by Pippa Roscoe
Antonio bit back a curse. The man had absolutely no interest in the Winners’ Circle, and his allusion to ‘old friends’ could only mean Bartlett.
‘I’m surprised you have any friends left, Michael.’
Anger had made him weak and he hadn’t been able to prevent the snide comment falling from his lips.
‘Come, now. There’s no need to resort to childish swipes at your father.’ Michael Steele barely allowed time for the reproach to strike before picking up yet another thread of venom. ‘And this must be your convenient fiancée.’
The dismissive gesture of Michael’s hands irritated him less than the fact that his father didn’t even bother looking at Emma, let alone acknowledging her in any other way than by reference. Fury scoured him inside out, coursed through his veins. Antonio had long since stopped caring about the painful barbs Michael might throw in his direction, but he would not countenance any rudeness towards Emma.
‘Her name is Emma. And you’ll afford her the respect she deserves.’
‘Respect? For a PA who miraculously becomes your fiancée when you so desperately need your reputation intact? How much did she charge you? I bet she’s worth every penny of that green sapphire on her finger.’
His father’s ice-cool eyes turned white-hot in a second and Antonio wanted to reach out and grab the man by the throat. But that was exactly what his father wanted. To cause a scene. To create a scandal that would make him look like the victim. Just the way he had done with his mother during the divorce.
Antonio had spent years studying his father’s playbook, and he would not allow himself to rise to the taunt.
‘Priceless,’ he replied to his father’s taunt.
‘What?’ he heard his father ask in confusion.
‘Emma,’ he stated, turning to her, locking his gaze with hers as if it were the only thread he could tie himself to amongst the seething emotions that were threatening to drown him.
She didn’t show shock, fear or resentment—just curiosity, as if she too wanted to know what he meant.
‘She is priceless. She is everything I didn’t realise I needed.’
He watched as her eyes widened in surprise at his words, and hated it that he’d said them for his father—hated that he’d somehow tainted the sentiment.
‘And I will not let you diminish her or hurt her. Take swipes at me, old man, or my company, but stay the hell away from her,’ he growled.
For a second he saw shock in his father’s eyes, but he rallied quickly.
‘You think you can go up against me and win?’ he snarled.
That was the voice he remembered from his childhood. The one that had haunted his sister’s dreams and fuelled his own need for revenge.
‘You have been nothing more than a pest, sniffing around my cast-offs. Once I win this investment with Bartlett, be assured the next business I’m coming after, son, is yours.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Father. You won’t win this deal with Bartlett. You’ve overplayed your hand and you’re desperate. I can see it. And soon so will everyone else.’
Antonio unclenched his white-knuckled fist and forced himself to relax. He placed his hand on the small of Emma’s back and guided her before him. He was thankful when she began to pick her way through the tables towards the head waiter, whose face betrayed no indication of hearing the conversation he must have heard.
Electricity crackled where his hand touched the almost indecently low back of her dress, but that wasn’t what disturbed him. He realised that she was trembling—just slightly, not visibly—but he could feel it ripple over the soft, smooth acres of skin beneath his fingertips and he couldn’t help himself.
He needed it—he needed her. He needed to wipe away that horrible encounter with his father. For her. For himself. He pulled her back, spinning her into him, and reached for what he so desperately wanted.
As his lips crashed down on hers he took advantage of the surprise she clearly felt, once again. How, after only one kiss, the taste and feel of her could be so familiar to him, he couldn’t grasp. But his hand flew out to her cheek, holding her for his kiss, feeling her skin cool beneath the warmth of his fingers. He felt the wild flutter of her pulse beneath his palm, and satisfaction thrummed through him as it kept time with his own frantic heartbeat.
His tongue delved deeply into her mouth, relishing the way hers met and matched its every move. He didn’t care that they were in a restaurant—didn’t care that his father might still be watching. This wasn’t for anyone else but them.
Starbursts of arousal and need crept up his spine, flaring and burning away the bitter taste of anger and resentment. And the moment her hand came up to his neck, pulling him to her as strongly as he wanted to pull her to him, he felt satisfaction, ownership, possession. A silent, primal roar sounded in his mind. Mine, it cried.
The realisation was startling, and enough for him to break the sensual hold that forged them together.
