Shadowed Paradise by Blair Bancroft Page A

and slim with the
perfect muscle tone only a personal trainer could produce. Diane’s
only garments were the teeniest triangle of black lace and
thigh-high stockings. Her golden skin was uniformly tan, too well
tanned to belong to the gold perfection of the shining blond hair
that curved in to touch the fine bone structure of her face just
below the jawline. Brad had never minded that Diane’s hair color
came out of a bottle. Everything else was very real indeed. Her
eyes were a magnificent golden amber. He had once told her she
should have all her publicity shots taken with a Florida
panther.
    “ Thoughts of a cold drink and hot sex
were all that sustained me on the drive home,” she announced with a
gusty sigh as she bent over to strip off her stockings, presenting
him with a view that would have stunned an ox.
    “ The studio is air-conditioned, your
car is air-conditioned, the condo’s air-conditioned.” Brad’s tone
was dry. So was his mouth. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off
the slow peel of her stockings, first one, then the
other.
    “ Enjoying the show?” With the second
stocking in her hand, Diane stopped and peered at him. “Don’t just
sit there, darling. Fix me that drink. Or . . .” She struck a
provocative pose, whirled the last stocking round and round before
flinging it toward her bedroom door. “Shall we do it first and
drink later?”
    She undulated across the carpet with all the
finesse and style of a strip queen until there was nothing between
Brad and herself but the back of the white leather sofa. She leaned
forward until all that filled his eyes were the twin rosy thrusts
of her nipples, taut and pointed in their sudden exposure to the
condo’s cool air.
    “ A bit slow off the mark, aren’t you,
stud?” she taunted. “Bad day?” Diane ran her fingers behind his
neck, under the tightly confined mane of pale gold, traced a light,
enticing pattern down his back. “After all, darling,” she breathed
in his ear, “it’s a little late to be shy.”
    Brad groaned. Damn Pavlov and his stupid dog!
He was just as bad. Worse. He was hard as a rock and losing his
willpower fast.
    Diane was no slouch when it came to male
psychology. She had paused her striptease just short of the final
scrap of black lace. Brad couldn’t take his eyes off that tiny
triangle as she sauntered around the couch and insinuated herself
beside him, her knees tucked under her, each rounded kneecap hard
against his left thigh. Her smile blatantly seductive, she reached
out to loosen his tie.
    He should force his hands to move, put her
aside. Fight for some semblance of dignity. He should scramble
through his addled wits for the words he’d come here to say.
Instead, one hand seemed to move of its own volition, slipping
under the black lace to the dark curls that lay beneath. As he
feathered his fingers through the soft hair, moving ever closer to
the seat of her desire, Diane tugged at his tie until she sent it
to join the garments scattered across the expanse of the white rug.
When he cupped her in his large work-roughened hand, she gasped, as
if it were the very first time.
    With the skill of long experience Diane
popped the buttons on his shirt, peeled back one side and lowered
her head to nip at his soft blond mat of hair, tugging at the silky
strands with her teeth. When she ran her tongue over a heavily
tanned nipple, his whole body quivered . Fuck!
    No fuck, no fuck! That’s why
he was here. Except his brain had gone on
hold.
    While her luscious pouty lips held his
attention, Diane’s roving fingers moved to his lap. She flashed a
feral smile of satisfaction at what she found. Her long fingers
with their perfectly sculptured nails moved back to the row of
shirt buttons.
    He sat there like an idiot while she skivvied
him out of his shirt and sent it flying. Removing his belt required
sinuous twists and turns, soft murmurs of effort. A work of art in
itself.
    He’d always liked art. A shame