Sally Wentworth - A Typical Male

  Sally Wentworth - A Typical Male!

  Sex and power games!

  Brett King wanted to possess Tasha… He craved her body and the passion he knew they could share, so he planned a seduction campaign to drive her out of her mind with desire!

  Tasha wanted Brett, but she wasn't interested in sex without commitment. She knew there could be so much more between them, and there was only one way to test Brett's feelings… How would he respond if he thought Tasha was pregnant with his baby?

  CHAPTER ONE

  She looked wild! Sensational! Fascinating! As Brett King walked into the club where the party was being held his eyes were immediately drawn to the girl who danced under the spotlight. The band was playing 'Copacabana' to a rich tempo and the rest of the dancers on the floor had drawn back to watch as the girl in the red dress became one with the rhythm, her full skirt lifting as she swung, revealing legs that were long and very shapely. She bent and swayed with the beat, her long red hair a swirling flame that tantalisingly hid her face. Coloured strobe lights flickered across her slim body, adding to the impression of vibrant movement, of tropical heat and eroticism.

  There were some steps that led down to the dance floor but Brett stayed where he was, his attention completely held. He noticed that the girl had a partner, who caught her and danced with her for a minute or so, but then she would step away from him and lose herself in the music again. And lose was the right word; she seemed totally unaware of the people who clapped and cheered her on, or of the effect her dance was having on those who watched.

  It was certainly having an effect on Brett. He wondered if the girl knew how sexy, how extremely seductive she looked as she moved so sinuously in that bright heart of the dimly lit room. For a moment he thought that she must be a professional dancer, but there was something unpolished and completely natural in the way she moved; it was all from the heart, the soul, not at all a technical, calculated performance. And it was when he realised this that Brett knew he had to meet her.

  The music stopped at last and the girl was immediately surrounded by a crowd of laughing guests, congratulating her, wanting to touch her. Going down the steps, Brett first sought out the friend whose combined thirtieth birthday and leaving-London party this was.

  'Hey, man, you're late,' Guy exclaimed when Brett finally found him and shook his hand.

  'Got delayed,' Brett said vaguely.

  'You look as if you need a drink.'

  Brett laughed as he looked at his friend's already flushed face. 'You don't.'

  'It's my birthday, for God's sake.'

  They were almost shouting above the noise level of the crowded room and Brett had to lean closer as he said, 'Who was the girl?'

  He didn't have to explain which girl. Guy grinned. 'She's really something, isn't she? Not many girls look that good when they let their hair down,' he remarked appreciatively.

  'So who is she?'

  'Her name's Natasha Briant. But you'll have to get in the queue; she's a popular girl.'

  'Your girl?'

  Guy laughed a little ruefully. 'No. You'll find she doesn't belong to anyone but herself—that's if you ever get close enough to find out, of course.'

  Brett gave him a mock-derisive look. 'You questioning my style?'

  'With your reputation for pulling women!' Guy threw up his hands in surrender. 'Would I dare?'

  Laughing, Brett gave him a playful punch on the shoulder then went away to find himself a drink.

  Leaning against the wall, drinking it, he saw that the girl, Natasha, also had a drink in her hand as she stood, still surrounded by a group of people, and he had to wait quite a while before she walked away from them to the ladies' cloakroom. Then he sauntered over and waited near the door until she came out.

  'Hello, Natasha.'

  She turned to look at him and he saw that her face went with the rest of her. Although not strictly beautiful, she had fine bone structure, a slightly pert nose, a mouth that fell into an easy smile and large, long- lashed eyes that were a very pale blue, almost aquamarine. Brilliant eyes, vital and alive.

  Her glance went over him, frankly assessing, then she said in a husky-toned voice, 'We obviously haven't met before.'

  His lips quirked. 'Why so sure?'

  'No one I know ever calls me Natasha. It's always shortened to Tasha.'

  The name was right for her, he thought, full of fire and passion. 'I bet you're descended from Russian gypsies.'

