Careful; you’re starting to sound like a wife.
She shook off the thought and pulled back the covers on the massive bed. The tension of the last twenty-four hours—seventy-two if she counted the time since she’d found out Tarrantloch had been lost—had finally caught up with her. As soon as her limbs felt the smooth, cool embrace of the impossibly fine linen she felt every muscle in her body let go. She melted into the mattress, even though it was far too firm for her, and closed her eyes on an exhausted sigh...
* * *
Remy came back to the suite at three in the morning to find Angelique fast asleep.
Right in the middle of the bed.
Her mane of glossy black hair surrounded her head like a cloud. Her blood-red lips were soft and slightly parted, her skin now without its armour of artfully applied make-up. Now she had lost the layer of worldly sophistication she looked young and tiny, almost fragile. There were dark shadows underneath her eyes that her make-up must have hidden earlier. Her slim body—personally he thought she was too slim—was curled up like a comma, the sharpness of her hipbone jutting out from beneath the covering of the bed linen.
He could see the spaghetti-thin straps of her nightie, an ivory white that was a perfect foil for the creamy tone of her skin. The upper curves of her breasts were showing just above the sheet. He’d always thought of them as Goldilocks breasts—not too big, not too small, but just right.
He gave himself a mental shake and turned away from the sight of the temptation lying there.
Hands off, remember?
He rubbed a tired hand over the back of his head and down to the knotted muscles in his neck. He’d had to pull some strings to get out of Dharbiri by first light. He didn’t want to spend any more time than he had to ‘married’ to her. If the press got wind of this back home, it would go viral in no time. He didn’t want to be made into a laughing stock. He could just imagine the headlines: World’s biggest playboy gets hitched. The last of the Caffarelli rakes bites the dust.
He wanted to erase it from the record. Wipe it from his memory. Get back to normal.
Get her out of his life.
Remy looked at her again. She murmured something in her sleep and stretched out her arms and legs like a cat—and not just any old moggy—a beautiful, exotic cat that was begging to be stroked.
He wondered who her latest lover was. He hadn’t read anything just lately in the press about her, which was surprising, as hardly a month or two went by without some mention of her caught up in some scandal or other. He often wondered how much of it was true. He knew from his own experience that not everything that was reported was accurate. But how she was keeping her head below the parapet was a mystery if not a miracle. It was not an easy feat to stay under the radar when around every corner was a camera phone. You didn’t have to be a member of the paparazzi to get a shot of a celebrity or any other high profile person these days.
He’d had a few candid camera shots he’d rather weren’t out in the public domain. The press always made it look far worse than it was. He wasn’t a heavy drinker, and he had never and would never touch party drugs. But somehow he had been portrayed as a hard-partying, hard-drinking playboy.
The playboy bit was true.
He wasn’t going to deny the fact he’d bedded a lot of women. And he wasn’t going to stop any time soon. Which was why he had to get this marriage annulled as soon as possible. Call him old-fashioned but, on-paper marriage or no, he was not going to betray those promises he’d made. As far as he was concerned, infidelity was a deal breaker even in his most casual relationships. Sleeping around on a partner was not what a real man would do.
Talking of sleeping... He smothered a yawn as he heeled off his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt. He tossed it in the vague direction of a chair and put his hands on the waistband of his trousers.
Nah, better keep them on.
He could do with a few more barriers between him and Sleeping Beauty right now. He just hoped two layers—three, if you counted hers—would be enough to keep him out of danger.
CHAPTER FIVE
ANGELIQUE ROLLED OVER and breathed in the scent of lavender-scented sheets, citrus and wood and...warm, sleepy male.
Her heart gave a little flip-flop as she looked at the tanned arm lying across her stomach. It looked so dark, hairy and foreign against the ivory white of her satin nightie. It felt like an iron bar was holding her in place.
His strongly muscled legs were entangled with hers, just loosely, but they felt rough and strong. Powerful.
Had they...? She gulped. Had sex?
No.
No!
Hang on a minute... Her body didn’t feel any different. She knew without a doubt she would feel very different if Remy had made love to her.
She would feel...satisfied.
Because she couldn’t imagine him not doing the job properly. There would be no half-measures with him. He would know his way around a woman’s body like a curator knew their way around a museum. Interesting—some might say Freudian—choice of metaphor, as it felt like an aeon since she’d been intimate with anyone; but still.
Sex had always been a bit of a disappointment to her. She tried to enjoy it but she had never felt truly comfortable with any of her partners. Not that she’d had as many as the press liked to make out.
Her first experience of sex had been when she had gone to New York to sign with the agency. A photographer had hooked up with her for a couple of months but she hadn’t really felt valued as a person; rather, she’d felt more of a commodity, a bit of arm candy to be paraded around to gain Brownie points with his colleagues. That relationship, as well as one or two others, had made her come to the conclusion that sex was something men did to her, rather than something she experienced with them. She had always been able to separate herself from the act, to keep her mind to one side, to be the impartial observer.
She had talked to girlfriends about it and they had assured her she just hadn’t met the right partner. That it was all a matter of chemistry and timing. Animal attraction.
