‘What...guy...?’
The words were gasped between her teeth and he pulled away, moving his tongue to her inner thigh so she flinched as he kissed her sensitive flesh there, and she ached for him to bring his mouth back to her sex, back to the very core of her being.
‘After the show, in the grey shirt.’
‘Tim?’ He was a hands-on, flirty guy in general, but they’d only ever been friends. ‘No.’ It was a groan. Now his hand moved to her flesh, his finger pushing inside her so that she bucked again, lifting her hips in an instinctive welcome to his proximity.
‘No?’ His finger swirled and she whimpered low in her throat.
‘He’s...just a friend.’
‘So who was he, then?’
‘Who?’
‘The other guy.’
She dropped her hands to his hair, running them through it, pleasure like a blade pressing against her. ‘Please.’ The word fell from her lips.
He relented, running his tongue over her womanhood so that pleasure filled her, release close at hand. But his question hovered on the periphery of her mind and a tumbling sense of shame rolled through her.
She’d lied to him. It had been a moment of silly pride, an embarrassment, a desire not to have him think that he’d been the sum total of her sexual experience. In the heat of the moment, she’d thrown it at him to unsettle him, but now she wished she hadn’t. She wished she’d owned her inexperience without apology.
‘Was he good, Jemima?’
The question made no sense. His tongue slid over her nerve endings; she groaned.
‘Did he make you shout his name?’
She shook her head, needing to deny this, to tell him she’d made it up.
‘Don’t...he...it wasn’t...’
And then he was bringing his body higher, his eyes latching to hers, his expression like thunder. ‘On second thought, perhaps I don’t want to hear about him.’
Cesare entered her then, swift and intent, and she cried his name into the room, but he kissed her, swallowing the words, his mouth hypnotising.
Their bodies moved in unison, the possession mutual, the insanity all-encompassing, and they exploded as one, satiation enveloping them both, filling them both and tearing them apart all at once. He rolled off her, his breathing loud, and she pushed up to study him, her own pulse still tearing through her. She was out of breath—her fierce desire had pushed it all from her system—but she needed him to hear her, to understand.
She couldn’t say why it mattered, but not being honest with him felt completely counter-intuitive. ‘I didn’t sleep with anyone else.’
He rolled his head towards hers, his expression giving little away.
She found it hard to meet his eyes but she kept speaking, not backing down from the decision she’d made, from what she knew to be the right thing. ‘You were so arrogant and self-assured, and I hated the fact you thought you could click your fingers and I’d come running, so I made it up.’ Heat bloomed in her cheeks. ‘I didn’t think you’d care, anyway. I definitely didn’t think you’d ever bring it up again.’
His finger lifted her chin so her eyes were forced to meet his.
‘I’m the only man you’ve ever been with?’
The masculine arrogance of that question was obvious and she rolled her eyes in response. ‘Yes.’
His grin was her reward. Sexy, arrogant, devilish. ‘You are mine,’ he said simply, and her heart did a funny little two-step.
‘I’m not anyone’s,’ she countered, and the words felt strange in her mouth, her tongue reluctant to frame them.
‘You are mine,’ he said again, and this time she didn’t bother denying it. ‘For now, at least.’
CHAPTER NINE
HE DIDN’T WANT to be in his office.
He pushed up from the desk, pacing to the window, his mind full of Jemima. Full of her confession earlier that day.
‘I didn’t sleep with anyone else.’
Hell, he felt like he was floating. She was all his. He was the only man she’d been with. It shouldn’t have mattered—he hated that it did—and he knew he had to ignore the rush of pleasure that was pounding through him now. Two weeks had somehow whittled down to five nights. Soon he would let her go, watch her walk away and know it to be the end.
He looked around his office, a sombre expression on his face. He travelled often—it wasn’t as though he lived in this one single office—yet here in Rome was his headquarters, and it tethered him.
To take time off, to spend that time with Jemima, was foreign and unpalatable and yet his body craved her—he craved her. It wasn’t about wanting her, though, so much as about giving himself every opportunity to get her out of his system. Frankly, he was surprised that hadn’t already happened. Usually, two or three nights with the same woman was more than enough. The first flare of passion was met, answered, satiated and disposed of and then his interest waned.
He’d never wanted a woman like this.
He’d never woken up craving someone to the point of distraction. He’d never struggled to keep his mind on his day, his meetings, his work. He controlled his thoughts with ruthless determination, always, but this time it was harder. With Jemima, it was harder.
Damned near impossible, in fact.
He had to work harder, that was all. He compartmentalised all aspects of his life. Grief from the loss of his mother lived inside him, but tucked away in a small space he rarely accessed. So too did childish hurt from being made to feel as a young boy that he hadn’t been good enough. Wanting Jemima was simply another box he would have within him, and the same discipline he brought to all aspects of his life would mean he wasn’t beholden to it.
Not after this week was up.
It was a resolution that stayed with him all day until he returned to the penthouse, saw her and felt a rush of longing that refused to be shaped. It infiltrated every cell of his body and overtook him entirely.