  An amused look came into her eyes. 'Was I that gone?'

  'Definitely. Is it your party piece?'

  'Perhaps.' Her chin came up to challenge him. 'What's yours?'

  His eyebrows rose at the opening she'd given him. A lesser man might have fallen for it and made some comment with sexual innuendo, but Brett recognised it for the test it was and smiled. 'I'm still working on one.'

  'Have you so little talent?'

  'Maybe I don't need to sing for my supper.'

  'Are you implying that I do?' she challenged.

  'I don't know. Why don't you come and have a drink so I can find out?'

  Again Tasha looked at him in candid assessment. She quite liked what she saw; he was tall, over six feet, and in his early thirties, she guessed. His hair was thick and dark, a bit too long for him to be a yuppie like Guy, and he was good-looking in a casual, laid-back kind of way. She was about to refuse when it occurred to her that the casualness was deceptive, his lean figure spoke of coiled-steel strength and there was determination in the set of his chin. To test him, she shook her head. 'No, thanks. I'm with some people.'

  'So leave them.'

  'Why should I?’

  'How do you know you won't always regret it if you don't?'

  She laughed at that. 'That sounds like a well- rehearsed line.'

  'Are you married? Engaged? Living with someone?'

  At each question Tasha gave a slow shake of her head, her eyes quizzical. 'Do you already feel such rapport between us, then?' she asked in amusement.

  'No. But if you don't have anyone, then you can't find the people you're with very interesting. So what have you got to lose by having a drink with me?'

  'Am I likely to find you interesting?'

  'Yes.'

  Her eyebrows rose but Tasha rather liked the blunt answer. 'Such modesty,' she mocked.

  'I find that false modesty never gets you very far.' He held out his right hand. 'I'm Brett King. Guy and I were at university together. I'm unattached, straight, and more or less respectable.' He could have added that he was not only intrigued by but greatly attracted to her, but he didn't, guessing rightly that such a remark would immediately put her off.

  She shook his hand, found his grip firm but relaxed. 'And are you a whiz-kid in the world of finance?'

  'Definitely not.'

  'Good heavens! Why didn't you say so before? In that case I'll certainly have a drink.'

  'Good.' He smiled, the grin making his face more boyish, less lived-in. 'Shall we go somewhere quieter?'

  Tasha pointed to the mezzanine floor where small tables overlooked the dancing area. 'We'll go up there.'

  Brett had wanted to leave the party altogether, take her some place else where they could talk in peace, but he willingly settled for the mezzanine. He took a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses from the bar and they found a free table against the wall.

  'So what have you got against whiz-kids from the City?'

  'They fancy themselves too much.'

  'Guy's one of them.' 'Yes, but he's nice. We'll all miss him now he's going to be based in Hong Kong.'

  'How do you know him?' he asked.

  Tasha shrugged. 'He's one of the crowd. He used to g
o out with a girl I worked with and he became a friend.'

  'What do you do?'

  'I thought this conversation was supposed to be about you—about how interesting you are,' she reminded him.

  'Don't tell me you don't like talking about yourself?'

  'I already know all about me.'

  That made him laugh. 'Unnatural woman!'

  'So what do you do?'

  Brett could have given her a very long list of the things he'd done with his life, but settled for the latest. 'I'm a writer.'

  Tasha's interest immediately sharpened. 'Successful?' she asked suspiciously.

  Brett grimaced. 'I suppose it depends on what you mean by successful. I've had two novels published and I've just finished a third. They weren't overnight bestsellers by any means, but they sold in quite respectable numbers.'

  'Enough to encourage you to go on, obviously.'

  He nodded. 'But not enough to lash out on a luxury pad in Chelsea or drive a Porsche like Guy,' he remarked, setting a test of his own.

  With a dismissive gesture of her hand Tasha rubbed out Guy's and his colleagues' efforts. 'Those people burn themselves out by the time they're forty, if not earlier. Tell me about your books. Are they thrillers?'

