She’d been to Cannes many times and to this hotel, though never to the penthouse. This expansive, stunning living area—stretching the entire footprint of the hotel—was beyond her wild imaginings. Decadent in the French rococo style, with ornate pieces of antique furniture, it was sumptuous and romantic.
The word breathed its way through her mind and she quickly muted it. There was nothing romantic about this. He’d thrown her out of his home, more or less, when he’d realised she’d been a virgin, and a month later he’d propositioned her right back into his bed. Romantic? Ha!
She strode through the double-height living room, with its floor-to-ceiling glass windows framing a view of the moonlit French Riviera in one direction, with boats lit golden and bobbing on the gentle waves, and in the other of this beautiful, billionaire’s playground—equally glamorous hotels, and shops that made this part of the world so renowned.
For Jemima, though, the pleasure in Cannes had always been in the gardens.
The city was—and had been for a long time—home to some of the world’s wealthiest residents, and the public gardens were a testament to that. Jemima could lose hours alone in the Jardin des Oliviers, wandering the olive grove, finding her way onto the perfectly lush grass and sitting people-watching, a large hat and sunglasses the perfect disguise to avoid being easily spotted here, where people were well-trained in picking out the celebrities in their midst.
It was a warm, sultry evening and the wind that lifted off the Bay of Cannes was fragranced with salt. She breathed it in deeply, trying to calm the furious beating of butterfly wings against her belly.
The money had cleared the day before. Laurence had been like a new man—the stress he’d carried for over a year dissipating completely. ‘It’s going to be okay, Jem. It’s really going to be okay.’
And maybe he was right. If the hedge fund returned to the black, then it would mean relief was at hand for Almer Hall, and the enormous debts that encumbered the property. Perhaps, after a decade of fretting about the state of the grand old home and the burden of keeping it in the family, things were finally going to get easier.
The sound of a door clicking had Jemima spinning where she stood in time to see Cesare enter. For the first time since they’d met, he wasn’t wearing a suit. Instead, he was casually dressed in dark denims and a pale-blue polo shirt, the collar lifted a little in a way she suspected was a result of movement rather than a contrived attempt at fashion.
His eyes swept the room and landed on her almost as though he hadn’t expected her to be there. The second he saw her, he began to move, his body striding towards her as if on autopilot. She stood where she was and all she could think was that she must look like a deer in the headlights. She spent her life projecting an image—she was paid well to do exactly that—but there was something about this man that made it hard for her to act as she meant.
‘Hello.’ The word emerged soft and husky.
He stopped short, as if waking from a dream. ‘Jemima.’ A muscle jerked in his jaw as he regarded her with eyes that showed an unmistakable hunger. He swept his gaze over her face, and she was glad she’d dressed up, glad she’d worn her usual armour. A face with the minimum of make-up and a body in a killer dress. Brightly coloured with spaghetti straps, long and floaty, it was somehow sexy without being obvious, and she loved it. His eyes roamed her body in a way it didn’t occur to her to mind because her gaze was indulging its own feast, devouring him limb by limb until, satiated, she drew her attention back to his face.
‘Here I am,’ she murmured. ‘One mistress, reporting as ordered.’
‘Bought and paid for?’
‘Not quite.’ She heard the cultured tones creep into her voice and saw his eyes flash with something like contempt.
‘Did you speak to your cousin?’
She nodded slowly. ‘He’s very pleased.’
Satisfaction crossed Cesare’s face. ‘I can imagine.’ He lifted a hand then, his eyes boring into hers in a way she found impossible to look away from. ‘Five hundred million pounds, and likely the need for more in six months.’
It was so much money. The idea that he’d paid that simply to get her back into bed was a strange realisation to grapple with. On the one hand, it was completely flattering—she had no doubt he could have, and had had, any woman he wanted. But it was also troubling, because it was a fortune to gamble if Laurence didn’t know what he was doing.
‘I’m sure it will return well for you.’ Her voice didn’t ring with conviction.
