Playing His Dangerous Game Read online

  Her photograph didn’t do her justice.

  Not by a long shot.

  Even though Royce was watching her from half a room away, Shara Atwood was so alive she lit up the room. It wasn’t just the sinuous way she was dancing—which he had to admit was incredibly hot—she seemed to radiate a vibrant kind of energy that made it impossible not to look at her.

  And people were looking—in their droves.

  Royce was watching Shara because he had to.

  Because as of an hour ago it was his job to watch her.

  What irritated him was the fact that he was enjoying it. The prickling sensation under his skin told him that his body was enjoying it even more—a fact that he found doubly infuriating.

  About the Author

  TINA DUNCAN lives in trendy inner-city Sydney, with her partner Edy. With a background in marketing and event management, she now spends her days running a business with Edy. She’s a multi-tasking expert. When she’s not busy typing up quotes and processing invoices, she’s writing. She loves being physically active, and enjoys tennis (both watching and playing), bushwalking and dancing. Spending quality time with her family and friends also rates high on her priority list. She has a weakness for good food and fine wine, and has a sweet tooth she has to keep under control.

  Recent titles by the same author:

  HER SECRET, HIS LOVE-CHILD

  DA SILVA’S MISTRESS

  Playing His

  Dangerous

  Game

  Tina Duncan

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  CHAPTER ONE

  HER photograph didn’t do her justice.

  Not by a long shot.

  Even though Royce was watching her from half a room away, Shara Atwood was so alive she lit up the room. It wasn’t just the sinuous way she was dancing—which he had to admit was incredibly hot—but she seemed to radiate a vibrant kind of energy that made it impossible not to look at her.

  And people were looking—in their droves.

  The young single men at the club were outright staring. The older men, or those accompanied by their wives or girlfriends, were not so obvious. Their eyes slid to Shara whenever they thought they could get away with it without being caught.

  Royce fitted neither of those categories.

  He was watching Shara because he had to.

  Because as of an hour ago it was his job to watch her.

  What irritated him was the fact that he was enjoying it. The prickling sensation under his skin told him that his body was enjoying it even more—a fact that he found doubly irritating.

  Shara Atwood was the type of woman Royce despised.

  She might be beautiful and sexy, but by all accounts she was also spoilt, selfish and self-centred.

  He knew the type and tried to steer clear of them—except when his job made that task impossible.

  The reminder of why he was here prompted Royce to straighten away from the wall. He made his way through the crowd towards the dance floor. Everyone moved automatically out of his way. At six-foot-four and being keenly muscled, he had that effect on people. They no doubt thought it was safer to move than to accidentally collide with him.

  He stopped on the edge of the dance floor.

  Now that he was closer Royce realised that Shara had her eyes closed. She was swaying and twirling in perfect time to the music and ignoring everything and everyone around her—including the eager young man with the light brown hair who was desperately trying to capture her attention.

  As he watched, the young man reached out to take hold of her shoulders, but she shook him off without even bothering to look at him, as if he were no more important than a bothersome fly. The young man said something. Royce was too far away to hear what it was, but not too far to read Shara’s expression.

  A flash of irritation she made no effort to hide crossed her face and then her full lips parted. Whatever she’d said, it must have been cutting. The young man jumped back as if he’d been stung by a wasp. His cheeks flushed a bright fiery red as he turned and stalked off the dance floor.

  ‘Keep on walking, mate,’ Royce muttered under his breath. ‘And don’t look back. She’s not worth it.’

  The incident was a timely reminder to focus on business rather than on Shara’s lusciously full figure and thick fall of sable hair.

  He walked across the dance floor and stopped right in front of her.

  Then he said her name.

  Shara kept right on dancing as if she hadn’t heard him.

  But she had.

  Royce knew she had.

  To the casual observer her expression hadn’t changed, but Royce was an expert at reading body language. He was trained to scrutinise people and assess their reactions. That kind of attention to detail was essential in his line of work.

  He’d captured the imperceptible tightening of her mouth and the barely there contraction of her brow. And even though her movements were still fluid and graceful there had been a momentary stiffness—so brief it had almost been invisible—that had run through her curvaceous frame.

  It was clear she was irritated by the interruption.

  Well, she could be irritated all she liked.

  Royce was not like the young pup she’d just sent away with his tail between his legs.

  He was a man.

  And he didn’t like being ignored—particularly when he had a job to do.

  ‘Shara,’ he said again.

  That was all he said. Nothing else.

  But his tone, which fell somewhere between firm and harsh, was one people usually ignored at their peril.

  Shara heaved a sigh.

  Why couldn’t everyone leave her alone?

  OK. So she’d made a mistake coming to the club tonight. She knew that. Had known it since the minute she’d walked through the door.

  She wasn’t in the mood to party. She hadn’t been for a long time. The last twelve months had seen to that.