  He frowned. 'Not really. All three have been different. The first one had quite a bit of action in it, but the second was a sort of search into a person's mind to find out why he did what he did, what made him the kind of person who would commit a terrible crime.' He shrugged. 'You probably know the kind of thing. It's certainly nothing new.'

  'And the latest?'

  'I'm not going to tell you about that one.'

  'Why not?'

  'If I tell you everything in one go you won't find me interesting any more.'

  She smiled, but said on a note of satisfaction, 'At least I've found out that you're a serious writer. Did you base the books on your own experience?'

  Brett saw from the way she leaned forward, her eyes on his face, that she really wanted to know, she wasn't just being polite. Gratified, pleased that he'd got her attention so easily, he said, 'Not directly. The first one was based on a true story, something that happened to a friend of mine, but the second and third were pure fiction.' He enlarged a little but something held him back from telling her that he had used his experiences as a journalist to feed his imagination. Perhaps because she was obviously awed by his being a serious writer and he didn't want to detract from that. There would be plenty of time to tell her his life story, if he could hold her interest enough now to get her to agree to see him again. And he found that he wanted that very much.

  'How did you go about finding a publisher?' Tasha asked him.

  'With great difficulty.' He spread his hands. Strong, capable hands, she noticed. 'I had a few contacts— friends who knew someone in the trade, that kind of thing. I tried those first, without any success. But then I was lucky enough to find an agency that was interested in the story and they eventually sold it for me.'

  'You were lucky. I've heard that it's a sort of Catch 22 situation with agents; they'll only take you on if you've had something accepted, but how do you get accepted if you haven't got an agent?'

  'You almost sound as if you speak from your own experience.'

  She gave a small shrug but didn't deny it.

  'So what do you do?'

  'I work in the research department of a television company. Not the BBC, before you ask. A smaller, independent company.' She watched as he refilled her glass. 'I really don't think I ought to have much more of that.' She gave a mischievous grin. 'But it is good champagne.'

  Brett smiled back. 'And we owe it to Guy to give him a good send-off.'

  'Absolutely.'

  He loved the way she said the word, stressing the vowels in that gorgeously husky voice. He found he couldn't decide what about her attracted him most: her vitality, those sensational legs, her face and extraordinary eyes, or that seductive voice. Maybe it was everything, that all the elements combined to make an irresistible whole.

  It was a heady thought and one that left him feeling not only excited but rather overwhelmed. He wasn't used to being bowled over just by looking at a woman. Maybe he'd been around too long, had affairs with too many women and become blase. Trying to dispel the feeling, Brett resorted to the commonplace as he said, 'So what are you researching at the moment?'

  To his surprise imps of mischief danced in her eyes and she leaned forward to whisper, 'I can't tell you. It's top secret!' She said the last two words in an American drawl, glancing at him from under her lashes to see how he would react.

  Delighted, Brett pretended extreme seriousness as he said, 'Beheading at dawn in the Tower stuff, huh?'

  'And some. Heads will definitely roll.'

  'Sounds to me like you need a bodyguard.'

  She gave him a pert look. 'Who would you suggest?'

  He grinned, rubbed the side of his jaw. 'I think I've entrapped myself here. Something tells me you wouldn't like it if I suggested myself. But then—' he paused deliberately '—I wouldn't like it if you chose someone else.'

  He kept his eyes on her as he spoke, watching to see how she would take it, but Tasha only laughed and finished the wine in her glass. 'I want to dance.' She rose and headed for the stairs, to his chagrin not looking to see whether he followed her or not.

  But he caught her up on the edge of the dance floor and took a firm hold of her hand as he pulled her into his arms. Tasha stiffened, and for a moment he thought she was going to resist, but then she relaxed and let him lead her. It was a slow number and the floor was crowded; there was room only to smooch around, held close against each other. Several people spoke to Tasha, both men and women, and all seemed pleased to see her, but no one greeted Brett.

  'You don't seem to know many people here,' she commented.

