‘In part.’
Her look was teasing. ‘Are we playing a guessing game?’
‘We can do,’ he murmured. ‘Let me guess what you’re doing in a village like this,’ he murmured.
‘You don’t like it here?’
‘It’s a far cry from the life you must have lived in Rome.’
‘Why do you say that?’
His eyes glittered and with effort he kept the disdain from his voice. ‘You’re a diSalvo,’ he said with the appearance of calm. ‘And this cottage is...not.’
She laughed again, a genuine sound of pleasure. ‘True.’
Then her eyes fixed on his and he let the silence surround them, aware it was affecting her as much as it was him.
‘I feel like I know you,’ she said finally, simply, with a sense of surrender that made his body tighten. ‘That’s crazy, isn’t it?’
Yes. It was. Everything about this was. She was a part of something he wanted, with all his being, to destroy, and yet in that moment all he could think about was her soft pillowy lips and how they’d feel beneath his. About the fact she was staring at him with huge eyes and her chest was heaving with the force of her breathing.
‘I must be losing my mind,’ she said, blinking her eyes as if waking from a dream. And then she sipped her wine before offering him a smile that was part self-deprecating and part the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. What the hell was he thinking, letting himself be so distracted by her, and the way the air around them seemed to crackle and hum? He’d come here with a purpose—a plan he’d set in motion long ago, and nothing was going to derail that.
‘My grandfather’s name was Enrique Herrera. Has your father ever mentioned him?’
She blinked, her huge blue eyes showing obvious confusion. Outside, the rain was falling heavier now but he was barely conscious of it. ‘No.’
That was strange. How could Amelia know nothing of a feud that had dominated both his and Carlo’s lives?
‘We weren’t big on tête-à-tête,’ she explained with a shrug of her slender shoulders that drew his attention to the fine, soft curve of her neck and the hint of cleavage revealed by her simple shirt. Then her eyes lifted to his and his body tightened, his arousal straining against his trousers.
Antonio had spent his adult life moving the pieces into place to destroy Carlo diSalvo, and this woman was a vital part of that. Only through her would he gain control of the one company he desperately wanted and finally avenge the feud that had destroyed his father. Only through appealing to her and then, if it came to it, blackmailing her, would he achieve his goal.
So why was he finding it impossible to sharpen his focus? Because he’d been celibate for months, he told himself. Because he’d been focused on easing his father’s last few months of life, and then mourning him appropriately. And now, on acquiring the company that would set all of this to rights.
‘My brother might know more about your grandfather,’ she said softly, her lips parted. They were beautiful lips—works of art. Pink and generous, and quick to smile. ‘Have you ever spoken to him about Enrique?’
Twice. But conversations with Carlo never ended well. Their hatred was mutual. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He frowned.
‘It must,’ she countered, leaning forward a little, and beneath the small coffee table her legs brushed his and his body throbbed with all the awareness that was taking over his mind and soul in that moment. ‘For you to have flown all the way here to ask me about him. Or was there something else you wanted to talk to me about?’
Madre de Dios. Antonio had built his company back from dust, he had single-handedly returned Herrera Incorporated to its position as a global powerhouse, and now this one woman was somehow threatening to bring him to his knees?
He stood abruptly and felt her gaze slide up his body. Hungrily. Needily. With the same kind of sensual curiosity that was powering the blood in his own veins.
He’d come to this quaint cottage in the middle of the countryside with one purpose in mind, but now that goal was at war with his body’s more immediate needs.
Desire rushed through him as he imagined, for a moment, what it would be like to possess her. Where he was tall and dark, she was fair, all peaches and cream and soft and gentle. Their contrasts fascinated him. What would it be like to lay claim to her body, to drive her wild with desire?
She was a diSalvo! How could he even be thinking like this?
He heard the rustle of clothes as she stood, and then her hand was on his shoulder, turning him to face her. ‘Antonio? Is something the matter?’
Everything was the matter! He was so close to bringing her family down, to destroying them as they’d sought to destroy his father, and this one woman was threatening his resolve.
‘What is it?’ she asked solicitously, her eyes running over his face.
Beautiful eyes in a face that was truly captivating, with long blonde hair he wanted to run his fingers through. He swallowed and then, finally, surrendered to this madness. She was so close, so enticing, and his body was screaming at him to act on his impulses—screw the consequences.
There would be time for revenge later. Afterwards.
With a fatalistic grimace, he lifted a hand and caught her cheek, holding her face steady beneath his. She gasped, her lips parting, a gentle sound of surrender.
And he took her surrender, and he surrendered alongside her.
Slowly, his voice husky, in his native Spanish tongue he murmured, ‘You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’
CHAPTER THREE
HIS WORDS WERE heavy in the air, mesmerising, and she could only stare at him, and his beautiful body. She could only stare at him, lost to this and him and whatever was happening.
‘I...’ She frowned, unable to form anything more intelligible. And then her hand was lifting slowly, almost as though it were dragging upwards, pulled by the sheer magnetic force of his body.
