Dirty Devil / The Fling - Stefanie London Mills & Boon Dare

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couldn’t have that. I couldn’t put Mr Chen’s business and my livelihood in danger just because I was lonely. Which made the answer simple: I just wouldn’t be lonely. And so far I hadn’t been.

      Shooting Blackwood a glance as he smiled at yet another adoring woman, I steadied my grip on the tray. It was slightly intimidating being this close to him after months of seeing him on a screen or in magazines. He was so much taller than I’d expected, even though the Internet had been very helpful as to his height and weight—six foot two, ninety kilos. He was a lot broader too. When he moved, his suit jacket pulled across his shoulders, highlighting the heavy muscle beneath it, and I could see by the way his trousers sat low on his lean hips that he probably didn’t have an ounce of fat on him.

      He laughed as one of the women made a joke, and I felt the vibration of that laugh settle right down low inside me, a deep, purring, sexy sound.

      No wonder he was a terrific man-whore. Who could resist him?

       You, for a start.

      Yes, well, luckily for me, resisting him wasn’t going to be an issue, as he hadn’t looked at me again since I’d come over with the drinks.

      Not once.

      Which was good and definitely not in any way a disappointment.

      I was still staring at him and silently judging the people around him for their open adoration, when he turned and looked at me again.

      And, as it had before, the impact of his gaze moved through me like slow, sensual lightning.

      Then his mouth curled and he winked.

      Shock rooted me to the spot and I gaped, unable to stop myself, but he’d already looked away, turning that brilliant, sexy smile onto someone else.

      It was as if I’d been under a spotlight and the beam had shifted, plunging me into darkness and leaving me blinded.

      My heart raced and I struggled to get a breath.

       Not good, fool. Not good at all.

      No, it wasn’t. I was staring at him like a rabbit in the headlights and if I didn’t shift my butt he was going to notice me again. And not in a good way.

      Because the one thing I wasn’t supposed to do was gain his attention.

      Damn it. I’d been so confident in my own ordinariness that I’d thought he’d never even look at me. Apparently, I was wrong.

       It doesn’t matter. Get moving.

      No, it really didn’t. After all, I wasn’t here to get his attention. I was here to get in, find the Red Queen, take it and get out again. Simple.

      On that bracing thought, I gripped my tray and turned away from sexy Damian Blackwood and his entourage.

      And got on with the business of robbing him blind.

       CHAPTER TWO

      Damian

      I SAT BACK on the couch with another glass of champagne and watched the sweet-faced little waitress who’d given me a pissy look disappear into the crowd with her now-empty tray.

      It wasn’t often that women looked at me as if they’d like to punch me in the face. Men, sure. Women, no.

      She’d been standing there staring at me, a watchful, still point in the chaos of the party around her, which should have made my eyes slide right over her. Yet the opposite had happened. Almost as if her stillness was the reason my attention had been drawn to her.

      Her eyes had been very dark and absolutely unreadable, like the surface of a deep lake I couldn’t see the bottom of, and I’d found that interesting. So I’d winked at her, purely to see the surface of that lake ripple a little, and ripple it did; her shock at my attention had been loud and clear.

      That she’d clearly not expected me to notice her was obvious, and I might have found that amusing if there hadn’t also been something else about her that had bothered me. Something I hadn’t been able to put my finger on. Something I should have been aware of...

      But the ladies around me were begging me to finish the bullshit story I’d been telling them, and I couldn’t be bothered figuring out what the issue with the waitress was. Not when my public was demanding a performance.

      I took a sip of my champagne and put it down—fucking hate the stuff—and leaned forward, continuing with my story. The ladies were thoroughly enjoying it, and I was thoroughly enjoying pleasing them, especially when they all erupted into laughter as I punctuated the end with a very off-colour joke.

      That laughter was music to my ears, making me smile. Because if there was one thing that made life on this shitty planet worth living it was making a woman laugh. It was almost as good as making a woman come, and since I was extremely skilled at doing both I indulged myself and them as often as humanly possible. Occasionally at the same time.

      I sat back on the couch, watching the ladies around me, satisfied that they were all having a good time. Then I scanned the crowd in general, making sure everyone else was as well, as I took my parties very seriously.

      They were a chance for guests to let their hair down without worrying about the press or whether their name would be plastered all over the Internet the next morning. A chance to cut loose and relax with no rules and no judgement.

      Correction. There were two rules: nothing illegal and no one took advantage of anyone.

      I policed those two things religiously, my security staff confiscating any illegal substances, not to mention phones or other recording devices, and kicking out any person stupid enough to think they could take advantage of anyone else.

      Only people with a verified invite could attend, plus I personally vetted all staff working during the event so that...

      Wait a second.

      I narrowed my gaze in the direction the waitress had gone, going over her face in my memory. It was eidetic, so it was impossible for me to forget—both a blessing and a goddamn curse.

      Small, with a sweet, heart-shaped face. Short, dark-brown hair in a straight glossy bob grazing a sharp, determined chin. Black almond-shaped eyes. Not pretty in the traditional sense but with a certain something.

      I mentally compared her features to the list of staff photos I’d requested from the Black and White Enterprises catering company handling the party tonight.

      No match.

      If she wasn’t on the staff list then that could only mean one thing: she was a fucking gate crasher.

      Shit. That was the last thing I wanted to deal with, especially as she’d probably end up being a reporter, because there were always reporters trying to gate crash my goddamn parties.

      Tonight was supposed to be about celebrating me finally getting my hands on the Red Queen, a necklace I’d been chasing down for the last three months and had managed to buy at a private auction a few days ago.

      I’d seen a picture of it in an article on famous jewels about two years back and had decided that, as rubies had been my mother’s favourite stone and I knew it was a piece she would have loved, I wanted to add it to my collection.

      It would be the perfect advertisement for the jewellery auction that was to be part of the launch of the Black and White Foundation, a new non-profit organisation that Ulysses, Everett and I were hoping to get off the ground. I was putting up some of my more famous pieces as a fundraiser, and hopefully some of the proceeds would be going towards the new cancer research facility I’d set up back in Australia.

      Yeah, jewellery might be a strange thing for a man like me to collect, but I liked a bit of glitter, especially against a woman’s skin.

      Call it a holdover

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