It was ironic that Angelique had one of the most looked-at bodies in the world, yet she felt a stranger to it in terms of passion. She knew how to pleasure herself but it wasn’t something she did with any regularity. She didn’t have the inclination or the desire. She wondered if she was just one of those people with little or no sex drive.
Remy’s arm tightened across her middle and he nuzzled against the sensitive skin of her neck. ‘Mmm...’ he murmured sleepily.
The sex drive Angelique thought was non-existent suddenly made an appearance. It was centre-stage and wanted to be noticed. She felt it stir within her core, a tugging sensation, a needy little ache that wouldn’t go away. Her breasts tingled from the brush of his arm as he shifted position again. His legs were entwined with hers and his erection—his rock-hard erection—was pressing against her thigh.
Was he even awake?
Maybe he was so practised at this he could do it in his sleep. She mentally rolled her eyes. It wouldn’t surprise her.
One of his hands moved up and gently cupped the globe of her breast. Even through the satin of her nightie she felt his warmth and the electricity of his touch. It made her hungry for more, to feel that large, firm hand on her, skin to skin.
He rolled his thumb back and forth over her nipple, making it ache and tingle with pleasure.
OK, so he had to be awake.
The sensible part of Angelique knew this was the time to step in and remind him of the hands-off nature of their relationship, but the newly awakened sensual part of her was saying the opposite.
She wanted hands-on.
His mouth found the super-sensitive area just behind her earlobe. Angelique shivered as his tongue moved over the area in slow, lazy strokes. His hand moved up from her knee to the top of her thigh in one smooth caress that made her inner core clench tight with longing, triggering a rush of dewy moisture between her thighs.
He shifted p
osition again, rolling her further on to her back as his body moved over hers.
You really should stop him.
Not yet! Not yet!
His hooded eyes slowly opened and then he flinched back from her as he let out a rather appropriate profanity. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Angelique gave him a pointed look. ‘What am I doing? You’re the one with my breast in your hand.’
He frowned and looked down at his hand as if he had only just realised it was attached to his body and that he was the one with control over it. He dropped it from her and moved away and up off the bed.
He scraped the same hand through the thick black tousle of his hair and turned to glare at her. ‘You should’ve woken me.’
She arched a brow. ‘So you really can do it in your sleep.’
He gave her an irritated frown. ‘Looks like you were running on automatic pilot as well. When were you going to call a halt?’
Some little demon inside Angelique decided it was time to rattle his cage for a change. She gave him a sultry look from beneath her lashes, her 1950s Hollywood movie-star look. ‘Maybe I wasn’t.’
A cynical look came into his eyes and his mouth hardened. ‘It won’t work, Angelique. I’m not staying married to you for a minute longer than I have to, so you can forget about your plans to snare yourself a rich husband. I’m not playing ball.’
She decided to press him a little further. This was so much fun! She had never seen him look quite so furious. His jaw was clenched and his hands were fisted. Where was his puerile sense of humour now? ‘But you want me. You can hardly deny that.’ She glanced at the tented fabric of his boxer shorts before giving him another smouldering smile.
His brows snapped together. ‘You are such a piece of work. Is this how you hook your claws into every man who crosses your path?’
Angelique slowly stroked her right foot down over her left ankle, her chest arched back as she rested on her elbows. ‘You’re hardly one to talk. Women run each other down to get into your bed. I didn’t run to get here. I didn’t even walk. I got here by default.’
‘And now you’re getting out of it.’ He stepped forward and ripped the bed linen off her like a magician pulling a cloth from a table.
Angelique gave a startled squeal as he grabbed one of her ankles and tugged her towards him. ‘Get your hands off me!’
‘That’s not what you were saying a minute ago.’ He pulled her upright but she stumbled and would have fallen except for his arms coming around her to steady her.
She thought he would let her go but he didn’t. If anything his firm grip on her hips tightened. She felt every imprint of his fingers pressing into her skin; she even wondered if they would leave marks.
She looked at his mouth, always a big mistake, but there you go. She couldn’t seem to help herself. Her gaze was drawn like a tiny piece of metal to a powerful magnet.
Their bodies were touching, feeling, discovering each other’s contours.
Angelique felt the heft, weight and heat of his erection pressing against her belly. It stirred her senses into a madcap frenzy of longing that took over her whole body. She felt the rush of heat from her core, the liquid of lust that was outside of her control.
‘This is not what I want,’ he ground out but still he didn’t let her go.
‘I don’t want it either.’ You liar. You do want it. You want him.
He suddenly put her from him, stepping back and raking a hand through his hair again. ‘OK... Let’s get some time out here.’
Time out?
I want time in!
Angelique’s little demon wasn’t quite ready to back down. ‘You’re scared. You’re worried you might get to like having me around, aren’t you, Remy? You’re not used to that feeling. You’re the one who hires and fires your bedmates week by week. You don’t form lasting attachments. You form convenient, casual alliances that temporarily scratch your itch.’
He glowered at her again. ‘I do not want you around. You’re nothing but trouble. You attract it and you revel in it. I don’t want it.’