She pressed her fingers to his chest, swallowing at the instant bolt of recognition that juddered through her system. Her eyes jerked to his, uncertainty laced with desire, and her fingertips moved across his chest then up to his shoulder.
He made a throaty, groaning sound and then his head dropped forward, or perhaps she pushed up onto the tips of her toes. Whatever it was, on autopilot their lips were meshing, bodies fused together, his broad and hard, his strength emanating from him. His lips moved over hers and she made a gasp of surrender, opening her mouth so that he could deepen the kiss. His hand lifted to the back of her head, his fingers curving around her, holding her where she was so that he could explore her until she was incandescent with pleasure.
‘Antonio...’ She kissed his name into his mouth, deep into his soul, and felt him answer. Her world was being blasted apart by a simple kiss.
No, there was nothing simple about this—it was crazy and mad and she knew nothing about him, only his name and that their grandfathers had once been friends. And yet she was his for a song in that moment.
She didn’t care what had brought him to her door; she cared only that he was there, and that he wanted her as she did him. Desire—something she had never known nor understood, was rampant in her system now.
As if the heavens were ratifying her surrender to something as elemental as passion, a loud clap of thunder rumbled around the small cottage and a moment later a blade of lightning sliced the sky apart and the house was plunged into darkness. Not complete darkness—Amelia had strung fairy lights generously throughout and, powered by batteries, they offered a golden glow, faint but enough to see by.
He didn’t react to the power outage. But his hands roamed her body, running over her sides, finding the hem of her shirt and pushing it, so achingly slowly, up her body so that her skin was covered in goosebumps, her nipples tight against the simple cotton of her bra. He broke the kiss, pulling away from her just long enough to rip her shirt
over her head and she pushed her arms skywards at the same time, as fevered as he. In that brief moment of separation their eyes met and something passed between them—an understanding, a commitment to this, come what may—and then he was kissing her again, this time dragging his mouth from her lips to her throat, flicking her with his tongue so that she whimpered with the strength of sensations he was stirring.
He pushed at his own shirt as his mouth claimed hers, dispensing with the fabric confines so his chest was bare.
Her fingers ran over his body without meaning or intent, certainly without forethought, and then her hands found his trousers and, of their own accord, her fingers were loosening his belt buckle then moving to the button and zip, pushing at them while his kiss held her body utterly captive. He stood out of his trousers as she pushed at them, and then her hands were curving around his naked buttocks, feeling his warmth in a way that was elemental and ancient.
He made a growling noise of awareness and dropped his hands to her back, pulling her hard against him so she could feel the strength of his arousal for herself. Surprise made her eyes flare wide and she swallowed, but then he was kissing her again, and now he lifted her as though she weighed nothing and she wrapped her legs around his waist and he rolled his hips so that his erection found her feminine heart, the pressure through the fabric of her jeans enough to make her cry out at what was to come.
He whispered words in Spanish and then he eased her to the ground, just for a moment, so he could retrieve his wallet from his trousers. He pulled out a condom. No, condoms, she corrected with pink cheeks, and she opened her mouth, knowing she needed to say something, to tell him that she was a virgin, because she was sure he wouldn’t enjoy discovering that fact for himself. But then his hands came to her jeans and he was unfastening them, pushing them down her legs, and he crouched in front of her and brought his mouth to her inner thigh and she was lost again. She tangled her fingers in his hair, throwing her head back as he kissed her legs.
And then he dragged her simple cotton briefs down her body and she was complicit, stepping out of them. In the back of her mind, in the small part of her brain that was still capable of rational thought, she was surprised by how unselfconscious she was. She was almost naked in front of him and she didn’t care.
He brought his mouth to the apex of her thighs and flicked his tongue against her womanhood and now Amelia cried out louder, harder, as pleasure licked through her like wild flames. She said his name over and over again, and her fingers ran faster through his hair before dropping to his shoulders and holding on tight. Pleasure was a rollercoaster and she was buckled in, riding it harder and faster, unable to stop the rush of momentum—not wanting to either.
His mouth drove her over the edge and she cried out as an explosion of delight, unlike anything she’d ever imagined, much less known, blew away the last vestiges of any idea that she might not be a sexual being. If this was sex, she could easily become an addict.
But there was no time to recover. He was straightening, lifting himself up, and in one movement he snaked a hand behind her back and unclasped her bra, and she pushed out of it at the same time. His head came crashing down to her breasts, his lips moving from one nipple to the next, circling her sensitive flesh, and desire was rampant in her bloodstream, running like a pack of leopards through her system.
She heard the opening of the condom and felt his hands move against her stomach and something, some thought, was pushing at her brain, but she couldn’t catch it. Pleasure was her all—nothing mattered beyond the feelings he was invoking. She was a wildling, abandoned completely to this, and only this.
His hands on her hips were strong and commanding; he lifted her easily and, in her tiny kitchen, he pressed her against the wall and she cried his name, ‘Please, please, please,’ begging him for a release she couldn’t articulate beyond knowing that it was a necessity.
