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What have we got for you in Harlequin Presents books this month? Some of the most gorgeous men you’re ever likely to meet!
With His Royal Love-Child, Lucy Monroe brings you another installment in her gripping and emotional trilogy, ROYAL BRIDES; Prince Marcello Scorsolini has a problem—his mistress is pregnant! Meanwhile, in Jane Porter’s sultry, sexy new story, The Sheikh’s Disobedient Bride, Tally is being held captive in Sheikh Tair’s harem…because he intends to tame her! If it’s a Mediterranean tycoon that you’re hoping for, Jacqueline Baird has just the guy for you in The Italian’s Blackmailed Mistress: Max Quintano, ruthless in his pursuit of Sophie, whom he’s determined to bed using every means at his disposal! In Sara Craven’s Wife Against Her Will, Darcy Langton is stunned when she finds herself engaged to businessman Joel Castille—traded as part of a business merger! The glamour continues with For Revenge…Or Pleasure?—the latest title in our popular miniseries FOR LOVE OR MONEY, written by Trish Morey, truly is romance on the red carpet! If it’s a classic read you’re after, try His Secretary Mistress by Chantelle Shaw. She pens her first sensual and heartwarming story for the Presents line with a tall, dark and handsome British hero, whose feisty yet vulnerable secretary tries to keep a secret about her private life that he won’t appreciate.
Check out www.eHarlequin.com for a list of recent Presents books! Enjoy!
For Revenge…Or Pleasure?
Trish Morey
MILLS & BOON
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All about the author…
Trish Morey
TRISH MOREY wrote her first book at age eleven for a children’s book-week competition; entitled Island Dreamer, it proved to be her first rejection. Shattered and broken, she turned to a life where she could combine her love of fiction with her need for creativity—and became a chartered accountant. 
Life wasn’t all dull though, as she embarked on a skydiving course, completing three jumps before deciding that she’d given her fear of heights a run for its money.
Meanwhile, she fell in love and married a handsome guy who cut computer code. After the birth of their second daughter, Trish spied an article saying that Harlequin was actively seeking new authors. It was one of those eureka moments—Trish was going to be one of those authors!
Eleven years after reading that fateful article, the magical phone call came and Trish finally realized her dream. According to Trish, writing and selling a book is a major life achievement that ranks right up there with jumping out of an airplane and motherhood. All three take commitment, determination and sheer guts, but the effort is so very, very worthwhile.
Trish now lives with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of south Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo.
You can visit Trish at her Web site at www.trishmorey.com or e-mail her at trish@trishmorey.com.
For my editors, past and present.
To Angelina Manzano, my first ever editor,
who made the magical call that turned my
long-held dreams into reality.
And to Emma Dunford, whose eternal patience
and unstinting encouragement are this
painfully slow writer’s best friends.
Thank you both!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
SO THIS was the A-List? From his vantage point on the less crowded mezzanine, Loukas Demakis narrowed his eyes and scanned the sea of glittering celebrities milling about below in the Beverly Hills mansion’s ballroom. He suppressed a sneer as his gaze slid over the megastars, the wannabes and the otherwise rich and famous, all trying to out-dazzle each other with their designer clothes, designer bodies, and enough bling-bling to light up Times Square.
And all of it so fake!
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. This wasn’t his world. The sooner he was out of here the better.
But first he had a job to do. The words of his father rang loud in his memory—‘Get her away from them. I don’t care what it takes or who gets hurt—just get her out of there!’
And, dammit, after what had happened to Zoë, there was no way he would let his sister so much as be touched by any of them. He’d do whatever it took to stop her. He’d do whatever it took to keep her safe!
The crowd swayed apart as a woman strode up to the dais. Two women. He pressed closer to the balustrade, his fingers tightening around the rail.
It had to be them. The sorcerer and her apprentice.
Cheers and applause erupted from the crowd when his instincts proved right and Dr Grace Della-Bosca was introduced. A woman in a golden gown stepped up to the microphone. He peered closer. For someone he knew to be on the wrong side of fifty she was remarkably well-preserved. Tutankhamen’s bride wearing Dolce & Gabbana. But then, eternal youth was her business.