‘We’ll see.’ His hands dropped to her shoulders, to the straps there, pushing at them slowly, his expression droll, his eyes holding a silent challenge. ‘You’re over-dressed.’
Her heart skidded through her chest; her eyes slowly lifted to his as desire slammed into her. ‘Am I?’
‘I’d prefer you to spend the next two weeks naked,’ he said, a hint of amusement in the words.
The very idea of being naked in this hotel, waiting for him, existing for their coming together, filled her with an all-over rush of heat that engulfed her soul in flames.
‘And you’d be naked too, I presume?’ she responded acerbically, and was rewarded with a smile. A true smile that shifted his whole expression and made her heart thump harder.
‘Certamente.’
She hadn’t worn a bra under the dress, so when he pushed the straps farther and it slipped to the ground she stood before him in a lace thong and stiletto heels, her hair tumbling about her shoulders.
Cesare took a couple of steps back, his eyes traversing her body with impunity, lingering on the curve of her breasts, the swell of her hips. Everywhere he looked her skin seemed to tingle, as though it was his fingertips dragging across her slowly, feeling her, touching her.
When he lifted his attention to her face, there was accusation in his expression, a look of resentment that made no sense. But it was gone again so quickly that she wondered if she’d imagined it. His cheekbones were slashed with dark colour, just as they’d been in his office when he’d reined in their explosive passion.
She didn’t want him to rein in anything now.
‘You’re wearing clothes,’ she pointed out huskily.
His nod was slow. ‘Perhaps you should do something about that.’
Her throat felt thick and dry. She stepped out of the fabric of her dress that was pooled at her feet, then kicked off her heels, conscious that she lost a vital few inches in the process, padding barefoot across the room to where he stood not far from her.
Up close, memories slammed into her, the kind of memories that were carried by scent and hormone, so that with every breath he tantalised her and reminded her of what they’d shared.
It was ridiculous to feel shy, but she did—or rather, unfamiliar, because she’d never undressed a man before. Though she’d been surrounded by enough naked men to barely even notice when a bare chest or bottom wandered past, given her line of work, it felt strangely intimate to curl her fingers into the fabric of his shirt and lift it from his body.
Her fingertips trailed across his sides, muscles bunching beneath her touch, until she reached his underarms and had to stand up onto the tips of her toes to lift the shirt the rest of the way. It brought her body close to his, her breasts against his hair-roughened chest, her nipples tightening in immediate response. They were so sensitive, aching for his touch, for his mouth; all over, she ached for him.
She dropped the shirt to the ground, her breath hoarse as she turned her attention to his trousers. Her fingers fumbled on the button and she bit back a curse, moving more slowly, forcing herself to concentrate.
But her fingers weren’t cooperating. With a groan of frustration, she dropped to the zip instead, pushing it lower and then attacking the button. It worked. Hallelujah. His jeans opened, but it was all too much. She felt as if her nerves were vibrating out of her body. She walked behind h
im instead, pushing his trousers down from behind, glad for the reprieve from his ever-watchfulness, glad for a moment to regroup.
She crouched down, pushing his jeans to the floor, and he stepped out of them at the same time he turned around to face her. Her clever plan to rediscover her sanity was a complete failure, because she found herself at eye height with his unmistakable arousal. Her eyes lifted to his, uncertainty in them, and he held his hands out towards her. She hesitated for the briefest moment and then put hers in his so he could pull her up, guiding her body towards his.
Their faces were so close, their lips separated by only an inch or two. He stared down at her and her stomach squeezed with anticipation; she felt a rush of adrenalin and a spike of desire. She needed to kiss him. Her body lifted up, her mouth now just a hair’s width from his, hunger consuming her.
‘I’m not naked yet.’ He growled the words, so it felt as though he’d breathed them against her.
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘You’re not.’ Her hands slid into the waistband of his boxer shorts, pushing at the cotton, curving over his buttocks as she guided them from his body. He stepped out of the fabric and brought his body hard against hers in one manoeuvre. She gasped at the feel of his hardness against her belly.
