by Heidi Rice
Well, that’s me totally screwed, then.
* * *
Jared clamped down on the dumb urge to comfort her. She looked utterly devastated at the news. The vibrant temper that had made her look so magnificent, so indomitable, just moments before was gone.
Against his better judgment he stepped toward her, close enough to detect the citrus scent of the shampoo in her wild hair. “Can I make a suggestion?” he murmured.
She looked up at him, her green eyes like liquid pools of misery, reminding him of the girl she’d been five years ago. He’d crucified her then, for shattering his control. Recriminations swirled in his head now. He’d tried to put the blame for that episode on her at the time, because he’d never crossed that line before—not since he’d been a kid himself and controlling his urges had been impossible.
Neither of them was a kid anymore, though. And, if they were going to co-habit without giving in to the obvious chemistry between them, they needed to address the elephant in the center of the room. Or rather the dragon, he thought, as flames flared in his gut.
The thought of what she didn’t have on under her robe tormented him—making it virtually impossible for him to keep his mind on their conversation, and not on the many things he had imagined doing to her all through the night after having her slim body plastered against his back on the ride to the villa.
He saw the flare of knowledge in her eyes, as if she had read his mind, before she tensed and stepped back. “I don’t want you paying for my clothing,” she said.
His temper kicked in. “Tough. It’ll be days before the insurance money comes through,” he said. “And you’re not wandering around in a bathrobe,” he added forcefully. “I’m not a saint.”
Her eyes popped wide before a vivid blush suffused her face. Awareness crackled in the air around them like a physical force—and it occurred to him he might have made a tactical error admitting he wasn’t immune to her. But he had assumed she knew. How could any woman not know, especially one as wild and reckless as her?
She looked genuinely shocked, though. Either that or she was an actress of Oscar-winning potential.
“I see,” she said again, her slender neck moving as she swallowed.
Was her mouth as dry as his?
Did she have any clue how much he yearned to ease the drooping neckline of her robe the rest of the way off her shoulder and torment the elegant line of her collarbone with his teeth?
“If I accept the clothes...” Her labored breathing contradicted the stubborn set of her jaw. “I want to pay you back for them.”
No way.
“And I don’t need a ball gown—as I’m not going to any ball.”
He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, struggling to subdue his temper and the heat in his groin.
“I’ll allow you to pay for the clothes.” He’d have the stylist work out a reduced bill. “But only if you attend the ball with me.”
Her brows wrinkled. “Why do you want me to do that?” she asked, protesting a little too much. And he knew, however much she tried to deny it, she was as aware of him as he was of her.
While he knew that was not good news—because having an affair with Dario’s sister-in-law was the very last thing he had planned to do—his crotch didn’t seem to be in agreement.
“Honestly?” he said. “I don’t trust you to stay here unattended. And I have to attend to make sure the security operation is running smoothly.”
“You can’t force me to go with you,” she said, not denying she planned to bolt at the first opportunity. Her chin took on a belligerent tilt and he could see she was expecting him to try.
Anger burned at the evidence of her low opinion of him. He’d brought her here for her own good—and he wasn’t in the habit of bullying women.
But then he recalled her testimony during Lloyd Whittaker’s trial. And it occurred to him that her experience of men hadn’t always been the best. It had come out loud and clear during the trial. Whittaker’s attack on Megan had been the culmination of a long campaign of bullying and harassment against his elder daughter. At the time, Katherine’s testimony had suggested she had been mostly spared because Whittaker had ignored her. But maybe the truth was more complex.
He knew what it was like to feel powerless and alone. Vulnerable in a way you couldn’t defend against.
He pushed the unpleasant thoughts to one side. Not his business.
All he needed now was to get her cooperation.
“I’m not intending to force you to do anything,” he said. “I’m not telling you, I’m asking you. I hate these damn events. You’ll be doing me a favor.” It surprised him to realize that wasn’t far from the truth. However damned difficult the woman was, and however much of a temptation she presented, she was never dull.
He watched her consider his request, her arms tightening around her midriff, which had the unfortunate effect of plumping up her breasts beneath the robe.
“You’ll definitely let me pay for the clothes when I leave?” she reiterated.
“Everything except the ball gown,” he said, ignoring the implication that she wouldn’t be returning to New York with him. He would correct that assumption later. “Have we got a deal?” he asked.
It took forever, but eventually she nodded. “Okay,” she murmured, and she held out her hand to shake on it.
He closed his palm over her slender fingers. But then she looked down and flinched.
“What happened to your arm?” she blurted out.
He let go of her hand, drawing his arm away and tucking his fingers into the back pocket of his jeans.
His gaze met hers and he stiffened at the shadow of empathy in the luminous green.
He never hid the burns, not deliberately. They were a part of who he was, where he’d come from. A talisman, a symbol of how much he’d overcome to survive. But he didn’t like her knowing he had once been at the mercy of circumstances beyond his control.
“It was an accident,” he lied smoothly.
He could see she didn’t believe him.
“I’ll be back at seven,” he ground out as he unclipped the helmet from the handle bars. “Be ready to leave at eight.”