He’d meant to listen to what she had to say. He started to listen. Until the second woman turned towards the crowd and smiled, and the breath ripped out of him as if he’d taken a blow to the body.
Jade Ferraro.
This was the woman he’d come to meet. This was the woman he’d come to question. In the flesh.
And what flesh!
Where Della-Bosca’s skin looked as if it had been stretched to within an inch of its life, the younger woman’s was smooth and flawless, her features arranged on her face in a way that found the idea of classic good looks wanting. Clear almond-shaped blue eyes echoed a smile that was wide—almost too wide—though her lips looked lush enough to take the width and then some.
But her face was only one part of the package. Her honey-coloured hair was swept into a sleek coil that exposed the long sweep of her neck to her surprisingly modest neckline.
And the dress! There was nothing modest about it—it must have been shrink-wrapped around her. Without the shimmering aqua colour of the material it would have been impossible to tell where her skin ended and the fabric began, the way it hugged tight over her breasts, dipping into the curves and skimming over the flat of her stomach. The gown was a total failure in terms of disguising the shape beneath, and yet there was no doubt peeling it off would still be an exercise in discovery. An exercise for which he’d be only too happy to volunteer.
With a growl laced with acerbity he clamped down on the traitorous response of his body.
Of course she was a looker. She was bound to be! Because there was no doubt her attributes owed more to the skilled hands of Dr Grace Della-Bosca, the mother superior of the high church of cosmetic surgery, than to any generous endowment by Mother Nature. She was a walking advertisement for the witch doctor’s talents.
The speech came to an end and the crowd once again broke into applause. The younger woman turned back towards the dais a fraction, and then hesitated, her hands locked together as if frozen mid-clap. Then her head swivelled back over her shoulder, her chin lifted and swept up across the crowd, until her eyes jagged and stuck rock-solid on his.
He saw them widen in shocked perplexity; he saw the fractional coming together of her brows as she battled for recognition. He even fancied he felt the tremors spreading out from the quake that rippled through her, and in that instant he decided on a new and much more satisfying course of attack. He allowed himself a smile as his body hummed its approval of his plan.
It hadn’t been his choice to come here tonight, but just because he had to mix with a crowd of people he had nothing in common with and even less respect for it didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the mission he was on. Why should he settle for just questions and answers when he could have so much more? Why shouldn’t he find out what Jade Ferraro was really made of?
‘Run all you like, Jade Ferraro,’ he muttered as she spun away and disappeared into the throng of people surrounding the famous cosmetic surgeon. ‘But I will have you.’
Someone pressed a glass of champagne into her hand and her first impulse was to hold the moistly beaded flute to her head to cool her heated brow. She wasn’t sure what had happened just then, but the experience of meeting that intense dark gaze had left her almost reeling.
Then the orchestra started playing, and couples were swirling around, and suddenly it was too hot, too loud, and much too claustrophobic in the crowded ballroom.
She heard her name and snapped her attention away from the glass. ‘So, tell me how you think it went,’ Grace insisted, sounding impatient, as if it wasn’t the first time she’d framed the question.
‘Oh, absolutely wonderful,’ Jade assured her, kissing her mentor on each cheek, knowing the woman she admired more than anyone in the world would have been just that—despite the fact she couldn’t recall a thing beyond Grace’s thanks to everyone for attending the fundraiser. But then, it was impossible to remember anything aside from the prickly sensation that someone had been watching her, and the blast-furnace heat that had confronted her eyes once she’d found the source.
She took a deep breath, trying to dispel the lingering echoes of the strange sensation, trying to ignore the questions that remained unresolved in her mind. Who was that man? Why had he been watching her?
But someone else’s eyes were on her now, someone else was waiting for a response, and questions about the owner of one powerfully intense pair of eyes that had seemed able to pierce right through to her soul had to be shoved aside. Because tonight was all about the world-famous Dr Della-Bosca, and the foundation established in her name. Nothing should be allowed to distract her from that.
This time the smile she allowed herself was heartfelt.
