he was interested in her, when this was just his way. Raffa Leon was a charming and accomplished seducer, both in business and with women, and she had to get it into her head that this was just an innocent encounter and a refreshing drink. She had never been the type of girl men took up to their room. She was the kid sister they brought into the very public hotel lounge to share an orange juice with before the party.

      And she should be pleased about that.

      She was pleased. But she would be lying if she tried to pretend it wouldn’t be thrilling to have Raffa look at her with something other than humour in his eyes.

      When she leaned forward to pick up her glass, her senses filled

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