He drew back from their embrace, staring into eyes that were wide and dark with a desire that matched his own. Emma was breathing quickly, her cheeks flushed, and through the knowledge and the feeling of pleasure that he had done that to her, that he had caused her to feel that way, was a question ringing loudly in his mind.
Just what the hell had she done to him?
The head waiter cleared his throat discreetly and resumed his pathway towards the table where Benjamin Bartlett stood, waiting for them.
* * *
If she had known what Antonio had planned to do she would have stopped him. But, whether he’d noticed or not, the encounter with his father had unnerved her. Despite what Antonio had told her the previous night, his description of his father’s cruel, ruthless behaviour, Emma had wondered if there was some reason, some explanation for his father’s actions. She had thought he’d spoken with the hurt of an abandoned son, and now Emma felt terrible—as if that belief had somehow betrayed Antonio.
Because what she had seen in Michael Steele’s eyes, heard in his voice, had convinced her that he was a horrible man, with no conscience nor regard for others. She understood, now, Antonio’s need for revenge. Could feel it barely restrained beneath the surface of his skin. The power of it was dark, and she wished so much that he would turn away from it—even though she knew he wouldn’t.
But that kiss had momentarily short-circuited her brain. Words of reassurance and support had fled beneath the sensual onslaught of his lips, and the wicked way they had demanded arousal and pleasure from her body had made her quiver with need. A need that went unsatisfied now he’d pulled away from her, leaving her wanting and shaking with desires she had never experienced before.
Realising that he had done that in public, in the middle of the restaurant full of nearly one hundred people, frustrated and angered her. But she needed to put aside that anger, because Benjamin Bartlett was there, standing at their table, waiting for them and looking decidedly uncomfortable.
And Emma was there to help Antonio win him over. Not because of the deal, and not because she was his convenient fiancée, but because she wanted to help him. Help him put his past to rest the way he was beginning to do for her.
She forced a smile to her lips, joy to her eyes, and took the hand Bartlett extended to her.
‘Ms Guilham. It’s lovely to meet you,’ he said, his American accent more cultured than she had remembered from the call on the plane to Buenos Aires.
Unlike Michael Steele, Benjamin Bartlett seemed softer somehow, despite his height and lean stature. In some ways he was more like Antonio than Michael. Even though, at that precise moment in time, she could hardly say that there was anything soft about Antonio at all. In fact he seemed almost reluctant, as if still locked into an unconscious battle with his father.
‘Likewise, Mr Bartlett. I hope we haven’t kept you long?’
‘Not at all.’
<
br /> He waved them away, as if they hadn’t just stood there in the middle of the restaurant kissing and instead had merely been a little delayed. And she realised then that what had made Bartlett awkward hadn’t been the kiss, but the fact that he had clearly witnessed the interaction between Antonio and his father.
‘I meant to ask,’ Emma said as they took their seats, reaching for a conversation that she hoped would start them on potentially neutral ground, ‘how is Anna’s grandson? He wasn’t very well the last time we spoke.’
A smile painted Bartlett’s features. ‘He’s doing well, thank you for asking.’
Bartlett turned to Antonio, who hadn’t been able to conceal his momentary confusion.
‘My PA’s grandson had appendicitis, and she had to stay home to care for him last week.’ Turning back to Emma, he continued, ‘She wanted me to pass on her congratulations. And I’d like to add mine to that,’ he said, gesturing to Emma’s hand.
The heavy weight of the beautiful green sapphire suddenly felt tight around her finger.
‘I must admit I did wonder who it would take to make this reckless playboy settle down,’ he said, but a smile took some of the sting out of his words. ‘I don’t believe he could have done any better.’
Emma forced some heat into her smile as guilt nibbled at her stomach. Lying. She was uncomfortable with lying.
‘Thank you, Mr Bartlett.’
‘Benjamin—please call me Benjamin,’ he said, taking his seat and gesturing to them both to do the same. ‘I hope you’ll forgive us for talking business over our meal?’
‘Of course. Antonio’s very passionate about your company and I can’t help but be intrigued.’
‘Oh, really?’ Bartlett asked.
‘I have a great deal of respect for what you have achieved,’ Antonio stated, finally picking up the thread of the pitch he’d worked on non-stop for almost a week.
