by Pippa Roscoe
‘In one day?’ Antonio asked, his surprise almost funny.
‘Not necessarily. I’m not fussy. Just a sunrise. Just a sunset. But, yes, deserts, sea views... I want to see the world. I’m really looking forward to Hong Kong,’ she confided.
‘I know the perfect place to take you.’
‘Where?’
‘It’s a surprise. But you’ll like it,’ he assured her, and that thrill of excitement began to unwind throughout her body and across her skin. ‘The smallest?’ he pressed.
‘Ah. The smallest I have achieved. I wanted to eat a stack of American pancakes with crispy bacon and maple syrup. It was divine.’
He laughed as she groaned with remembered pleasure.
‘What else?’
And once again Emma’s thoughts went to the one thing that she hadn’t been able to write on the list in front of her parents. She was sure that her mother would have understood, but writing losing my virginity had just seemed more than a little uncomfortable.
But it was about so much more than simply having sex. At the time, Emma had been approaching her reconstructive surgery with the same practicality that had pushed her through the other areas of treatment.
Now, when she looked in the mirror she just saw shapes. The shapes that had been taken away and then put back on her body. It was hard for her to see her breasts, her body, as her own. To own them, to glory in them. She had a good figure—she knew that. But somehow she had never felt able to exalt in it. To see it as her own.
‘You didn’t ask me to help you achieve anything on your list,’ Antonio stated when she didn’t answer his question.
‘When?’
‘When I offered you whatever you wanted.’
‘No,’ she said. She hadn’t. ‘These are things I want to achieve Antonio. I want to make them happen. Asking you to do them for me...kind of feels like cheating.’
He let that lie between them, and the silence was consumed whole by the tension and crackle of attraction on the air between them.
Antonio’s declaration to dedicate more time and energy to the charity had been almost fierce. And Emma found herself wondering what it would be like to have that dedication and power directed at her. As a woman. As someone or something beautiful.
She couldn’t help but study him once again in the half-light of the room, seeing the way it illuminated his masculine beauty. She could lie to herself and pretend to think that it was her wayward thoughts about her virginity that had conjured her attraction to him by association—not the curve of his almost cruelly sensual lips, the feel of his eyes on her body. She could blame it on the new and surprising intimacy that had been created between them in these last few hours and not on the way his direct gaze, eagle-eyed and intense, seemed to reach into her and kick up her pulse.
But she wouldn’t.
She had always found Antonio powerfully attractive. Had always felt prickles of awareness when he was nearby. He was as tempting as the devil.
Those gold flecks had returned to his eyes, surfing the waves of molten chocolate that seemed to radiate...heat. And desire. It became a tangible thing, and she could almost taste it on the air. She felt every single inch of her skin where the silk robe rested against it, felt the smooth material of the sofa beneath her calf muscle. She felt the space between them that seemed at once so small, yet almost insurmountable.
She willed her breath to become silent, knowing that she couldn’t give in to the temptation burning between them, reluctant to let sound or action break this strange hold.
But sanity prevailed. Yes, she’d seen more to her handsome boss than she could have imagined. The grief and pain of his childhood had called to something within her. But she couldn’t get involved with him. Because for all his promises she couldn’t rely on anyone if the worst was to happen. Because it never lasted. Not really. People left, people changed, people wanted other things... And in the end the only person Emma could rely upon was herself.
She looked about the room, finally severing the connection that had formed between them. And then, lifting up a stack of papers, she asked him about Bartlett—a line of questioning that Antonio seemed equally relieved to take up.
‘Bartlett’s company is a fourth generation, family-owned heritage business and—’
‘No, I didn’t mean his company. Who is he? What makes him tick?’
Antonio paused for a moment, as if he honestly hadn’t given it much consideration. He picked up the files and she shook her head, a gentle laugh falling from her lips.
‘Antonio...’ She couldn’t help chuckling as she gently reprimanded him. ‘He is the father of two children, Mandy and James, both are at university, both studying business. Mandy, by the way, certainly seems to be enjoying it thoroughly from her Instagram account—’
‘You follow her Instagram account?’
‘Yes, you asked me to research Bartlett, so I did.’
He nodded, as if slightly surprised. ‘How did you get all this?’
‘Bartlett’s PA—Anna—used to work for someone who does a lot of business with the boss of your London office. We know each other quite well. She helped with some of the information, but she wouldn’t cross any lines. Perhaps you should take a look at the notes in the blue folder. They’re a bit more personal than business facts.’
But the word personal brought back memories of the earlier moment they had shared.
Realising that she had lost his concentration, Emma felt a wave of tiredness sweep over her, and as Antonio took up several of the documents in the blue folder she decided to leave him to it and return to her room. This time hoping not to avoid her nightmares but dreams of her handsome boss.
CHAPTER SIX
THE NEXT DAY, by the time Antonio returned to the suite, he was physically exhausted. He’d been down to the stables to see John and V, but John had practically thrown him out because his ‘state of mind’ was affecting the horses. So he’d spent two hours in the gym, pushing himself hard.