She was standing in the middle of the kitchen, except it would be more accurately described as a disaster zone. Smoke filled the space, despite the fact the doors to the balcony were thrown wide open, a bag of something like flour had spilled over the bench top, there was a broken bowl at her feet and, when she lifted her gaze to his face, her cheeks were beautifully flushed, her eyes wide.
‘Don’t say a thing,’ she muttered darkly, words that were somewhat belied by the rueful smile on her lips.
His own mouth lifted in response. ‘Doing a little redecorating?’
She poked her tongue out at him and another wave of need assaulted his body.
‘For your information, this was a nice gesture,’ she muttered.
‘Burning my hotel down?’
Her head jerked towards his again. ‘Your hotel?’
He stepped farther into the room, shrugged out of his jacket and placed it neatly on the hook by the door. ‘You didn’t like the decor?’ he teased without answering her question.
She rolled her eyes. ‘I was making dinner.’ She eyed the bench in dismay. ‘I don’t know where I went wrong. I followed the recipe, but then I knocked the bowl, and while I was cleaning that up I neglected the oven and...’ She shook her head. ‘Stop smirking like that. I’ll have you know I’m actually a halfway decent cook in my own kitchen. I just couldn’t find anything and—’
‘Decided dropping a bag of flour would help in some way?’
She laughed, tossing her head back so her blonde hair fluffed around her face. He stood very still, watching her, imprinting the view of her like this in his mind. It was somehow contrary to every preconception he had of Jemima Woodcroft.
‘The flour had a mind of its own.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded sagely. ‘I have heard of spontaneous grain combustion.’
‘Right? It’s totally a thing.’
‘Naturally.’ He gr
inned, holding a hand out to her. She moved around the bench after a slight hesitation, putting hers in his. She was so petite. He felt like a giant compared to her, so big, broad and oversized.
‘I wanted to do something nice.’ She grimaced.
The words held alarm. He didn’t want ‘nice’. That wasn’t what this was about. He didn’t particularly deserve nice, given that he’d blackmailed her into becoming his mistress. Worse than that, he’d lied about his level of interest in the hedge fund, intentionally concealing the fact he knew Laurence had inadvertently bought into the next big thing at ground level. ‘Nice’ didn’t seem right.
‘Why?’
She hadn’t been expecting the question. Her face clouded with uncertainty. ‘I don’t know. I just thought...something different.’
He looked around the smoke-filled penthouse, quashing down the feelings her admission had aroused. He couldn’t remember the last time someone other than a chef had cooked for him. Nor could he recall anyone, other than his mother, doing something ‘nice’ for him.
‘We can’t eat here,’ he said after a moment. ‘We’ll go out.’
She looked over her shoulder. ‘I guess we’ll have to. Just give me a minute to clean.’
‘Housekeeping will take care of it.’ He squeezed her hand then dropped it, taking a step back, physically putting distance between them as emotionally he did the same. ‘Let’s go.’
The restaurant, right on the water, was one Jemima was familiar with. She’d come here several times, usually after a film festival event or following a shoot. It was the preferred haunt of models, actresses, billionaires—anyone who was anyone in Cannes came here to eat, drink, dance and be seen. Which meant there was a slew of paparazzi out the front, waiting for their next pay-cheque photo.
She was prepared for it, but still she stiffened for a moment as the lenses clicked and the flashes exploded. Her smile was instinctive, so too her body language. She had been in the industry long enough to know how to walk in such a way as to avoid giving an unflattering angle shot. Cesare, beside her, barely seemed to notice the photographers’ attention.
Except, of course, he had noticed, as he did everything, and when they were seated a little while later he regarded her in that way he had, so watchful, so perceptive. ‘You don’t like being photographed.’
It wasn’t a question. His observation sparked surprise inside her. ‘I’m a model. It kind of goes with the territory.’
‘I mean by paparazzi. You flinched outside.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘I felt it. I saw it. No one else would have noticed, but I was right beside you, and I did. You don’t like being photographed.’
‘I don’t like the paparazzi,’ she corrected, reaching for her drink and taking a sip. ‘I don’t like being photographed when I’m doing something as mundane as walking or grocery shopping or going for dinner.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘I don’t like being chased through the streets when I’m going for a run or discovering my mail’s been opened in the hope they’ll find something scandalous. Do you know where one of those fake pregnancy stories came from?’ she asked curtly, her lips compressed.
He shook his head a little, silently encouraging her to continue. ‘I fell over and sprained my wrist. The doctor wanted to make sure there wasn’t a break, so he sent me to get it X-rayed. At a place that also did ultrasounds. The invoice was sent to my home address, a nosy pap saw the name and the next thing I knew I was pregnant. With twins.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘So, yeah, it does make me a little wary, but I also understand it’s just a part of my life.’
‘I don’t think people going through your mail should ever be a part of your life, irrespective of what you do for a living.’
‘No,’ she agreed, her anger simmering in her body. ‘I hated that. To have your parents read that kind of story...’ As if they hadn’t already been through enough!
