by Heidi Rice
His wrist twisted to adjust the throttle and the engine roared louder.
“You’re gonna have to hold on tighter,” he shouted over his shoulder. “I don’t want you falling off on the ride up.”
Forced to agree, she edged along the seat and leaned into him. She pressed her face into the solid muscles of his spine and spread her legs even wider to reach far enough around him to flatten her hands on his abdomen. Washboard abs rippled like velvet-covered steel.
The bare skin of her inner thighs absorbed the subtle rasp of his suit pants.
The bike lurched forward and she tightened her grip reflexively. Tension rippled through his abs. Her breath shuddered out then jerked in again, filling her tortured lungs with a heady burst of his scent—the combination of soap and musk now mixed with the intoxicating scent of motor oil.
Every single one of her pulse points throbbed in unison as he weaved the motorbike down the deserted dock and then hit the single-track tarmac road etched into the cliff face.
The dock dropped away as they climbed the switchbacks at a steady speed. She noticed the canopy of stars above their heads, remarkably clear and bright in the night sky. And, despite her mind screaming at her not to, her body couldn’t seem to stop itself from relaxing into the hard line of his.
Cocooned against him, she absorbed the strength of his muscled back. He felt so sure and solid and unyielding, as if he were a Roman god and she were being kidnapped on the back of his winged horse.
Reaching the top of the cliff, the bike rumbled along a secluded path, fragrant with the heady scent of bougainvillea. The ethereal white of a Romanesque villa appeared.
Katie tried to deepen her breathing and focus on the horizon and the cluster of lights along the Sorrentine coastline in the distance—rather than the waves of hair brushing the back of Caine’s shirt collar, the subtle flex of his abdominal muscles beneath her palms or that delicious scent.
But her breathing remained choppy and shallow—because it wasn’t the serene beauty of the Tyrrhenian sea, the craggy magnificence of Capri’s limestone coves or even the hazy bulk of the peninsula in the distance that was making her light-headed.
It was the bossy, enigmatic and overwhelming man she was currently clinging on to.
CHAPTER THREE
KATIE AWOKE THE next morning in a tangle of bedclothes—her body still throbbing from a kaleidoscope of erotic dreams driven by the feel of Jared’s abs, warm and resilient beneath her fingertips, the scent of his hair in the breeze, the dropping sensation in her stomach as they’d climbed the switchbacks in the darkness.
She blinked at the sun shining through open doors on the far side of the luxurious room, bringing with it the aroma of honeysuckle and sea air.
The room was dominated by a four-poster draped with swathes of white linen. She vaguely remembered collapsing into the bed the night before, after sleepwalking through a shower in the lavishly tiled bathroom.
She spied a breakfast tray on a wrought-iron table on the balcony laden with exotic fruit and delicate pastries, steam rising from a pot of fresh coffee.
Her stomach growled in protest. Ignoring the subtle ache in her limbs and the sting in her feet, she hauled herself out of bed. Unable to find the dusty clothes she had folded on top of the dresser the night before, she dragged on the bathrobe she remembered discarding after last night’s shower.
She would have to face Caine eventually, but first she needed sustenance. And clothing.
Tearing off a corner of a flaky croissant, she took in the view from the room’s private balcony. A sparkling infinity pool nestled into a grove of lemon trees dominated the terraced gardens below. Trellised walkways covered with wisteria and bougainvillea vines bisected lawns edged with palm trees and wildflowers. The estate’s panoramic aspect was stunning, the vista of towering cliffs—the limestone crags accented with bursts of wildflowers and shrubs—perfectly juxtaposed with the deep, iridescent blue of the sea. Katie poured herself a cup of coffee and loaded it with cream and sugar, itching to capture the scene in watercolor. Or maybe gouache. How else could she do justice to all the textures and tones? The bright, vivid colors?
She tucked into her breakfast, contemplating the play of light, and wondering if she could simply hide away in the villa’s gardens and paint until her passport arrived.