He climbed back aboard the bike. She didn’t reply, but stood and watched as he kicked the bike off the stand and fired up the engine.
The unreasonable anger didn’t make the desire still throbbing in his groin any easier to handle as he drove off.
* * *
Katie was questioning her impulsive decision to agree to Caine’s request six hours later. Her newly manicured nails scraped on the beaded clutch purse that matched her gown, the afternoon now a blur of fabrics, fittings and design consultations.
She had been primped, preened, plucked and buffed to within an inch of her life in the last two hours, before Donatella and her team had finally left ten minutes ago. She assessed her appearance in the bedroom mirror. The blond tendrils dangling round her neck—which Sophia had spent an eternity teasing out of the chignon—gave her a sultry, just-out-of-bed look. The tension in her stomach twisted.
The smudge of black kohl and glitter round her eyes made the green of her irises pop, while the bronze silk dress—a retro fifties hour-glass style which she would never have contemplated wearing, given her less than abundant curves—actually made her look like she had a cleavage, with a little extra help from the push-up bra Donatella had insisted on.
“You have curves—you just do not know how to flaunt them.”
The simple ruched twist round the gown’s bodice was perfectly complemented by the detailed sparkle of the jeweled beads sewn into the plunging neckline.
Katie let out a ragged sigh, the blond highlights in her hair caused by months spent under the Mediterranean sun glowed, set off by the final strains of the sunset through the open balcony doors.
Donatella had done her job far too well.
The plan had been to placate Caine and reduce the sexual tension between them until she had
the means to leave. Not make herself feel like a lamb who had been dressed for slaughter.
“I’m not a saint.”
The thought of Caine’s eyes, the hunger she had seen reflected in the intense blue depths, sent another shudder of unease through her. She didn’t want him to want her... That was what her rational mind was telling her. So why had every pulse point, every inch of skin, every single erogenous zone, rejoiced at the gruff confession?
She heard the murmur of voices in the villa’s living area and her wayward pulse punched her neck, making the dusky light glimmer off the opals in her necklace.
She pulled her newly recharged phone out of the purse.
Eight o’clock on the dot.
Caine had arrived at seven as promised, according to the maid Inez, and had been getting dressed to take her to the ball... She stifled a slightly hysterical cough.
Jared was taking her under duress because he didn’t trust her not to run off, and he had to go to the event for business reasons.
She needed to get her Cinderella complex under control.
Katie slipped her feet—fully recovered from yesterday’s march after an hour-long pedicure—into the four-inch heels Donatella had picked out to go with her outfit. Tiny gemstones sparkled on the straps, but what should have looked trashy gave the outfit a funky, unique accent that chimed perfectly with what Donatella had insisted was Katie’s rebel style.
Katie pressed her palms into the ruched silk covering her belly and strolled to the door—feeling about as rebellious as a church mouse.
Suck it up, Whittaker. All you have to do is handle Caine for one night. And, anyway, this is not a date.
Her steps faltered though as she walked through the living area and out onto the terrace—her pep talk floating off into the night as she spotted Caine standing in the dusk.
He wore a dark suit, perfectly tailored to his broad frame, and looked even more imposing than usual—a wolf in designer clothing waiting to pounce on its prey. Piercing sapphire eyes locked on her face. The punch of awareness hit her square in the solar plexus.
“Good evening, Katherine,” he murmured. The rough cadence of his voice seemed to scrap over her nerve endings and she gripped the purse harder.
Not a date. Definitely not a date.
“Hi,” she said, forcing her feet to move. Even wearing the four-inch heels she was several crucial inches shorter than him.
His gaze roamed over her outfit, making the push-up bra feel like an iron corset.
“I see you had a successful afternoon.”
The husky tone only made her feel more insecure. The hint of a smile played over his lips again, adding an additional hitch to her breathing.
Time to tough it out, Whittaker.
Caine had no idea how inexperienced she was. She needed to play the part of a woman in charge of her own sexuality, or he would know exactly how much power he had over her.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said, forcing the cocky confidence she had practiced for years in front of Lloyd Whittaker into her voice. “Seeing as it probably cost you a small fortune.”
His leisurely gaze set off bursts of sensation over every inch of exposed skin. “I consider it a justifiable business expense.”
His arrogance should have annoyed her, but the twinkle of wry humor in the startling blue eyes felt strangely beguiling, coaxing her to share the joke.
“I should warn you, not everything you see is real,” she said, her own lips twitching. “The bra Donatello insisted on may well be worthy of a Nobel Prize for engineering.”
His jaw tensed and the sparkle flared into something a great deal more potent, heating the warm night air.
“Good to know,” he said in a tortured rasp that suggested the opposite. He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. “We should go.”
He rested his palm on the small of her back to direct her out into the hallway. She stretched against the proprietary touch, absorbing the giddy thrill.
The evening had settled in, the heady scents of the local wildflowers—jasmine and lavender and honeysuckle—hanging on the night air as he led her past the huge black motorcycle to the convertible he’d been driving on the mainland. The strange sense of disappointment—that she wouldn’t have to wrap herself around that big body again—made no sense at all as he held the door open and she climbed into the luxury car.
