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 go 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?'