But as the sun rose overhead, she let go of the dream. She would have to speak to Caine first, find her clothing and also contact her insurance company. Painting in the nude probably wasn’t a good idea, given the disturbing dreams that had kept her tossing and turning during the night.
A knock sounded on the bedroom door and her heart jumped into her throat.
“Come in,” she said, yanking the robe closed.
A maid appeared, and Katie’s heart settled back into her chest.
“Signorina Whittaker, you are finished with your breakfast?”
“Yes, thank you.” Katie forced a smile as the young woman walked onto the balcony. “Is Mr. Caine here?”
The woman smiled back as she cleared the breakfast dishes. “Signor Caine, he is at the resort.” Before Katie could assess the odd combination of relief and disappointment at the news, the maid added, “But the styllista, she waits for you.”
Styllista? “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.”
The maid nodded enthusiastically and gestured to the robe. “She is for your nuovi vestiti and pantaloni.”
New dresses and pants? Was she talking about a stylist? But she couldn’t afford a stylist. Or new clothes, yet.
“But I haven’t spoken to my insurance company?” Katie said to no one in particular because the maid simply ushered her off the balcony and toward the door of the suite.
“She waits, yes, you must go,” the girl said.
Grasping the robe tightly around her neck, Katie forced herself to leave the sanctuary of the bedroom.
The villa’s communal living area had been shrouded in darkness the night before as Katie had made her excuses to Caine and rushed to her room. Now flooded with midmorning light, the airy open-plan room made much more of an impression. As lavish but as simply furnished as the bedroom, a stylish seating area of dark leather couches surrounded a cavernous fireplace filled with a vase of fresh flowers. Marble floors led out onto a terrace framed by archways fashioned in white stucco. At one end of the terrace stood a large area obviously made for al fresco dining, the canopy draped in white linen which fluttered in the sea breeze.
Three women stood in the center of it, surrounded by rails of clothing and fabrics draped over the chairs and tables. It looked like an explosion in a designer boutique.
Before Katie could figure out what this all meant, one of the women spotted her and dashed over to greet her.
“At last, Signorina Whittaker, you are awake.” The compact and stylishly dressed middle-aged woman made Katie feel even more self-conscious about the lack of clothing she had on under her bathrobe. Taking her firmly by the arm, the woman led her onto the terrace and toward her two companions, talking a mile a minute in heavily accented but perfect English. “We have much to do and only a short time. For tonight’s ball, I have a selection of ready-to-wear from the shops in Ana Capri to chose from, as we do not have time to get a gown made. I think your coloring would work best with...”
Tonight’s ball? What the...?
Katie stumbled to a halt in front of the plethora of clothes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are. Or what you’re talking about?”
Her head literally spun, the array of colors and textures hurting her eyes.
“I am Donatella Regiano.” The woman pasted on an enthusiastic smile. “Signore Caine has hired me as your stylist. To arrange your new wardrobe, while you are on the island.” Her gaze took on an eager glint as it roamed over Katie. “You are very slender. I have several gowns that will look bellisima.”
She grasped Katie’s hand and lifted it for examination. “But we have much to do to prepare for tonight, yes?” She
spread her hand toward the two other women who hovered nearby, smiling with equal enthusiasm. “This is Marcella, who will handle your skin care and beauty needs,” the stylist said, indicating a young woman about Katie’s age armed with a large beautician’s case. “And this is Sophia, the island’s top hairstylist,” she continued. The other woman, whose expertly coiled hair draped down her back in corkscrew curls, bowed in greeting, making the brushes and combs in the tool-belt she wore clatter together.
Katie snatched her hand back, feeling overwhelmed. She hadn’t had a manicure in close to six months and had been hacking off her own hair when necessary since she’d left the US. So Caine had sicced the beauty police on her. The hollow stab of inadequacy was followed by a wave of panic.
