"HATHAWAY'SSOHOT, I'll never have to fake an orgasm again," bragged Francis Ledan, Vogue"s August cover model, about superagent Hathaway Balkmandy.
"He's hot all right," agreed another model, draped in a Versace gown beaded with delicate pearls and Parisian stitching. "Hathaway could keep the Statue of Liberty's torch lit permanently."
Hathaway. Hathaway. Hathaway.
Everywhere Amanda Lane turned in the ritzy New York ballroom, the legendary modeling agent's name spilled from the lips of famous women. So far this crush of A-list partygoers had made it impossible for her to approach the Hugh Hefner wannabe herself. Amanda bided her time and filled her crystal champagne flute from a silver fountain flowing with Dom Perignon. Far from being a Hathaway admirer, even she had to admit the powerful modeling agent sure knew how to throw a party. From the tuxedoed, white-gloved waiters serving exotic caviar on slivers of toast and cream-filled lobster canapés, to g
"HATHAWAY'SSOHOT, I'll never have to fake an orgasm again," bragged Francis Ledan, Vogue"s August cover model, about superagent Hathaway Balkmandy.
"He's hot all right," agreed another model, draped in a Versace gown beaded with delicate pearls and Parisian stitching. "Hathaway could keep the Statue of Liberty's torch lit permanently."
Hathaway. Hathaway. Hathaway.
Everywhere Amanda Lane turned in the ritzy New York ballroom, the legendary modeling agent's name spilled from the lips of famous women. So far this crush of A-list partygoers had made it impossible for her to approach the Hugh Hefner wannabe herself. Amanda bided her time and filled her crystal champagne flute from a silver fountain flowing with Dom Perignon. Far from being a Hathaway admirer, even she had to admit the powerful modeling agent sure knew how to throw a party. From the tuxedoed, white-gloved waiters serving exotic caviar on slivers of toast and cream-filled lobster canapés, to guests sumptuously decked out in designer couture, to Marc Anthony's live performance, the elegant ballroom was hopping beneath the Swarovski chandeliers.
Tapping one Brazilian Pappagallo shoe to the music, Amanda bided her time, secure in the knowledge that the .22 caliber tucked into her thigh holster might be small, but it was deadly. Almost as deadly as her wrap-style dress. Form-fitting through the bodice to show off her breasts, the chiffon nipped her waist then flowed gracefully but loosely over her hips, enhancing her figure. One of Hathaway's bodyguards speared her with a look. Amanda winked at him as if she belonged, as if she didn't believe that Hathaway had been the mastermind behind her sister Donna's classified formula ending up in the hands of a terrorist, as if she didn't believe Hathaway was responsible for her sister's murder.
Blend in.
Smile.
Flirt.
Amanda never forgot her mission. She was here to gain information about Hathaway's operations, and if clearing her sister's name and finding her murderer required her to wear sexy clothes and flirt, then she would act the siren.
She glanced toward Hathaway and, like the Red Sea parting on command, his coterie of sycophants, models and bodyguards parted for a moment, giving her a direct view of Hathaway's face. He didn't look like a monster, but was one of those men whose age was difficult to guess. With his rounded face and thinning hair, he could have been thirty or fifty. Amanda's extensive research had told her he was thirty-seven, and women adored him as much as he adored the models who milled around him. However, as Amanda and Hathaway locked gazes, she realized that her research had failed to prepare her for the searing crackle, a staggering snap of power, like the crack of a bullwhip, dangerous, deadly and oddly decadent, emanating from the man. But his disarmingly powerful stare wouldn't prevent her from forgetting she was here for justice.
Someone stepped between them, severing the weird connection. Amanda didn't wish to draw attention to herself and forced her gaze away, surprised by how difficult it was to ignore Hathaway's allure. Before she could analyze exactly what had just happened, she took a calming breath. Obviously seeing the man she believed responsible for her sister's death was upsetting. She must have read more into the exchanged glances than there was.
But no one else seemed to have noticed anything unusual. Guests chatted in groups, helped themselves to hors d'oeuvres and champagne. Marc Anthony finished the song and began another tune and Amanda's skitterish nerves settled.
But then her wandering gaze caught that of a scrumptious man exiting the gold-and-mirrored elevator and her heart sped up all over again. Amanda wasn't the kind of woman to judge a man by his looks, but then she wasn't accustomed to having a man with a movie-star face act interested in her. And there could be no doubting the man's interest. From across the ballroom, his gaze singled her out and caused heat to simmer low in her belly.
Good. She'd attracted an admirer. While she hadn't gotten close to Hathaway, she could hook up with someone and blend better into the party scene.
The stranger was single-mindedly shouldering his way through the crowd with an ease that belied his size. Sporting spiked, black-black hair, a square, oh-so-kissable jaw and a friendly boy-next-door smile, he approached with provocative intensity. Clean-shaven, he wore a navy Armani suit that matched the color of his eyes, a deep lavender shirt and a diamond ear stud.
When she lifted her chin, brazenly holding his gaze, he grinned, showing off charming dimples. Except for the slight crook of his bold nose, he was perfect. Totally yummy.
Fascinated by the man's apparent objective to reach her, she fortified her anticipation with a sip of champagne while keeping her gaze on him. The deepening warmth that drizzled downward from her stomach and caused a pleasant tingle between her thighs was a very physical reaction to the strong signals he radiated.
"Good evening." He spoke with a soft Southern accent, using a deep bass tone that would make any living, breathing women pay attention. "Did you come to the party alone?"
"Yes." She sipped her drink, enjoying herself and his direct approach. The singer's voice thrummed through her system but faded with the background crowd as she focused on the delicious-looking man.
"Then let me introduce myself. Bolt Tanner." His hand enclosed hers in gentle warmth and rough calluses. Whatever he did for a living required physical activity. But even before she'd shaken his hand, she'd known he worked out from the fit of his suit over powerful shoulders and from the way his slacks clung to his lean stomach and hips. Chatting couples around them passed by carrying his scent to her. Soap and shampoo, maybe a breath mint. No cologne. Just pure male heat.
She retrieved her hand, a little unnerved by her strong reaction to him. Never had she met a man quite so focused on her, and his intensity piqued her curiosity. Lately she'd barely noticed more than a guy's general height and weight, so she wasn't quite prepared for his stunning effect.
Continues...
Excerpted from Uncontrollable by Susan Kearney Copyright © 2005 by Susan Kearney. Excerpted by permission.
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