  She’d also outgrown the crowd she’d used to run with—a fact she’d realised within minutes of arriving at the club. She could thank the last twelve months for that too.

  She had to face it. Coming here tonight was just another poor decision in a long, long line of poor decisions. Stuffing up appeared to be a habit she just couldn’t break.

  ‘Shara.’

  There it was again. That voice. She didn’t recognise it. She would have remembered if she’d heard it before.

  It was male. Very definitely male. A deep baritone that made her toes curl in the stiletto sandals she was wearing.

  Not Tony, thank goodness. How many times did she have to tell the guy she wasn’t interested? The way he kept coming on to her was bordering on harassment, and with one man already making a nuisance out of himself she didn’t need another.

  Perhaps that was why tonight she’d given up on politely rejecting Tony’s overtures and given it to him straight.

  Tony had been gone for no more than five seconds before this guy with the deep velvety voice had appeared.

  If she ignored him maybe he’d take the hint and go away.

  ‘Shara.’

  No such luck. There it was again, only harder this time. Like a hammer hitting concrete.

  Whoever he was, he wasn’t going away in a hurry. That tone spoke of stubbornness and determination—qualities that none of the people in this crowd possessed.

  Curious in spite of herself, Shara stopped moving and opened her eyes.

  She found herself staring at the middle of a strong, barrel-like chest.

  She looked up. And up.

  Whoever he was, he was tall.

  He was also lip-smackingly gorgeous.

  Not that he was handsome in the traditional sense�
�his face was too hard, too angular. But he was ruggedly good-looking, with a broad forehead, strong, well-defined jaw and a slightly crooked nose that somehow did nothing to detract from his tough handsomeness.

  He was perfectly proportioned too. Strongly muscled thighs and a stomach that was flat and hard balanced his broad shoulders and deep chest. And he was so big. Even his hands, which he was holding loosely at his sides, were large.

  Would his—?

  A hot flush of colour flooded her cheeks. Even though she’d managed to put a brake on her thoughts, she couldn’t stop her eyes dropping and felt the breath catch in her throat. He was built in proportion, all right …

  A peculiar weakness invaded her knees. What on earth had got into her? Imagine staring at him like that! She’d never done anything like that before. And then an appalling thought occurred to her. God, what if he’d noticed …?

  Her eyes snapped to his face.

  His total lack of expression meant she couldn’t tell one way or another.

  Embarrassed by the way she’d stared at his private parts, and annoyed by the weakness invading her knees, she snapped, ‘What, damn it?’

  Royce stared into the most amazing blue eyes he’d ever seen. They were bluer than the sky on a bright summer’s day, brighter than a freshly cut sapphire, and more mysterious than the depths of the ocean.

  It would be easy to be captivated by them but Royce was not easily captivated—particularly when her sharp, stinging voice told him the true measure of the woman standing in front of him.

  ‘So you are polite enough to look at someone when they’re speaking to you, are you?’ Royce asked, returning sting for sting with rapier-sharp speed.

  Her magnificent eyes narrowed and her chin lifted fractionally into the air. ‘Do I know you?’

  It was a simple question, but the way she asked it was anything but simple.

  Princess talk.

  That was the way Royce labelled her tone.

  These society babes had a way of talking down to someone when they wanted to. Her tone implied that she couldn’t possibly know someone like him.

  A lesser man might have been embarrassed, or even have walked away. But Royce was made of tougher stuff than that. So he smiled and said, ‘No, but we’re about to become acquainted.’

  Her eyes narrowed some more, then her mouth moved in a disparaging little twist, and somehow, despite being about a foot shorter than he was, she managed to look down the length of her nose at him. ‘I don’t think so. You’re not my type.’

  ‘Don’t worry, lady. You’re not my type either,’ Royce drawled smoothly, not the least put out by her attempted insult. ‘I’m here in a purely professional capacity.’

  Her expression shifted, lost its regal look. She ran her eyes over him again. She’d done that before, when she’d first opened her eyes. Royce had been disconcerted by his response to that simple look, his blood vessels expanding and heat flowing under his skin.

  The same thing was happening again now, and he liked it even less the second time around.

  ‘Well, if you’re the bouncer I hate to tell you this but I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m just minding my own business and dancing. So why don’t you go away?’ She made a waving movement through the air with her hand. ‘Go on. Shoo.’

  Royce almost laughed. What she’d said, combined with the action, was just so ridiculous. As if he were a pesky animal she was trying to get rid of.

  ‘I’m not a bouncer. Your father asked me to bring you home.’

  Her expression became instantly wary. ‘He did?’

  Royce nodded. ‘Yes. Are you ready to leave?’

  Shara shook her head, sending her thick pelt of dark hair swirling around her shoulders.

  Royce tried to suppress his irritation. He didn’t like doing this kind of job. These days he usually restricted himself to overseeing the business. If he did get involved he chose investigative or security cases, not bodyguarding. He allocated those jobs to somebody else.