Anything to force his shockingly one-track mind away from Emma Guilham and back to the meeting they had with Bartlett in a little over an hour. He had tried to pretend that the intimacy they’d shared the night before didn’t mean anything. He’d tried to ignore the strands of desire that had woven between them before she had shifted the subject away from the personal and back on to Bartlett. But he hadn’t quite managed to achieve it.
John was right. Antonio had to get his mind in order—had to shelve these thoughts and put them back in the box he never opened. He needed to get Bartlett to choose him, because if he didn’t his father would go unchecked. Michael Steele would live his life without ever feeling what his mother felt...his sister felt. The painful sting of humiliation, the acute devastation when everything changed beyond recognition...the realisation that the very fabric of life could not be trusted.
And Antonio needed that—needed Michael to feel that.
He walked into his room and pulled his sweat-soaked T-shirt over his head, discarding it as he crossed into the bathroom. Turning on the scalding hot spray of water, he pushed the rest of his clothes from his body and tried very hard not to imagine Emma doing the same. Before she covered that irresistible body in the dress he’d bought for her that morning.
He hadn’t been able to help himself. The clothing she’d purchased on their first day in Buenos Aires was perfectly adequate. But he didn’t want ‘adequate’ for her. After last night, he wanted to see her in colours. Because that was what he had seen when she had talked about her experience with cancer.
He didn’t want her to hide her figure behind the blacks and whites she usually wore. He could only guess that she hadn’t quite come to accept her body. She hadn’t said as much, but he had read between the lines. And he knew exactly how damaging that could be to a woman. To anyone.
And it was a crime—because Emma was simply
stunning. So that morning, when he’d been out buying the last thing that would make this ‘engagement’ seem real, he’d passed a shop window and stopped in his tracks, realising at once that the dress on the mannequin was perfect.
The moment he’d seen it Antonio had wondered what Emma’s curves would look like beneath the material—what the silk would reveal or conceal, what sound would it make running across her satin-smooth skin. How the colour would look against the pale cream tones of her bare arms...
The rush of his thoughts sent his body’s blood south, shockingly fast, and Antonio gritted his teeth in an effort to keep himself under control and switched the shower from hot to icy cold.
And he knew—knew with one hundred per cent clarity—that he could not treat Emma with the same detachment that he used to handle the other women in his life. She wasn’t like the women he usually took to bed. The ones who knew that he wouldn’t offer them anything more.
He could no longer fool himself that it was because he was putting off anything deeper until after he had brought his father to his knees. He was self-aware enough to know that he didn’t trust something as dangerous as love. It was a tool used by those more powerful, wielded to hurt, to harm.
It was as if Emma’s honesty had lifted the lid on his ability to lie to himself. He knew that he had avoided anything emotional because of the power it had to be used against him. And he would never be victim to it again. But somehow Emma had managed to sneak beneath the armour he wore around his heart. To bring forth truths from his lips that he’d never shared with anyone other than Dimitri and Danyl.
And whilst everything in him wanted to run, to push her away, to save her from the darkness that threatened to consume him as he went further down his path of revenge, he knew that he wouldn’t. That what he was about to do would only bind them together further.
He shut off the shower, dried himself and dressed quickly. He caught his reflection in the mirror. The perfectly tailored suit of dark blue cashmere wool matched his mood. On the bedside table was the small box that he had obtained before going to the gym.
He had thought he would simply go to the shop, make the purchase and leave. But, surprising himself, he had pored over the selection, discarding the more traditional cuts and colours and focusing instead on finding something that was unique and utterly... Emma. Not the PA he had spent eighteen months working with, but the woman who had hidden fire within her—the one who in fits and bursts had shown herself to be empowered...incredible, even.
He grabbed the box in his fist, then forced himself to relax his grip, hating what that said about him and his hopes for her reaction as he stalked through the suite. The tight leash on his emotions stretched taut, he called out to Emma, but didn’t hear a reply.
He knocked on the door to her room, forcing himself to make it gentle and not pound on it as his heart was pounding within his chest. When there was still no answer he pushed gently on the door, ignoring the voice in his head that told him to turn back.
Smaller than his, though not by much, the room stretched out before him in rich, bold contemporary colours of black, grey and red. Emma had pushed back the curtains, revealing the night-time sky that trespassed over the race course as dusk beat a hasty retreat. Or perhaps it was Antonio who was trespassing...
He turned towards the bathroom, where he could hear the clicking of her heels on marble flooring. He was about to turn around and leave when the bathroom door opened and in walked Emma...
And his breath caught in his lungs.
She was incredible. So beautiful, so strong and powerful.
And he hated the thought that she didn’t realise it.
From her feet, the deep, rich burnt orange silk bled upwards into lighter tones of amber and yellow, no less bold, but bright and eye-catching. The dress lay over her chest in a deep V, revealing the valley between her breasts. It clung to a waist that couldn’t be broader than the span of his hand. It flared out from there and hung all the way to the floor.