A shiver racked her body as he folded his large frame into the driver’s seat. For such a big man he moved with a fluid grace that made her think of a wolf again, or maybe a panther on the prowl. Big and powerful and predatory.
“Are you cold?”
She shook her head, unable to find her voice.
What was it about him that always seemed to leave her tongue-tied?
Five minutes later, Caine’s sports car entered the grounds of a walled estate. Terraced gardens dominated by lemon groves and palm trees led down to a white Palladian mansion perched on the cliff top. The turn-of-the-century villa, which had once been owned by Italian nobility, had been refurbished to become the Venus Resort’s hotel hub. It looked ethereal in the moonlight, a throwback to a bygone era, the elegant colonnades and intricate iron balconies illuminated by a series of flaming torches as the other guests arrived for the party.
A phalanx of press photographers stood behind a guide rope flanked by a security detail wearing the distinctive blue jackets of Caine Securities.
The knots in Katie’s stomach yanked tight.
Caine got out of the vehicle and strode round to open the passenger door.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She took his hand to step out of the car. “Nothing,” she murmured, schooling her features as best she could, and wishing he wasn’t quite so observant.
Hold it together. It’s not a problem.
Caine’s brows flattened, as if he were going to call her out on the lie. But then a young, heavy-set man wearing the Caine Securities uniform with his hand pressed to his earpiece approached them. “Signore Caine, the press are asking to be let into the venue.”
Katie’s pulse scrambled and Caine’s hand settled on her hip. Could he sense her apprehension? Why did that make her feel more insecure?
“That’s not the protocol for tonight, Marco,” he said to his employee. “Remind them there’s a full press conference tomorrow. Tonight’s event is for the investors.”
Almost as if Caine had sensed her distress, his hand firmed on her hip, forcing her closer to that seductive scent, making her aware of the hard lines of his body as they approached the entrance and the twenty or so photographers.
Flashbulbs fired in Katie’s face and she stumbled. The visceral memory of another time, at her mother’s graveside, and years later on the courthouse steps—when Caine’s men had shielded her from the press once before, during her father’s arraignment hearing—smacked into her like a fist.
Most of the shouts were in Italian, but then she heard a nasally American voice cutting through the noise and slicing through the threads of her composure.
“Hey, if it isn’t the naughty Whittaker sister. What you doing here, Katie? And where you been? We’ve missed you in New York.”
She lifted her head, caught unaware, and saw a face she recognized. Jess Barton. One of the parasites who had trailed her relentlessly in the years after that court appearance, eager for a new scandal to photograph, another dumb stunt to document, so he could sell the evidence of her recklessness and immaturity to the highest bidder.
Clammy sweat dripped down her back, her gaze riveted like that of a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Barton’s eyes sharpened and he lifted his camera. A series of flashes blinded her and she jerked back. The flight instinct kicked in but, as if in a nightmare, her legs turned to mush, her feet caught in quicksand, and she stood frozen in place. Other paparazzi crowded around them, joining the feeding frenzy, as the flash of lights became an inferno of sound and fury.
“Back off.” Jared’s commanding voice boomed
over her head and his arm banded round her midriff to keep her upright.
She swayed as his face—tight with anger—stared down at her. She had only a moment to register the diabolical pulse of heat and humiliation before he gathered her close and directed his men to hold the photographers back.
His muscular body shielded her from the shouts and demands. The blind panic retreated enough for her to draw in a breath as he propelled her up the villa’s wide marble steps and into the huge vaulted entrance hall. She gulped in a lungful of clean laundry detergent and subtle pine soap.
Then she caught his underlying scent—rich, compelling and distinctly masculine—and the giddy wave of relief morphed into something much more disturbing.
Embarrassment scalded her cheeks.
“Please let me go. I’m fine.” Forcing her legs to cooperate, she wrenched herself out of his arms.
She shouldn’t want his support. Certainly shouldn’t need it. She’d never liked the press, but she’d never had such a violent reaction before. Obviously a few months of anonymity had turned her into a wimp.
“Stop struggling,” he growled, one firm hand still clamped on her hip.
Her thighs trembled as her stomach clenched against the disorientating heat.
A callused fingertip tucked under her chin and lifted her face. “Why didn’t you tell me you have a phobia of the press?”
“Because I don’t. I just wasn’t prepared to see Barton here,” she said, scrambling for an excuse, anything that would make her feel less exposed.
“The American?”
“Yes, he recognized me. The others didn’t, I’m sure. I’m old news. Really, it’s not a problem.” She stepped back, mindful of their audience and the way Caine was staring at her, as if he were seeing her for the first time.
“It looks like a problem to me—you’re whiter than a ghost.”
She tugged her elbow out of his grip. “Really, I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting to see the photographers here. Can we let it drop?”
A waiter swung past and she scooped a glass of champagne from the tray. She took two hefty gulps, willing her fingers to stop trembling as the chilly bubbles quenched the desert in her throat.