  But this was different. Gerard Atwood, head of Atwood Industries, was one of his best clients—if not the best. When Gerard had said protecting his daughter would be a personal favour to him Royce had known he couldn’t refuse. Not unless he wanted to lose one of his biggest clients—which he didn’t.

  ‘Well, if you need to collect your bag and say your goodbyes make it quick. I want to get out of here.’

  Although this was a reputable club that didn’t mean Shara was safe. After all, it had taken less than twenty minutes of research for him to locate her, so no doubt her ex-husband could do the same.

  Even before he’d finished speaking Shara was shaking her head. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Then what did you mean?’

  She folded her arms. It drew his attention—unwilling attention—to the thrusting swell of her breasts.

  She was what his mother would call generously endowed. Somehow Royce knew her breasts would fill his hands perfectly—which was no mean feat, given that his hands were on the large size.

  The thought sent a prickle of desire along his nerve-endings.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere with you,’ Shara said, looking at him down the length of her nose again.

  Her tone stopped the prickle dead in its tracks. ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘No, I am not.’

  Royce sighed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I have no idea who you are. I only have your word for it that my father sent you.’

  ‘Good point.’ In fact it was a very good point. He hadn’t introduced himself. He hadn’t explained the situation. He’d been sufficiently distracted by the sinuous sway of her body and then annoyed by the way she’d treated first the young guy and then himself that he’d not only put the niceties aside but also his professionalism.

  He should know better than that.

  ‘I’m from the Royce Agency. Have you heard of them?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I have. My father uses them all the time. If I’m to believe their spiel they are the largest and most well-known security firm on the globe.’

  ‘It’s not spiel. We are the biggest and the best,’ Royce said proudly.

  It would be fourteen years next month since he’d started the Royce Agency. He’d only been twenty at the time, operating out of the spare bedroom in his parents’ home in northern Sydney. It had taken hard work and long hours to make it what it was today.

  Shara shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

  Royce refused to be insulted. As he’d learned a long time ago, these society babes didn’t care about anything or anyone except themselves.

  Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a brown leather wallet. Flipping it open, he held it out to her.

  Her arms remained folded in front of her. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘My driver’s licence. I thought you might want to see some identification.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s not necessary.’

  Royce frowned. ‘It’s entirely necessary. You can’t just walk out of here with a perfect stranger. You can’t trust anybody these days. You have to be cautious.’

  ‘Again, you misunderstand me. It’s not necessary because I have no intention of leaving with you.’

  The silence that followed her words was filled with the sound of music and chatter. Royce ignored it all. So did Shara.

  He thrust his wallet closer. ‘Take it. Look at it. Because you will be leaving with me.’

  She sighed and snatched the wallet from his hand.

  Shara’s head bowed as she examined his licence intently. Royce stared at the luxurious fall of raven-black hair that fell about her shoulders and resisted the urge to reach out and stroke it.

  ‘Royce as in the Royce?’ she asked, looking up from his wallet and giving him a suspicious look.

  ‘At your service,’ Royce acknowledged, holding out his hand.

  She eyed his hand as if it was a snake he was extending to her, then with obvious reluctance placed her hand in h
is.

  They both felt what happened next.

  Royce just wasn’t sure how to explain it.

  It reminded him of the zap of static electricity that built up on your shoes on a windy day that zapped your hand the minute you touched something metallic.

  Only it wasn’t that.

  It also reminded him of the pins and needles you got when you accidentally fell asleep on your arm.

  Only it wasn’t quite like that either.

  It was just a …

  Well, it was just a sensation—like an energy transfer of some kind.

  No doubt there would be a scientific explanation for it if he bothered looking for one.

  Shara snatched her hand out of his, her wide eyes fixed on his face. ‘So. You … you own the Royce Agency?’ she asked, showing the first crack in her composure since they’d met.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Well, Mr Royce, I—’

  Royce shook his head. ‘It’s not Mr Royce. It’s just plain Royce.’

  Shara looked back down at the driver’s licence she still held. ‘It says A. Royce right here.’ She held up the wallet and pointed with a red-varnished nail to the small print. ‘That makes you Mr Royce.’

  Royce brushed aside the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. ‘Technically, I suppose it does. But as far as I’m concerned my father is Mr Royce. Everyone just calls me Royce.’

  ‘Why don’t they call you by your first name?’

  ‘Because I don’t like my first name,’ he explained calmly.

  ‘Why? What is it?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it is.’

  Royce felt as if they’d got way off track. ‘Well, are you satisfied that I am who I say I am?’

  She nodded. ‘I am, but I’m still not going with you.’

  Royce held on to his temper with difficulty. The fact that she’d rather stay here partying with this shallow crowd instead of honouring her father’s request told him a lot about her.

  Lack of respect. Selfishness.

  He could go on, but what was the point?

  It wouldn’t get the job done, and the job was the only thing that mattered.