But it wasn’t until she stepped further into the room, when the high split revealed perfectly toned legs that went on for miles, that the breath that had been balled up in his chest finally escaped on an inaudible whoosh.
* * *
The moment she had seen the dress that had been delivered to the suite a few hours earlier her heart had almost stopped. She’d been surprised that her first reaction hadn’t been instant refusal, hadn’t been the thought that she could never wear such a revealing creation, but instead she was struck by how it reminded her of one of her mother’s paintings. It had the same colours of the first piece her mother had produced after Emma had returned home from her last hospital stay.
There was no way that Antonio could have known about the painting, let alone the impact of the dress. But as she’d lifted the delicate material from the white box it had arrived in, and seen the way the rich golden colours shimmered in the light, she had known that she couldn’t not wear it.
So she had put it on, and stared at herself in the mirror. Simply stared. Bold and bright, the smooth silk hugged curves she had never put on display before. For all her words the night before about being positive, about embracing the future and all it had to offer, she realised that perhaps she had left this behind. Allowed it to be swallowed up. That when she had thought her battle with cancer over in fact she had to continue to fight each day, to take back the things she had lost. More than her breasts and her parents’ marriage, her sensuality, her sense of self as a woman.
But now Antonio was looking at her in a way she couldn’t decipher.
‘How do I look?’
‘Amazing,’ he said without pause. ‘But there’s something missing.’
He reached into his trouser pocket and produced a small blue velvet box.
With trembling hands she took it from his palm, trying to avoid the zip and zing of electricity that passed between them. She laughed a little as she struggled with the little metal clasp on the box. But the moment her gaze caught the ring inside she stopped. Everything stopped.
It was a beautiful green sapphire, encased in rose gold. The precious stone was surrounded by tiny diamonds which continued the whole way around the band. It stole her breath—and in some part the walls around her heart.
‘It’s perfect,’ she whispered as she slipped it onto her finger. She couldn’t let him do it for her, it would mean too much.
‘I’m pleased,’ he said, holding her eyes with the same sincerity she had felt from him the night before. ‘No matter what happens, I want you to keep it.’
‘I...’ She was speechless. ‘I can’t, Antonio. I don’t deserve it.’
‘It’s not about deserve, or need. I want you to have it.’
Emma didn’t know what to say. And if, somewhere deep down, there was a single tendril of sadness that this wasn’t real, then that was her own fault. She’d known what she was getting into when she’d agreed to this deal. And just because she was emotional about it, it didn’t change a thing.
Oh, but she wished she could.
* * *
By the time that they left the suite Emma was thankful for the reminder that their relationship was purely a business arrangement.
By the time they got to the lobby Emma had put away the childish hurt and pulled her armour back into place.
By the time the limousine arrived at the restaurant where they were to meet Bartlett, Emma was ready to do battle and slay dragons to help Antonio secure investment in Bartlett’s company.
She had felt the hurt emanating from Antonio the night before as he’d told her of his childhood. She could see how important it was to him and wanted to gift him something of what he’d given her... The ability to reach for what it was that she wanted.
The lounge area of the famous Amore por la Comida restaurant spread out before them, coloured in rich amethyst hues set off perfectly by the gol
den twinkling stars piercing the night sky that could be seen from the windows surrounding all sides of the bar and seating areas.
The impeccably mannered head waiter was about to show them to the table when Emma felt Antonio stiffen beside her. A shiver rippled through his body like a shock wave, and she looked about them to see what might have caused it.
Coming towards them was a tall suited man she had never met before. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she was forced to turn away from the frigid glare in his crystal blue eyes.
Instinctively she knew that this was Michael Steele, Antonio’s father, and she couldn’t help the way her hand slipped into the crook of Antonio’s arm, as if trying to hold on to him, support him, give him something to warm the air that had suddenly cooled about them.
* * *
Antonio should have known. And perhaps deep down he had. Because his father’s appearance didn’t surprise him as much as it should have. He felt the drive of renewed determination fuel him. Indignation was but a second thought.
‘Antonio,’ Michael said as he drew close to them. ‘I’d say that it’s good to see you, but we both know that would be a lie.’
The charming, almost warm, smooth voice sharpened the harshness of his words.
‘Why are you here?’
Antonio knew from bitter experience that the less he said to his father the better. He wondered whether Michael would have the gall to admit that he was here, at this exact place and time, because of his meeting with Bartlett. Clearly Michael had his informants, just as Antonio had his.
A cold smile graced lips that should be as familiar to Antonio as his own. In the three years since he’d last seen his father Michael Steele had grown in his mind to monstrous proportions. Instead, all he saw was an old man before him. But Antonio knew that appearances were deceiving and his whole body was on guard.
‘Well, I heard rumours about the notorious Winners’ Circle syndicate trying to win the hat-trick at the Hanley Cup. Surely that’s a feat worth watching? If it succeeds. It would be such a shame if you were to fall at the first hurdle, so to speak. And, of course, it’s a chance to catch up with old friends.’