‘Then give me back Tarrantloch and I’ll be out of your life as soon as you can say blackjack.’
The silence vibrated with palpable tension.
‘No.’ His one-word answer was clipped and determined. Very determined. Caffarelli determined.
Angelique hitched up her chin. ‘Then you’re stuck with me. I’m not leaving your side until you give me what I want.’
‘You don’t want Tarrantloch.’ His lip curled mockingly. ‘What you want is a pat on the back from your father.’
‘Ha ha,’ she scoffed. ‘And what you want is a big tick of approval from your grandfather. You think by taking possession of Tarrantloch that it will somehow win favour with him.’
He gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘I do not need my aging grandfather’s approval to get on in life. I’ve made my own way. I don’t need anyone’s tick of approval to be happy.’
‘You’re not happy. That’s why you’re so restless. You can’t settle because you’re not happy with who you are on the inside.’ Just like I’m not happy.
His eyes flashed with ire. ‘Oh, and you’re an expert on that, are you? The woman who doesn’t eat in case she puts on a gram of flesh. Don’t make me laugh.’
Angelique hated that he knew so much about her, about her insecurities. How did he do that? They had barely seen each other for years, yet within such a short time he had summed her up in a sentence. ‘I have a contract—’
‘That insists you parade yourself in front of people who don’t give a damn about you, to make millions of dollars for them. You’re not important to them, only your body is. They don’t want what’s inside you, they’re only interested in what they can get out of you.’
It was true.
It was painfully, agonizingly true.
It was a blunt truth she had come to acknowledge only very recently, which was why she was so keen to get out of the industry, to come at it from a different angle—the design and marketing angle.
But her confidence had always been the kicker and now it was even more so. She hadn’t gone to university. She had no business degree or diploma. She hadn’t even finished school. She had no official qualifications. What sort of ability did she have to run her own business?
She would be such a babe in the woods. It was cut-throat and dog-eat-dog out there. She had seen it first-hand. People with good intentions, with good skills and awesome talent were pushed aside by the power brokers, the money men who were only interested in the profit line.
‘I’m not planning on modelling for too much longer.’
His gaze hardened. ‘So am I part of the back-up plan? The rich husband to bankroll your—’ he made quotation marks with his fingers ‘—retirement plan?’
‘I have my own designs.’
He looked at her for a moment in silence, a frown deepening across his forehead.
‘Designs?’
Angelique let out a little breath. She had told no one about her plans. It seemed strange, almost ironic, she would be telling him. ‘Not every woman is a size zero. There are women out there with post-baby bodies, with scars, who’ve had mastectomies, or with the track marks of age. None of us are perfect.’
‘I can’t believe you just said that.’
Her shoulders went down on a sigh. ‘I’m tired of being the poster girl for perfection. It takes a lot of hard work to look this good.’
‘You look pretty damn good.’
Angelique felt a frisson of delight at his comment. He liked the way she looked?
But it’s not real.
If she ate properly she would be a size—maybe even two sizes—bigger. Would he—and the rest of the world—find her so attractive then?
She was a physical fraud.
And an even bigger emotional one.
Angelique hadn’t been in touch with her emotions since the day she had stumbled across her mother’s unconscious body wh
en she was ten years old. She could still see the glass of water with the faint trace of her mother’s lipstick around the rim.
The pill bottle that had been empty.
The silence.
Not even a heartbeat.
No pulse.
No mother.
Angelique had locked down her emotions and acted like a puppet ever since.
‘I want to launch my own swim and leisurewear label. I’ve wanted to do it for a while. I want more control over my life and my career.’
‘You’ll need money to do that.’
‘I know. I have some savings put aside, but it’s not quite enough. I have do it properly or it will fold before it gets off the ground.’
‘Is anyone offering to back you?’
‘I’ve approached a couple of people but they were a little gun-shy.’ She let out a little sigh. ‘I think my reputation as a bit of a hell-raiser put them off.’
‘How much of it is true?’
Angelique looked at him. ‘The gun-shy people?’
‘The hell-raising.’
Her shoulders went down in a little slump. ‘I’m no angel...I’ve never tried to be. It’s just the press make it out to be a hundred times worse than it is. I only have to be standing next to someone at a party or a nightclub or social gathering to be linked to them in some sort of salacious scandal.’
‘You never defend yourself.’ His expression was inscrutable, as if he was still making up his mind about her, whether to believe her or not. ‘You’ve never asked for a retraction of any of the statements made about you.’
‘What would be the point? Defensiveness only makes it worse.’ She let out another sign. ‘Anyway, to begin with I welcomed the gossip. I figured any publicity is good publicity. Some of the most famous models in the world are known for their behaviour as much as their looks.’
He rubbed a hand over his jaw. The raspy sound was loud in the silence. ‘I have a couple of contacts who might be able to help you with launching your designs. I’d have to look at what you’ve got on the table first. I’m not going to recommend anything that hasn’t got a chance of flying. I prefer to back winners, not losers.’
Never Gamble With a Caffarelli Page 5