‘The evening is a runaway success,’ Jade assured the older woman. ‘And you’re the star,’ she continued with more enthusiasm. ‘Funds from tonight will set up your Saving Faces Foundation for years.’
‘Yes,’ Grace finally acknowledged, with a smile echoed in one expertly shaped eyebrow as she cast her eyes around the celebrity-filled ballroom. ‘We must have done well.’
‘It’s a total credit to you, Grace,’ a gruff male voice cut in. ‘Our city could do with more corporate citizens like you.’
‘Mayor Goldfinch,’ Grace said with obvious delight as she was swept up into the distinguished-looking gentleman’s embrace. ‘And I thought our favourite foundation trustee wasn’t able to make it tonight.’
‘Knowing this night meant so much to you, how could I stay away? I pulled some strings and here I am.’
Jade allowed herself a smile as she made a tactical withdrawal, certain that neither would notice anyway. The widower Mayor had made no secret of the fact he was looking for a new wife, and with a fortune made from his property development business there was no shortage of candidates. But it was Grace who was most frequently pictured on his arm, and it was clear that whatever feelings he had for Grace were reciprocated.
And Grace worked so hard, Jade reflected, switching her champagne for a glass of mineral water from the tray of a passing waiter; she so deserved to find a partner. She deserved to be happy.
A swirl of red fabric across the room and a flash of firm cleavage caught her eye. Rachael Delaney, her mind registered instantly. Twenty-year-old Southern belle and regular client of the Della-Bosca Clinic, who’d spent the last two years taking the TV soap world by storm and was now making a play for fame and fortune in the big league. And, from the way her recently enhanced breasts were spilling out of the slashed-to-the-navel line of her gown in the direction of the producer she was courting, it was clear Rachael was hoping the results of her latest procedure might just get her the movie contract she hungered for tonight.
Good luck to her, Jade thought, as she sipped on her mineral water, given she’d invested so much money in making herself look good—from the curve of her plumped lips to the sparkle in her skilfully upturned eyes. Jade could tick off the changes the Della-Bosca Clinic had made like checking off inventory.
‘Not in the mood for celebrating?’
She didn’t have to turn. The heated rush of sensation that rolled down her spine and unfurled into her extremities was all the confirmation she needed. That deep voice had to be the perfect accompaniment to the pair of piercing dark eyes that had left their imprint stamped all too deeply on her senses.
And somehow she knew it was important not to give in to her desire to turn straight away. Somehow she knew she had to continue to focus on something, anything, if she was going to maintain a hold on reality—her reality.
‘What’s it to you?’ she responded, keeping her voice surprisingly light even as her back stiffened against his prickling proximity. She didn’t know who he was, but she was in no hurry to be pinned under that potent stare again.
Instead she kept her gaze locked on Rachael as if she was holding onto a lifeline. Rachael was her link to reality, her excuse not to turn, and her instinctive defence against this strange out-of-her-depth feeling that seemed to go hand in hand with this stranger’s presence.
But suddenly something blocked her view.
Not something.
Someone.
Him!
She sucked in a breath as broad shoulders filled her vision. And once again the man who’d been looking down from the mezzanine stared at her—except this time his piercing eyes were barely inches away. And, just as before, she felt the heat blasting from their penetrating brown depths in a confusing mixture of danger combined with a heart-stopping magnetism.
‘Have we met?’ she asked, kicking up her chin and knowing full well that she’d never seen the man before—in or out of the clinic. Having put the invitation list together, she knew he wasn’t on it. Which meant he had to be someone’s partner…
Lucky them.
The thought was so unwelcome she tried to quash it outright, but there was no chance of that—not when it was so true. Every part of this man seemed a perfect part of the whole—his slick dark hair, his chiselled bone structure, lips that were not too thin, not too full, and a body that promised to be every bit as well put together.
His lips turned into the barest smile. ‘Maybe it’s time we did.’
She waited for him to introduce himself, but he offered not a scrap of information more, failing to reveal who he was or why he was there, and impatience clicked logic back into gear, snapping her out of her frozen stance.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Whoever-you-are, but I have invited guests to look after. I really don’t have time to play games.’
