Excerpt of Filthy Rich by Virna DePaul

Cara considered herself plenty experienced. There had been times in her life she’d enjoyed the company of men. When she’d had boyfriends. Sex. But her desire for men and their bodies had always seemed, while probably quite normal, nonetheless slightly unremarkable. Her girlfriends in high school—including Iris—had burbled on and on about boys and how wet they got when the boys walked by, but her? Yeah, she’d thought Tony Spo­kane was hot, and had felt a little flutter in her belly when she kissed her first boyfriend—had even climaxed the very first time she’d had sex, losing her virginity to her college boyfriend Alec—but somehow the fantastic glittery experience her friends talked about had by­passed her.

Until now.

As seconds stretched together, the man standing over her focused on her mouth, her eyes, as if caressing her face with his gaze. The intensity of her instant attraction to this stranger was anything but unremarkable.

It was his eyes that really did it to her. The heat in their depths was startling. The quivering in her belly ra­diated out, lower, and she felt herself getting wet . . .

wetter than she’d ever been. Wet enough that if she weren’t careful, it would show on her cream skirt. She fought against the wild notion that he wanted to take what he saw: her. Right now. Right here. Any way she wanted to be taken.

She fought even harder against the notion that that was exactly what she wanted. And that she yearned for him to show her ways to be taken she’d barely even heard of. Ways Iris probably knew about.

But he stayed where he was. His hands were in his pockets. He’d put them there after he’d touched her. Un­less she’d just dreamed that tender caress, of course.

“You weren’t enjoying the party?” His deep voice re­verberated in the room.

Conversation, she reminded herself. First step in meet­ing someone new was to converse, not strip naked and jump their bones. She hesitated, then said, “Everything was beautiful. First class.” I’m just more an economy class kind of girl, she thought, then mentally slapped herself upside the head. Why even think that when a gorgeous man was staring at her? When he’d obviously covered her up while she slept? Watched her while she slept?

He smiled slightly. “You weren’t enjoying it,” he said decisively. His calm self-assurance was very different from the young guys she worked with, although he didn’t look much older than they did. He was probably thirty. Just. But he had a tough, ruthless look about him, as if he’d literally fought his way to the top of the world.

Oh, God, she suddenly realized, this had to be his house. Everything about him lent credence to that fact. She’d stumbled into his private sanctuary. But instead of seeking confirmation, she asked, “What time is it?” Slowly, she moved the cashmere throw down her body, touching the buttons of her cream blouse first to make sure she wasn’t carelessly revealing herself. Every button was in place. It was her imagination working overtime that made it feel like they’d jumped loose and given him a glimpse of her lacy bra before she’d opened her eyes.

“After midnight.”

She rose from the sofa, straightening her rumpled clothes. “I have to go.” Somewhat awkwardly, she slipped a foot into one high heel, then the other, and stood tall. He was still a whole lot taller.

“You can stay in here for a bit if you like,” he said indifferently. “The party’s winding down.”

“I guess this must be your house.”

He inclined his dark head in a nod.

“Spectacular. Really nice.” Cara told herself not to babble. “I’m sorry, we weren’t told who owned the place.”

“I’m Branden Duke.”

A nice name. A regal name. But this was no Prince Charming. Too haunted. Too harsh. But gorgeous, nonetheless. “Nice to meet you, and thanks for the offer to stay, but . . .” She glanced beyond him and swal­lowed. The door was behind him. Closed.

He’d opened it, seen her sleeping, and come in, closing it behind him. Why?

As if he had picked up on the nervous question that buzzed in her mind, he turned and strode to the door, opening it again. But he came back.

Two things registered. First, she wasn’t being dis­missed. Second, he wasn’t blocking her way, and that appeared to be deliberate on his part. He’d known she felt threatened and had immediately reassured her. With actions, not words. In her world, that immediately set him apart from most.

She stepped toward him, fully intending to make a swift exit—and made the mistake of looking up. His dark, burning gaze hypnotized her for a moment longer.

He raised a hand and ran his fingertips over her sleep-flushed cheek as if he couldn’t help himself.

Again.

Cara was mesmerized. The unexpected contact was tender and also erotic. Familiar.

Tempting.

This man in no way resembled Tony Spokane. He wasn’t a boy playing at being bad. He was simply bad through and through. In all the best ways possible.

“Don’t.” She was barely able to breathe out the single word. She wasn’t angry or afraid—just wildly confused by his daring and her own crazy reaction. He dropped his hand.

“Are you here alone? Do you work for—”

Frightened by the intensity of her attraction to him, she blurted out, “I came with Greg Johnson. He must be wondering where I am.”

Right. As if Greg looking for her would be some kind of protection from this man. If Branden Duke wanted something, wanted her, a little competition would hardly put him off.

Besides, she didn’t want Greg to come looking for her.

At the top of the list of the Reasons Why Not, which were coming back to her, was the inevitable watercooler talk between the guys, discussing the party and instant replays of their conquests. She didn’t want to become Topic Number One during that bull session. But getting caught up here with this man, who had some mysterious connection to her company, wouldn’t do, either.

Branden’s gaze flickered. “Greg Johnson. The stock­broker from Dubois & Mellan? He’s gone.”

Great. That meant Greg had taken her ride back to Manhattan with him. Bastard, she thought, but without much heat. After all, she’d contemplated doing that very thing to him. “You know him?”

“We were introduced tonight.”

“Great. Well, I really should be going—”

Cara stepped back, nearly falling when her leg con­nected with the low glass table. Branden reached out and held her arms, the strength in his large hands flow­ing into her somehow. She swallowed hard, reluctant to shrug him off.

The spell he’d cast didn’t break. Seconds passed. A minute. He didn’t release her. Instead, his soft grip slowly turned into caresses, with his hands smoothing over her arms and then up her neck until his hands lightly framed her jaw.

She still didn’t pull away. All she wanted to do was give in and see what happened.

“I’m thinking Greg Johnson doesn’t deserve you.”

“And you do?” The statement just popped out of her.

He smiled ever so slightly. Cocked a challenging brow. Stared at her with eyes filled with a taunting dare.

So what if we’re strangers, it said. You want to kiss me. So why not kiss me?

She could think of many reasons why not. But she didn’t want to think. The lingering dreaminess of being caught unawares and the intimate solitude of their chance encounter dissolved her resistance. In a heart­beat.

She rose on her tiptoes to give him her mouth, loving the ebony fire that blazed in his eyes just before she made contact. The kiss was a brush of the lips at first, then a searching, urgent opening of her mouth as his tongue met hers. Branden Duke kissed with expert sen­suality. The strong body underneath the fine suit con­veyed a rising heat as she relaxed against it, not surrendering just yet, but savoring the pleasure of a scorching kiss from a real man.