by Penny Jordan
His fingers unbuckled the small belt of her sandal with a nimble touch. He plucked the heel off her foot, and fingers wrapped around her bare flesh.
Pia flinched as pain and awareness mingled, spreading up from her ankle.
His nostrils flared, his mouth pinching into a stiff line. Long fingers rubbed the small ridge the strap had dug into her skin. Back and forth, softly, slowly, until a soft moan—a raw, unrestrained sound—fell from her mouth.
Holding her gaze, he touched her more boldly, more purposefully.
A strange, forbidden craving released in her lower belly, warmth pooling there. Her heart beat in rhythm to those fingers. When he moved one finger upward, almost reaching her knee, Pia jerked her foot back.
And then, because of the uneven balance, toppled onto him.
With a curse, he caught her. But he was still so tall that when she fell, his face was buried scandalously against her belly. The warmth of his breath against her soft muscles set off such a deep clench in her sex that Pia whimpered.
His hands on her waist, he gave her a gentle nudge. Her entire body was a shivering, needy pulse. Pia looked down at his hands. “Let me go.”
He shrugged those broad shoulders, an innocent look in his eyes. “You will fall if I let you go.”
This man was dangerous. What he so easily made her feel—this hitch of her breath, this nervous knot in her belly, the warmth unspooling in every muscle—every forbidden sensation was dangerous.
This time, instead of putting her foot on his thigh, she put her hand on his shoulder, balanced herself and shed her other sandal. Then she picked them up with her left hand, muttered a rushed thanks at his shoulder and straightened.
She moved no more than a couple of steps when he stood in front of her again. “It is not the stroke of midnight yet, so surely it is not time for you to disappear, is it?”
Pia faced him, still shuddering after that intimate slide against him. Hard and lean and unforgiving, his body had left an imprint on hers. “You’re no prince. More like the devil.”
A white smile flashed in his dark face.
Pia sighed. The man’s will was unbending. Her feet hurt, her head was throbbing, she really was tired. But of course, her grandfather’s godson had come to the ball with an agenda.
He turned her around with his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her to the center of the dance floor. One arrogant nod of his head and the orchestra began playing a classical waltz.
One large hand spanned her waist while the other clasped her fingers. Her body stretched tight and stiff to resist gliding against his. For a few minutes, they moved around the floor seamlessly, yet she couldn’t relax, couldn’t muster a single calm breath. His scent weaved around her. He was hard and lean everywhere she touched him.
“My ego would suffer if I didn’t already know that you are just as stiff and awkward with other men,” he whispered against her ear while his arm rested around her waist.
Pia found herself sinking into the depths of those black eyes. She was plain and awkward, yes, but no coward. “I’m sure I could hardly dent that humongous ego.”
His laughter, a deep, husky sound startled the life out of her.
Of course, graceful dancer that he was, he didn’t let his own steps falter.
Long fingers fluttered near the underside of her breast making Pia aware of every inch of her skin. “Tell me about yourself.” For all her supposed resistance, he had somehow pulled her closer. On a side step, her hip rubbed against his thigh. Pia shivered. “About your dreams and aspirations,” he continued, as if he felt nothing of the torture he put her through. As if he felt nothing period. “Maybe your favorite ice cream or your favorite Italian designer. Or what you’re planning to ask Gio to give you for your birthday present.”
“Birthday present?”
“You know, to make up for all the years he missed. A yacht? Are you fond of sailing? A condo in Venice?”
“I’ve no idea—”
Another turn around the hall, but this time with the sensation of his palm covering her upper back. She couldn’t take much more of this heightened awareness. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Quite an accomplishment for one so young.”
Her body was so aware of him that her mind couldn’t grapple with the intent in his words. “Please, stop. Just stop. I’m not…good at this.”
His thumb traced the veins over the back of her hand almost absently. “What is the this that you’re not good at?”
“Dealing with men like you. Playing ridiculous games. I’m not like other women you probably know. I’m nothing like the women I know.”
His gaze swept over the tiara in her hair, the diamonds at her throat. “I would say you’re doing just fine. From everything I see, you have Giovanni wrapped around your finger.”
“I don’t know how to decipher your words. I don’t understand why you’re determined to make a spectacle of me in this crowd. I don’t know why you’re—”
Her attraction to Gio’s godson was the last thing she needed. Especially when, clearly, he bore no goodwill toward her.