She made to move away, but his velvet words stopped her in her tracks.
‘And if you had the time?’
She stopped and blinked, forcing her back ramrod-straight in defence. She looked over her shoulder at him. ‘Excuse me?’
‘If you had the time, would you be more inclined to play?’
Warm shivers assaulted her flesh. Was it the effect of his rich deep voice, or was it because she almost hoped he just might mean it? Something about the man was compelling. Damn, everything about the man was compelling. And something about her own body’s reaction impelled her to believe him.
‘I don’t play games.’ She arched an eyebrow in his direction for effect.
‘Pity,’ he said. ‘Such a waste.’
‘Not really,’ she replied, raising her chin with the certainty that she was about to have the final word. ‘Because when I play, I play for keeps.’
She turned away, allowing herself a smile, feeling she’d won some kind of moral victory at least. Besides, the encounter had left her tingling with excitement. He might have thrown her completely at the start, but she’d enjoyed the attention from someone who appeared way more three-dimensional than the usual Beverly Hills society, with their egocentric conversation and their rapid-fire evaluation of who you were and how you might be of any use to them.
But she hadn’t taken more than two steps before his rich laughter snagged into her consciousness, drawing her around as easily as a gentle finger press.
Except the way he looked at her and the set of his large, strong body, like the king of the jungle about to pounce and devour its prey, wiped out her feeling of superiority in an instant.
‘In that case,’ he said, his dark eyes crinkling at the sides, yet still filled with intensity that took her breath away, ‘let the games begin.’
CHAPTER TWO
HE’D eliminated the distance between them, had reached out and taken hold of her hand before she could react. She gasped at his warmth, at the sculpted perfection of his hand and at his gentle touch, while fully aware of the latent strength lurking beneath.
Without taking his eyes from hers he carried her hand to his mouth. She’d expected just a brief kiss, and was vaguely aware of how old-fashioned this gesture was, but already she was imagining the graze of his lips on her skin, was anticipating the brush of his warm breath. But at the last moment he flipped her hand over so that his mouth pressed open and hot against her wrist.
Her pulse thundered into life under his molten kiss, her blood super-heated, melting her bones and stirring her dark, tender places into life. And as his liquid lips worked their magic on her skin and his tongue joined into the fray, ratcheting up the sensations another notch, she was certain that if he hadn’t been holding on to her hand she might well have dissolved into a puddle on the floor.
She tasted as good as she looked. Better. This was going to be far more enjoyable than he would ever have anticipated.
And he had her. There was no question. The passion flaring into life in her eyes told him that she would be more than responsive, more than accommodating. The way her lips were softly parted told him she was eager for more of what his mouth could do for her, and the way her nipples pressed all too obviously against the tight fabric of her gown told him that even tonight would not be too soon.
She would soon be his. And then she would tell him everything she knew to save his sister.
And he would destroy Dr Della-Bosca and pull apart the clinic, even if he had to do it brick by brick!
He clamped down on the aching response of his own body as slowly, reluctantly, he drew his lips away.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, her words less a demand this time, more a breathy supplication.
He smiled and dipped his head fractionally, still with a hold on her hand. ‘Loukas Demakis,’ he said. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Dr Ferraro.’
Her eyes narrowed and sparked, and he could see she was building connections as if suddenly understanding. Had the pieces fallen into place already? Had she realised the recently married Olympia was his sister? Did she have any idea at all why he was here?
‘Demakis?’ she repeated. ‘As in the Senator currently making a run for the White House?’
‘My father,’ he replied, rapidly reassessing his quarry’s intelligence. ‘You’ve heard of him?’
Her eyes regarded him frostily as she tugged her hand out of his, using it to support her glass. ‘Would that be such a surprise? I do try to keep informed of what’s going on in the world around us. Did you assume that just because I spend my days working with beautiful people that I must be a complete airhead?’
‘Not at all,’ he countered. Not any more. ‘I’d be a fool to make a mistake like that—obviously.’