She needed clothes, and she could see among the garments laid out an array of everyday wear—albeit designer stuff she doubted she could afford—but what ball was Donatella talking about? Was she supposed to be going to one...with Caine? She tried to recall the conversation they’d had in the launch’s cabin when he’d woken her from her sleep during the ride over. Had he mentioned this? Had she agreed to something she couldn’t remember while groggy and half-asleep?
“This hair is good.” Donatella plunged her fingers into the unruly blond fuzz on Katie’s head. She reeled off a barrage of instructions to Sophia in Italian. Katie started to feel under siege.
“Do not be concerned, we will not lose that wild quality,” Donatella added.
More Italian instructions were fired at the hairdresser, who nodded sagely.
“It is very attractive,” Donatella continued. Katie pressed her hands to her head to control the unruly locks, self-consciousness making her breakfast turn over in her belly. She’d always been a tomboy growing up and had never felt comfortable with this kind of attention. It was one of the reasons she’d never settled into a career as a model, the hours of makeup and styling always having left her feeling like an impostor in her own skin.
“It makes a statement, I think.” Donatella’s smile became mischievous. “That you will be as wild and willful in bed, tempting any man to tame you. Especially a man such as Signor Caine, no?” the woman added with a confidential wink as if they shared a naughty secret.
Realization hit.
Donatella thought she and Caine were lovers, that she was his mistress. Hot color scorched her chest and rose up her neck to fire across her cheeks.
Had Caine said as much to these women? Why on earth would he do that?
But the indignation she wanted to feel was incinerated as the erotic dreams which had tortured her during the night slammed into her.
Her thighs trembling with the powerful purr of the motorbike’s engine, her sex yearning for Caine’s expert touch. Her fingertips burning to explore the ridged strength of Caine’s abdominal muscles. Her tongue thirsting to lick the tanned skin of his nape and kiss the sensitive hollow beneath his ear lobe.
“Signor Caine è molto sexy, si?” Marcella sent her a congratulatory smile, obviously misunderstanding the color now running riot over her face.
Panic and mortification consumed her at her visceral reaction to him now and all through the night. She tightened the belt on the robe and struggled to control the inferno blazing inside her.
“What is wrong, Signorina Whittaker?” Donatella had stopped smiling.
“Nothing, I just...” She paused, humiliated beyond belief. “I need to speak to Mr. Caine.” She glanced at the exquisite designer items Donatella had laid out for her consideration, searching for a plausible excuse to call a halt to the styling session. “I can’t afford to buy anything until I’ve spoken to my insurance company.” And she doubted what they would give her would cover stuff this expensive.
Donatella’s face softened, her puzzled expression becoming smug. “Do not worry about this. Signor Caine is paying for everything.”
What?
Katie almost choked on the thought. Why would he do that? Unless...?
“That’s very nice of him,” she said, humiliation and panic giving way to indignation. Was he buying her clothing to put her even more in his debt and under his control? “But I really can’t accept it.”
Donatella frowned, obviously confused by Katie’s reply. “But I have something perfect for tonight, a bronze silk that will look stunning with your hair.”
The woman continued to prattle on about different styles that would flatter her figure, sifting through the evening gowns and cocktails dresses, the pants and blouses. She displayed shoes in every conceivable color and style, then opened a large box filled with enough lingerie to sink a battleship. The sight of the delicate lace and silk items had the heat firing across Katie’s cheeks again.
“I’m so sorry, but I can’t take it. Any of it.”
Donatella’s smile became astute as she pulled a folded piece of paper out of a pocket in the linen suit she wore and handed it to Katie. “Signor Caine has left you a note, to tell you of his wishes.”
His wishes?
Katie grabbed the sheet of paper and read the thick black scrawl.
Get what you need. It’s on me. The event’s at eight. I’ll be back by then to escort you.