His eyes, glowing in the soft light, burned into hers for several beats. ‘You want this.’ It was a statement but it dragged her out of the drugging haze of desire, if only for a second. He needed an answer.
An answer beyond her constant begging?
‘Yes,’ she groaned. ‘Oh, God, yes, please, Antonio. I need this.’
And his dark eyes sparked with something new, something like relief and determination, and he moved his body forward and brought her down on his length in one swift, possessive movement.
She froze as the invisible barrier of her innocence was taken by him, and stiffened as an unwelcome and sharp pain pushed all pleasure aside.
He swore in Spanish, sensing what had happened, and she winced, and then his eyes held hers and he whispered softer words, Spanish words, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her from the wall, holding her tight, keeping himself inside her and holding her close to him as the pain subsided.
Pleasure returned and it was different and more demanding than before, because he was inside her and muscles she hadn’t known she possessed were being stretched and taunted and desire was being stirred that demanded an answer.
‘Please,’ she said again and he lifted a hand to her cheek, curving it in his palm.
‘You are sure, querida?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded.
And, with a look she couldn’t interpret, he began to move again, softly this time, gently, and he pressed her against the wall, and he kissed her as his body stirred her back to fever pitch, and he watched her as she blew apart for a second time, this time in his arms and with his erection deep inside her.
And then he eased her back to the ground, her feet on the floor, but only for a second. He scooped down and lifted her, cradling her to his chest as he carried her upstairs, along the hallway. The lighting here was dimmer than downstairs; she had only a few strings of lights on the landing. He looked in one room first—her study—and the next was her bedroom, and apparently there was sufficient light for him to make out at least the shape of the bed. He strode in, laying her down on the mattress gently, then standing. She could just make out the silhouette of his body in the darkness of the house.
Her breath was rushed and she was grateful there was no lighting, glad he wouldn’t be able to see the tangle of emotions swirling in her eyes.
‘You should have told me,’ he said simply, but there was no recrimination in the words, only regret. And then he brought his body over hers and his lips caught hers, and he kissed her as his arousal found its way to her core once more. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he pushed inside her and she groaned as pleasure already began to build anew.
‘Your first time should not be with a man you hardly know,’ he said, but she barely heard. The words were hoarse and she was way beyond logical, rational thought. When he kissed her his tongue duelled with hers in time with his body’s possession of hers and this time, when she found release, he came with her, holding her tight, kissing her, passion saturating them both.
He stayed where he was, inside her, straddling her, but sat straighter; it was impossible to discern anything in his features owing to the blackness of her room.
But his hands found hers and his fingers weaved through hers, holding her, reassuring her.
‘I had no idea,’ he said.
‘I know that.’ Now that the bright burst of passion had receded, she had room to feel self-conscious. Not regret, not remorse, only a desire that she’d been better able to meet him on a level of experience closer to his. ‘I probably should have told you.’
She was glad it was dark and that he couldn’t see her blush and that she couldn’t see his face—and the irritation she was sure would be there.
‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. ‘If only so I could have made it perfect for you.’
She lifted her hands to his chest, running her fingers over his muscles thoughtfully. ‘That was perfect,’ she promised. ‘I had no idea...’
His laugh was soft and, inside her,
he jerked with the movement and she let out a soft moan as embers of pleasure began to stir anew.
‘I mean it,’ she repeated huskily. ‘I never really got the whole sex thing.’
At that he sobered and when he spoke his voice was husky. ‘I’m surprised to hear it.’
He might have meant it as a general throwaway comment, but that was unlikely. He came to her that night knowing who she was, knowing her name, because their grandfathers had been friends. He knew more about her than she did him, and that certainly included knowledge of her mother and her behaviour. ‘I think lots of people expect me to be just like her,’ she said with a small shrug. ‘And I’m not.’
‘You didn’t want to be,’ he clarified gently, and he pulled away from her and rolled them at the same time, so she made a squawking sound of surprise. He held her close to his body, tucked in one arm, and she relaxed against him. His fingers stroked down her back and she sighed softly. New pleasures were vibrating inside her.
‘No,’ Amelia agreed, hating that it still felt like a betrayal to admit that.
‘You haven’t dated?’
‘Of course I have,’ she was compelled to declare, hating what a novice she was! His fingers paused in their stroking for a moment before resuming their leisurely trail along her back. ‘But never seriously, never for long.’ She shrugged against his side. ‘Whereas you, I imagine, have a long list of ex-girlfriends.’
‘Not really,’ he said, surprising her. ‘I don’t really date.’
Of course. How gauche of her. ‘Lovers, then.’
He laughed. ‘Enough,’ he agreed after a moment.
She bit down on her lip. ‘But I bet it’s been a long time since you were with a virgin.’
‘I’ve never been with a virgin,’ he said simply. ‘Not even my first time.’
She blinked at that confession. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah.’
So she was his first? She couldn’t explain it, but she liked that. It was as though they’d both shared a new experience together, and it meant more to her than it should.
Spaniard's Baby of Revenge Page 3