‘And now, your turn,’ he murmured, crouching down as he removed her thong. She put a hand on his shoulder as she moved her feet from the elastic.
‘Do you know what I’ve been thinking about since that afternoon in my office?’
‘No,’ she squeaked as his hands gripped her thighs, moving them a little wider.
‘You. And all the ways I plan on making you explode.’ His smile was devilish, arrogant, cocky, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
‘I have been thinking about you here...’ He pressed a finger to her sex, and she shivered, her body convulsing at the lightest touch. ‘About touching you here...’ He flicked his fingers over the most sensitive cluster of nerves at her opening and she gasped. ‘And here.’ He pushed a finger inside her wet core and she moaned loudly, the hand she’d curved around his shoulder digging in, her nails scoring his naked flesh without meaning to.
‘I have been thinking about tasting you here,’ he murmured, his eyes lifting to hers, giving her a chance to object, to say something—anything. But she didn’t. She simply stared down at his dark head as he pushed forward and ran his tongue along her seam.
Her body reacted fiercely to the unfamiliar possession, so his hands lifted to her hips to steady her, which helped a little. At first. But, as his exploration grew more intense and pleasure began to overtake her entire body, she couldn’t stop trembling. Wave after wave of pleasure was making her shake. She dug both hands into his shoulders and surrendered to it completely.
Pleasure built and then she was tumbling off the edges of the earth, falling deep into its core where the heat finally matched that within her body. Her eyes sprang open and she stared out at the ocean, the bobbing boats, the ancient moon, the dark sea, and she felt the strangest sense of relief, of pleasure. And, inexplicably, of rightness.
CHAPTER SIX
HE WAS GONE when she woke up—and no wonder. Jemima pushed back the covers, sitting bolt upright in the luxurious king-size bed, jolting her head towards the window. It was bright outside; warm, too.
‘What the heck?’ She turned back to her bedside table and reached for her phone, squinting a little as she read the time. It was almost ten! She hadn’t slept this late since—probably for ever.
Heat suffused her cheeks—was it any wonder she’d gone into a form of narcoleptic stasis? The things they’d done...all night. She moaned softly, memories slicing through her, warming her, and when she pushed to standing her body felt different. Sore, but in the most delicious way.
She luxuriated in a shower then pulled on a bikini and a flowing kaftan that had been a gift from a designer friend. When she moved into the kitchen in search of coffee, she saw a card propped against the machine, almost as if he’d known it would be the first thing she headed for in the morning.
Gone to work.
I’ll be back tonight.
Rest up—you’ll need it.
More heat in her cheeks. She read the card again and again, imbuing his husky accent over the words, and desire flared in her belly. She found a smile had stretched over her lips as she poured her coffee, and it didn’t drop throughout the rest of the morning.
It was a stunning summer’s day. Warm without being unbearable. By mid-afternoon, she was growing impatient to see Cesare. It was ridiculous—they’d made love all night. How could she want him again already?
She grabbed a towel and headed to the pool, determined to work off some of this energy with a swim.
It didn’t help. By late afternoon, she knew she needed to pull out the big guns. She changed into workout gear and hit the hotel gym, running ten kilometres before coming upstairs to shower.
She was cooling her heels in the most frustrating of ways.
As the sun began to dip in the sky, she made a cup of tea and settled herself on the sofa, intending to read a few chapters of her book. Without realising it, her eyes became heavy and then she was asleep, completely exhausted, so the sleep overtook her entire body, making her limbs heavy and her breathing soft.
She slept until a hand on her shoulder roused her.
‘Oh.’ She felt groggy. ‘What time is it?’
‘Seven.’
‘I fell asleep.’
His smile was reflexive. ‘Apparently.’ He ran a hand over her hair almost as though he couldn’t help himself and then dropped it to his side. ‘You were tired.’
‘Understatement.’