She smiled a little then, a sweet smile of victory that didn’t make it anywhere near her eyes. ‘Obviously,’ she mimicked, as if she knew damned well he’d underestimated her and been caught out.
His back teeth ground together. He certainly wouldn’t do that again. There was much too much at stake to be outsmarted by any of Della-Bosca’s cronies.
And that was all she was, he thought, forcing himself to remember, forcing himself to disregard the perfect skin and the womanly curves poured so skilfully into that dress. One of Della-Bosca’s cronies. Regardless of the fact he still burned to possess her. Regardless of the fact he could already anticipate the feel of her honey-fleshed limbs around him.
And that last thought brought with it a smile as he flicked his gaze over her again. She would be good in bed—his own body’s reaction told him that. There was no chance he’d misjudged her on that score.
He inhaled a steadying breath, finding it infused with her fragrance. Fresh. Spicy. Tempting.
‘I’m sure my father will be gratified to hear his reputation extends so far.’
‘Then be sure to tell him,’ she replied. ‘I’d actually like to see him make it all the way to the White House.’
He suppressed a snarl. Now what was she trying to prove? His father didn’t need the support of people like her—people who did what she did, preying on the insecurity of others—and he certainly didn’t want it.
‘And you really care if he makes it?’
Her eyes narrowed and he felt their glacial challenge again.
‘Is that so hard to believe?’ she quipped, confirming his thoughts. ‘I would have thought you’d be happy to find someone who supported your father’s policy stance. Perhaps not. But, for what it’s worth, I think there would be a kind of poetic justice in having someone like your father in the White House, don’t you?’
His brow pulled tight. ‘What do you mean?’
She arched an eyebrow and her blue eyes sparkled with confidence in a way that rankled. ‘Given that ancient Greece was the cradle of democracy, I think there’s a happy kind of irony there—democracy going full circle, if you like.’ She paused, her wide mouth curling into a teasing smile that disappeared all too quickly.
‘Besides, I’ve read about your father’s background—how his grandparents arrived in the nineteen-twenties with nothing and yet built up a boat-building empire; it’s a very impressive story. You must be very proud of your family’s achievements.’
Was he? He hadn’t thought about it or the business lately—he’d had more pressing things to think about, like his half-sister marrying an American reality TV programme loser, her love affair with celebrity, running with the brat-pack and screwing up her life, and a father who wanted her stopped before she screwed up his political aspirations or got herself killed—or both.
And he was going to make damned sure that didn’t happen.
He looked down at her, his need to avenge the past and protect his sister setting his already heated blood to simmer point.
‘Is that what you’ve got planned for yourself—your own rags to riches story?’
Her jaw worked from side to side as her eyes sparked cold flame.
‘Excuse me, Mr Demakis. I’d really like to say it’s been a pleasure…’
She turned to leave, a liquid ripple of blue disappearing into the crowd.
‘So what’s it like for an Australian in Beverly Hills?’ he called after her through the babble and laughter of the crowded room.
She stopped dead, her back stiff, and then for a second it looked as if she was going to keep moving.
‘What’s it like to be so far from home?’
She swivelled this time, her expression perplexed. ‘You picked up on my accent?’ she said, moving closer. ‘Most people don’t.’
‘It’s there,’ he lied, knowing that his knowledge of her country of birth had a great deal more to do with his research into her place in the Della-Bosca hierarchy than with any residual twang of an Australian accent.
She’d come to work at the clinic three years ago, obviously chasing the money and the high life it could provide her with. She’d hit pay-dirt right off, setting up with Della-Bosca and being swept along in her rise to celebrity and fortune. And now she was the successor to the throne. Nature’s handmaiden in a world where beauty was paramount. Where fakery was king and no cost was too great.
‘Why try to lose such a distinctive accent?’ he asked, although he already knew the answer.
She shook her head, as if searching for a reason. ‘It was too distinctive. It was easier to be accepted into society here without always answering questions about where I came from.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all.’
Fake, he thought. Just like the rest of her.
She looked up at him.
‘Mr Demakis—’ she began.