He was quiet for so long, she presumed he’d moved on. She turned her attention to the menu, reading it quietly, thinking ruefully of the badly burned dinner back at the hotel.
‘Do you dislike it enough to change professions?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure I could change professions. There’s nothing else I’m trained for, and I don’t know if there’s anything else I’d be good at.’
‘Your parents must have had misgivings about your chosen career?’
‘I was fifteen,’ she said with a terse shake of her head. ‘They didn’t really have much choice in the matter.’ It was too much. She was betraying herself, her parents, the truth of her history. She pasted a bright smile on her face. She didn’t want to talk to Cesare about her life. Not because it was secret but because it was sad and she didn’t want to bring that into their evening.
‘Anyway, I’m really fortunate. It’s not an easy industry to survive in and I’m established enough now not to have to worry about my financial security. I’m pretty much guaranteed to get jobs and earn well.’
‘Not that you need to,’ he inserted silkily, and again she detected the faintest hint of mockery in the simple statement.
She kept her lips sealed. He obviously thought she was some incredibly wealthy heiress, and she couldn’t really blame him for having formed that opinion. Her lineage was as it was, and Almer Hall was hardly the kind of house one owned without being wealthy enough to support it.
He could have no way of knowing how the inheritance tax had depleted her parents’ capital—how Cameron’s death had killed her father’s career so that for a long time there was no money coming in and enormous bills piling up. He couldn’t have known that the promise of lucrative modelling income was the only way a teenage Jemima could see of ensuring her parents—and she—kept the roof over their heads.
There was no trust fund waiting for her when she turned twenty-five. And despite her years of excellent earning, there was no safety net of savings for a rainy day. Laurence’s hedge fund was the only hope she had that things would one day seem a little easier.
‘What about you, Cesare?’ She turned the conversation back to him as a way of preventing any more questions about her life and work. ‘You could retire now and yet you don’t.’
He laughed. ‘Why would I retire?’
‘You could afford to,’ she pointed out.
‘Sì.’ He appeared to mull this over. ‘But I would grow bored.’
‘Surely you’d find a hobby?’
‘A waste of time,’ he said with clear condemnation.
‘Why?’
‘You think I should waste my time with—what?—orchid-growing? Golf? When I have the ability to do what I do?’
‘I think there’s more to life than work,’ she said after a moment’s consideration. ‘Don’t you?’
His shake of the head was slow and purposeful. ‘That would depend on the individual.’
‘And you don’t want more than this.’
‘Than what?’ His watchfulness intensified.
‘Than being a workaholic.’
‘Is that what I am?’
She lifted a brow. ‘You work seven days a week—unless you’re just doing that now to avoid spending your days with me,’ she added, a loop of uncertainty rocking her a little.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I haven’t changed anything because of you.’
She was sure he didn’t mean the words to be hurtful, but for some reason they were. It was simply further evidence of how little this relationship was going to impact him; how little it mattered.
‘I work seven days a week, and have for as long as I can remember. I can’t see that there’s anything wrong with this.’
‘You don’t think?’ She sipped her mineral water thoughtfully.
‘You disagree?’
‘Well...’ Beneath the table, she crossed one leg over the other, unintentionally brushing his calf with
the toe of her shoe. ‘It doesn’t seem like you have much...balance.’
‘Balance is a fashionable word invented to give people a free pass to slack off.’
She stared at him, gobsmacked.
‘Next you’ll be suggesting I take up yoga.’
The idea was so ludicrous that she burst out laughing, shaking her head simultaneously. ‘Actually,’ she said when her laugh had subsided, ‘Bikram is incredibly good for you. Relaxing, physically demanding, clarifying.’
‘Perhaps you could show me,’ he murmured, the words layered with sensual heat, so her insides squirmed and her breath grew shallow.
‘Perhaps.’ The word rushed out of her as images of his body, naked and contorting into whatever shape she wanted, filled her mind. She swallowed to clear her throat, but his eyes were teasing now and she flushed to the roots of her hair, the transparency of her thoughts something she wished she was better able to conceal from him.
‘Don’t you ever get lonely?’ The question left her lips before she could analyse her reason for asking it.
‘No.’
She contemplated that for a moment. ‘I would. If I was you.’
‘I like to be alone.’ His voice had a rich, deep timbre. ‘And when I want company, I find some.’
Jealousy tore through her. She blinked down at the table, surprised by the potency of her reaction. ‘Of course.’
‘I’m far more interested in how a woman like you lived a celibate life.’
Fortunately, a waiter’s appearance saved her from answering. They placed their order and, by the time they were alone again, she was armed with another topic of conversation, something much more banal and light, something safely distanced from anything too personal.
It felt good to keep things on easy ground. She liked talking to him, listening to him, and as long as they stayed away from anything to do with other lovers, or their personal lives, she could actually relax and enjoy the evening. It wasn’t until they’d finished their coffees and petits fours that a sense of uneasiness crept back in.
Redemption Of The Untamed Italian (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 11