Caine
Katie screwed the note up in her fist and shoved it into the pocket of her robe. Her stomach twisted into tight, greasy knots as she imagined the independence she’d worked so hard for being eroded by Caine’s arrogant dictate.
“This is good, no? You can have whatever you desire. And Signore Caine will pay.” Donatella sent Katie a mercenary smile and Katie paled. She had to get out of this.
As the woman selected a gown from the rail to measure against Katie’s frame, Marcella and Sophia headed off to set up a makeshift beauty parlor in Katie’s lavish en suite bathroom.
The deep rumble of the motorbike outside cut the breeze.
Caine.
Excusing herself, Katie rushed through the living area, her bare feet slapping against the cool marble, propelled by panic and indignation. She stepped into the carport, sheltered by vines and trellises, just as Caine shoved the bike onto its stand.
Her heart crashed into her throat. She’d never seen him in casual clothes before and the effect was devastating, the illusion of sophistication supplied by his work wear gone.
Denim faded at the stress points hugged his muscular thighs while plain black cotton molded the solid bulge of his pecs and the ridges of his abdominal muscles. His hair stuck up in sweaty tufts as he pulled off the helmet and clipped it to the bike’s handlebars. He ran his fingers through the thick, dark waves, tugging them into rows.
All the moisture dried up in her mouth as the erotic dreams came back full force. He lifted off his sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of his jeans.
Pure blue eyes locked on her face—his all-seeing gaze drifting down her torso and setting off a tidal wave of reaction.
Her nipples squeezed into aching peaks and the hot spot between her thighs throbbed. The fluffy white toweling suddenly felt completely see-through.
One dark brow hiked up and the hint of a smile tugged at his sensual lips. “Hello, Katherine. I see Ms. Regiano and her crew haven’t arrived yet.”
The disorientating blast of heat she couldn’t control swept through her and she forced her fury to the fore to mask her fear. How could he have this effect on her when no other man ever had? She didn’t want to be like her mother, driven by urges beyond her control.
“She’s here,” she said, the blockage in her throat shattering. “But I can’t afford those clothes.”
His brows lowered. “I’m paying—didn’t she give you my note?”
“You’re not paying for my clothes. I can pay for my own clothes once I’ve contacted the insurance company.” She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, far too aware of her nakedness. And the gaze focused on her with the intensity of a hungry wolf. “Why did you tell her I was your mistress?”
He leaned back against the bike, crossing his legs at the ankles and foldi
ng his arms across his chest. The action made the muscles in his shoulders bunch as he studied her.
“I didn’t,” he said. “I haven’t met her—the concierge hired her.”
The direct reply gave her pause, but only for a moment. “Then why does she think we’re lovers?” she cried.
The nonchalant shrug made it abundantly clear he didn’t consider her pride and self-respect of any consequence. “Perhaps because you’re living with me and wandering around the villa in a bathrobe?”
“I don’t have a choice,” she said, the injustice of the situation only adding to her anxiety. How could he remain so calm and pragmatic, so controlled, when her insides were turning to mush? “I don’t know where my clothes are. Do you?”
“I told the staff to get rid of them.”
“What?” she gasped, astounded by his arrogance.
“They were filthy. Seemed easier to just buy you more,” he said, as if spending a fortune on a new wardrobe for her was no big deal.
“But they were my only clothes, until I can claim on my insurance or they find my pack.”
“They have found your pack,” he said. “That’s why I came back, to let you know.”
“Really?” She clung to the news. Was it possible that a little of this nightmare was over? There would be no money left, but if she at least had the rest of her belongings she wouldn’t be so powerless, so reliant on his charity. “Did they find my passport?”
“No,” he said, dashing the vain hope. “Everything of value was gone, and the clothes had to be destroyed, because those little bastards dumped the lot in a field full of starving goats.”
“I see.” Katie bit in to her bottom lip to stop it quivering, the flicker of pity in Caine’s dispassionate gaze and the persistent hum only adding to her misery.