‘And now? Are you hungry?’
She blinked, pushing away the last few threads of sleep, and nodded once more. ‘Starving. I don’t think I’ve eaten today.’
Something like derision briefly flared in his features, then he was reaching for her hands, pulling her up to standing. ‘Then let’s remedy that.’
He took a step back, loosening the top button on his shirt to reveal the thick column of his throat. It was stupid—just a part of his body, a part of the body that everyone had, and yet the sight of his tanned expanse of flesh, the hint of hair she could see at the vee of his shirt, made her mouth go dry.
‘Shall we go out? Or eat in?’
‘Eat in,’ she said quickly without a moment’s thought, and then, embarrassed, hastened to add, ‘I can’t be bothered doing all the stuff.’ She gestured towards her face.
‘Stuff?’ He was already moving across the hotel to the phone in the kitchen.
‘You know—make-up, hair.’ She scrunched her nose up and his gaze lingered on her face a few seconds too long before he spoke into the phone in fluent French. Jemima had a passable knowledge of the language, but she couldn’t keep up with his rapid-fire dialogue.
He covered the receiver. ‘Anything you don’t eat?’
She shook her head.
He delivered a few more commands then placed the phone in the cradle.
‘So why bother?’
She blinked, not understanding.
‘With all the “stuff”.’ He mimicked her gesture, waving his hand over his face.
‘Oh.’ She moved towards the kitchen on autopilot—more specifically, towards him. A smile hinted at her lips, except it wasn’t really funny. ‘Have you ever read those blogs or magazines? You know the ones: “stars without make-up”?’
He lifted a brow. ‘What do you think?’
It was so ludicrous to imagine him scouring gossip websites or flicking through a glossy that she laughed.
‘Is there really such a thing?’ he prompted a moment later, reaching into the fridge and pulling out a bottle of wine. He poured two glasses then slid one across to her.
‘Oh, yeah, it’s a huge thing. I guess it’s reassuring to know that even celebr
ities can look like crap without all the effort.’
His scepticism was apparent.
‘Hey.’ She lifted the wine glass to her lips. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t start the idea. I’ve just been the focus of more than my fair share of articles.’
‘You?’ More scepticism.
‘Oh, yeah. Come on, you’ve read all the stuff. How else do you explain my three phantom pregnancies?’ She gestured towards her flat stomach. ‘Bad angles, awful lighting, coming straight from Bikram yoga—whatever. Photographers make more selling unflattering images than they do for the ones where I look like I’ve just stepped off a shoot.’
‘But you’re beautiful.’
Ridiculously, given that she was a highly paid model and didn’t go in for false modesty, her heart gave a little wobble at his praise.
‘Objectively speaking,’ he clarified, his tone no-nonsense. ‘You are a very beautiful woman. You could go down to the Croisette right now and be the most attractive woman there.’
‘Okay, stop!’ She laughed at the luxuriant praise. ‘I know you’re making that up. I’ve got chlorine in my hair and I’ve been for a run so I’m all sweaty.’
His eyes narrowed speculatively and heat buzzed through her veins, so she was only aware of the sound of her pulse in the silence that surrounded them. The longer he looked, the more she felt, and after a few seconds the smile dropped from her lips.
‘This isn’t vanity,’ she said with a small shrug. ‘It’s professional.’
‘Oh?’ He sipped his wine, his eyes holding hers over the rim of his glass.
‘I represent some of the most prestigious luxury brands in the world. There are all kinds of clauses in my contracts but, even if there weren’t, I take my job seriously. I feel an obligation to those companies—I’ve signed on to sell their brands and I do that best when I’m “Jemima Woodcroft”—not some beach-loving scruff.’ Besides, she couldn’t exactly afford to lose any of her endorsement deals. True, Laurence’s hedge fund might finally be out of trouble, and soon he’d be able to start helping with the exorbitant costs of Almer Hall, but until then she needed every penny she could scrape together.
Redemption Of The Untamed Italian (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 7