‘Loukas,’ he corrected, setting his voice to satin-smooth again. He’d wasted too much time, and he’d almost lost her once. It was time to take charge of the conversation again. ‘Call me Loukas.’
She paused over that for a second, her top teeth gently raking over one glossy lower lip, almost as if the idea was strangely uncomfortable and needed to be come to terms with.
‘Okay…Loukas,’ she said finally, with a subtle nod of assent. ‘What is it that brings you to the Saving Faces Foundation Gala? I can’t remember your name on the guest list. Did you accompany someone here?’
He allowed himself a smile as he registered her continued interest. He hadn’t lost her after all. She was still curious, still wanting to know more about him, still feeling the same physical tug of attraction that he felt too, and that would make his job that much easier. ‘No. I came alone.’
Her head tilted fractionally. ‘Then why are you here?’
‘Just one reason,’ he said, taking advantage of a passing waiter to rid her of her neglected glass. Then he took her right hand, lifting it until it was at her shoulder level between them before holding his palm flat against hers, interlacing their fingers together. He watched her widening eyes flit to their joined hands before finding his once more. ‘But it’s a very, very good one.’
‘Oh?’ she said, her voice a husky whisper, her blue eyes wary yet intrigued, her breathing but a shadow. ‘And what might that be?’
Her faintly spicy feminine scent stirred his senses as his fingers curled between hers, and he drank in the woman before him. Blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a tendril of honey-coloured hair trailing loose from its sleek coil, kissing her neck wherever it touched in soft teasing waves.
His hunger built. That would soon be him, kissing the skin of her throat, kissing her slick, sweet lips, kissing every last inch of her until she cried out for release. And it would be no hardship to give it to her.
‘Can’t you tell?’ he said as his free arm circled around her and he spun her with him onto the dance floor. ‘I came here to meet you.’
It was the wrong answer.
His answer should have been couched in terms of wanting to support the foundation, of wanting to help children with shattered faces and fractured spirits to rebuild their lives and make them whole again. He should have been here to applaud the work of a great doctor and a worthy cause.
It was definitely not the answer she’d expected from a man who seemed dangerously threatening, at times resentful, and more often than not antagonistic. It wasn’t the answer she’d wanted. He was hiding something behind those hard brown eyes, so shiny and impenetrable they might have been French polished. What was his real purpose? Why was he really here?
And yet, as he steered her expertly around the dance floor, his firm body an aching whisker from hers, somehow his words fed into her soul, fed those dark secret places until they pulsed into life. While her brain screamed to her that this was mad, that this was unwise, her body played a different tune.
Her body liked his words.
Her senses welcomed his message.
And her flesh wanted him closer still.
With each step he took her further away from the life she knew. With each whirl she felt inexorably, utterly, spun further away from her clinical—practical—medical background. In his arms she felt reckless, a little wild; she felt good.
He didn’t speak, and she didn’t mind. She doubted she could string two words together right now. Besides, she was too busy enjoying the unfamiliar sensations of being held by the best-looking man in the room.
His breath glided past her ear, soft and luxuriant, and she felt him draw her even closer. Her heart seemed to stop as their bodies met, the splayed hand at her waist forcing them into contact from chest to thigh, their movements on the dance floor setting up a sensual friction between them, his musky cologne like an invitation, beckoning her to nestle closer.
The music, the charged atmosphere, his body against hers—it was all so intoxicating. His lips nuzzled at her ear and she tilted her head into his caress, unashamedly seeking more of the warm, tingling contact he was offering.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ he murmured softly, and the warm shimmer of sensation bloomed into a wave of heated sensuality that rolled over her and left her breathless.
She knew he was attracted to her, had sensed he was. His eyes contained secrets and mysteries, but his desire had broken through with a raw intensity that couldn’t be ignored. And yet it was still such a powerful aphrodisiac to hear him say the words.
Everyone was beautiful here. There wasn’t a woman there tonight whose looks didn’t dazzle, whose bodies weren’t centrefold-worthy, whose smiles weren’t toothpaste-commercial-perfect. And yet, of all the women in the room, he’d said those words to her!
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