A finger under her chin, he tilted her face up to look at him. The stark beauty of him hit her hard again. “Why I’m what?”
“Why you’re even touching me like this… I don’t know why I’m reacting to you like this. Why my heart is beating so hard I feel like it might rip out of my chest. Why there’s this…” His eyes flared and Pia caught the words that were bent on pouring out of her mouth. “And why you’re so intent on proving that you affect me like that even as your eyes are full of contempt.”
His mouth lost that cynical curve; his eyes became searching, intent. It seemed she had finally shocked him.
His hold gentled and Pia slipped away. The marble floor was cold against her bare feet reminding her she had left her heels behind.
But she was no more Cinderella than Raphael Mastrantino was a prince.
Raphael ran a finger along his collar, his body humming with awareness, with unspent energy as if he were a randy youth.
His attraction to Pia—instant and all consuming—defied logic. She was not beautiful, not in the conventional sense, not sophisticated for all her dress and jewelry—and yet there was something irresistibly alluring about her.
Which woman among the society he lived in would so openly admit what she felt for him? And with that artless dismay that she was attracted to him?
No, first there were games, games that every woman played. Even his mother played them when Raphael refused to buy her the latest model of the Vito Viva. Either she cooked his favorite food every night or she shed phony tears over his father’s death—an entire episode meant to guilt him and remind him that he should be a good son who granted each and every one of her expensive wishes.
Even his four sisters played games, with Raphael, and with their boyfriends who had inevitably turned into husbands.
No one admitted in that raw, unsophisticated way what a man made her feel. No one moaned like that—as if she were sinking into a whirlpool of pleasure when a man touched her ankle. No woman that he knew stared at a man with those big, luminous eyes as if he was the answer to her every fantasy.
Coy looks, innuendoes laced with sexual tension, teases, throwing herself at other men to make him jealous—the list of things his ex-wife, Allegra, had tried on him a few years ago were innumerable.
I’m not good at playing games.
There had been a genuine quality to her distress, to her confusion. As if her body was betraying her and she didn’t know what to do.
Either she was truly naive—an anachronism with her faint blushes and her trembling mouth—or she knew just how to appeal to a man as jaded and cynical as he was. Perhaps she had decided that the right way to court his attention would be to cater to that traditional man in him, the Neanderthal that Allegra had called him so many times.
Was that it? Had she thought to counter his distrust by catering
precisely to his tastes?
A chill ran down the length of his spine as he made his usual rounds through the mansion as he usually did when visiting.
He had no doubt about how much Gio would have talked about him over the last month. As his godson and his protégé, he was Giovanni’s pride and joy. Raphael had turned the small spare automobile parts company that Gio had handed him into Vito Automobiles, a leading manufacturing company.
Giovanni had been his lifeline when he’d been sinking as a seventeen-year-old. He’d been a light in a long, dark tunnel that Raphael’s weak father had plunged them all into.
Not that it stopped Giovanni from also being manipulative as hell. Throughout the evening, he had stood on the periphery of the crowd, watching, with a satisfied smile on his face. Like a puppeteer intensely delighted with the results of his string pulling.
Whatever the old man was up to, it would eventually fall to Raphael to clean it up. Just as he kept Giovanni’s hounding relatives at bay. Just as he ensured that the leftovers from Gio’s time on the board—men who would stab Raphael in the back before he could blink—didn’t leach away the gains he had made.
Just as he took care of the various and sundry branches of Mastrantino families without any expectations in return.
And yet, as he questioned one of the staff members about Pia, Raphael was suddenly aware that this was unlike any other responsibility he shouldered.
For no bickering ex-wife of Gio’s or grasping cousin of his mother had ever caused his blood to pound like this.
No woman had ever called to his baser instincts like this supposed innocent granddaughter of his godfather.
Copyright © 2018 by Tara Pammi
Don’t miss
BOUGHT WITH THE ITALIAN’S RING
by Tara Pammi,
available February 2018 wherever
Harlequin Books and ebooks are sold.
www.Harlequin.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-488-09808-6
PAYMENT IN LOVE
First published in 1987
This edition published in 2018
Copyright © 1987 by Penny Jordan.
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