  'I don't. Guy's the only one. We don't really see each other much now—just occasionally for a drink or something.'

  'Is it a very solitary life—being a writer?'

  He shrugged. 'When you're working it has to be, but the rest of the time you can be as sociable as anyone else.'

  'Do you live alone?'

  'Yes.' He wondered if that was a loaded question, whether it meant she fancied him.

  But evidently it wasn't, because Tasha gave a small frown and said, 'When you live alone you need friends, but friends take a lot of work, a lot of time.'

  'That sounds very philosophical.' He glanced down at her, but he didn't have to lower his head too much, she came up to his chin. Just the right height for kissing. The soft aroma of her perfume, like the tantalising scent of an orchid, filled his senses and Brett wanted badly to kiss her.

  'Not really. It's just that—' she gave a small shrug '—sometimes you need time for yourself, to be alone to do what you want to do—like write. Don't you find that?'

  Tasha glanced up and found Brett gazing at her intently. There was a look in his eyes that she recognised, a look she had seen in many men's eyes before: hungry, concupiscent. Their eyes met and she raised a mocking, slightly derisive eyebrow. Brett laughed, in no way embarrassed at being caught out, and not at all ashamed of the way he was feeling. But he said, 'Yes. Writers can be pretty insular people. Even when I'm not writing I spend a lot of time walking around, thinking out plots, characters, that kind of thing.'

  'Do you have lots of friends who interrupt you all the time?'

  'I can shut them out. Just turn on the answering machine and ignore the doorbell.'

  'That's the quickest way I know to lose your friends.'

  'You have to live your life the way you want to live it, not for other people.'

  Tasha gave an ironical laugh. 'Now who's being philosophical?'

  'Yeah.' His mouth twisted a little as he smiled down at her.

  He had, she noticed, a very attractive smile, and his brown eyes were warm and caressing. The band began to play 'Lady in Red' and Brett's arm slid further round her waist as he drew her closer. 'This should b
e your tone,' he murmured, touching the strap of her red dress, his fingers briefly stroking the bare skin of her shoulder.

  Tasha smiled inwardly but didn't resist. He was right in thinking that she'd find him interesting, and he seemed different from most of the men who seemed to come her way. There was an inner strength in him which she could sense but which he deliberately seemed to want to hide behind his casual manner. That alone would have aroused her curiosity, but the fact that he was a published writer had also intrigued her. And he fancied her, of course, but she'd realised that from the first moment he'd spoken to her.

  That she was attractive to men, Tasha knew; she had come to look on it as just one of those things you were born with, like having red hair and being five feet eight inches tall. But she had learned how to handle it, how to use it to her advantage when she wanted to, and how to squash flat men she found boring. It had also got her into a few tight corners when she was younger, experiences she'd prefer to forget, but she had learned from them and now, at twenty-four, was pretty confident of her ability to take care of herself.

  The music changed to a hotter beat and they danced apart. She was pleased to find that Brett moved well, that he danced as loosely as the surface impression he gave, but the alertness was still there, as he proved when he caught her hand to pull her quickly out of the way of a couple who'd drunk too much and were all wildly gyrating arms and kicking legs. Keeping hold of her hand, he shouted in her ear, 'Why don't we get out of this?'

  Tasha hesitated only briefly before nodding. 'OK. But I want to say goodbye to Guy first.'

  They found him propped up against the bar, literally propped up by a couple of friends as he looked in danger of sliding to the floor. He gave them a huge grin as they came up. 'Tasha, my darling!' He pulled one arm free and put it round her.

  'Thanks, Guy, it's been a great party.'

  'You're not going? You can't go! It's still early.'

  'I'm afraid so. Every success in Hong Kong, Guy. Don't lose too many billions on the futures market, will you?'

  'No, I can't let you go.' A look of great tragedy came into his face. 'I'm going to tell them I'm not going. I can't leave all my friends like this.'

  'Nonsense,' Tasha soothed. 'You'll love it there. And we'll all come out and visit you. Or else you can phone.'