Phrases that Emma had heard him muttering to himself over the last few days ebbed and flowed in the conversation. They ordered drinks and food, and between the starters and the end of dessert Emma marvelled at how Antonio used his carefully constructed words to weave a spell that she was sure Benjamin Bartlett was falling under.
Each line of his pitch was carefully orchestrated, bent and moulded to the positive, outlining how Arcuri Enterprises could support, aid, help the company to grow, rather than muscle in and take over. It was skilful, almost surgical in its precision.
The warmth of Bartlett’s interaction with her was very different from the careful assessment he was giving Antonio. Whilst Bartlett might be congenial, he was still a fierce businessman who was choosing his investor wisely.
‘You clearly know a lot about my business, Antonio.’
‘I use my research well.’
‘And what does your research say about me?’ Bartlett asked—and the query not one made out of vanity.
‘That you are a traditional businessman who believes in keeping things the way they are. You don’t like change, and you fight vehemently for your company, your brand and its continued success. You don’t believe that a business deal should be done until the second bottle of whisky has been opened, and as we’re in a restaurant, not a bar, and you have refused a drink with your coffee, I can tell that you haven’t yet made up your mind about who is best to support you financially through the next successful stage of your business.’
Bartlett gave a surprised chuckle. ‘And how did you know about the whisky?’
Antonio looked to Emma, who leaned in and said conspiratorially, ‘Us PAs have our secrets, Mr Bartlett. Do allow us to keep them.’
‘Ah... Of course. That is as it should be,’ he replied with another warm smile.
Emma laid her fork down, defeated after less than half of the exquisite chocolate dessert she had ordered. In truth, she had neither eaten nor tasted much of the meal they had shared. Her nerves had been wound tight for Antonio. Because of him.
‘Arcuri, it has certainly been an interesting evening. I thank you for the work you have clearly put into making this pitch, and I hope you will understand if I take this under consideration until next week. I have shareholders—many of whom see your father as a very good option.’
It was a phrase Antonio had expected, but one that was none the less unwelcome. Whether Bartlett had said it to garner a better deal from him, or whether it was the truth didn’t really matter.
Yes, he’d seen desperation in his father’s words and actions, but it was Dimitri’s phrase that ran through his mind as he left the restaurant with Emma. That desperation made people dangerous. And he knew in that moment that he would go to any length, any extreme, to bring his father to his knees.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BY THE TIME they entered the reception area of their hotel, Antonio’s thoughts were no longer on Bartlett or his father. Something which, at one point he’d thought almost unimaginable. But that had been before they’d come to Argentina—before Emma had worn the dress he’d chosen for her, and before he’d kissed her in a crowded restaurant and wanted the whole world to burn with him.
So instead of planning his next step he was still tasting her on his tongue. Instead of feeling the black plastic key card in his fingers he was feeling her skin beneath the palm of his hand. And there was nothing he could do to relieve the ache in his chest.
Not just because Emma wasn’t like the women he usually spent his nights with—women who agreed to his unemotional demands. He saw in her all the goodness, all the soft, delicate parts of her life that had come together like a silk tapestry—one that he should admire and leave untouched. She deserved someone better than him. Someone who wasn’t focused on a path straight to hell...someone who wouldn’t drag her there with him.
He slid the key card into the slot beside the door and walked into the suite. When he’d left earlier that night, with Emma wearing his ring, on his way to meet Bartlett, he’d imagined that when he returned he’d feel...different. That he’d feel the thrill of satisfaction at ensuring his father’s destruction. That somehow meeting Bartlett would have eased the adrenaline he’d felt rushing through him for over a week—would have settled the raging beast within him.
But he didn’t and it hadn’t.
Instead a different kind of heat burned within him—one that made him feel just as restless and just as dangerous. He stalked over to the bar area, poured two whiskies—one over ice for Emma—and after a second thought added two ice cubes to his own, hoping to cool the fervour of his libido. In his heart, he hoped that she would refuse the drink, that she would bid him goodnight and leave him alone with his new demons.
But she didn’t.
* * *
Emma closed the door behind her, turning her back momentarily on the man who had come to mean so much to her. She was buying herself time. She knew it. Had known it since before their meal with Bartlett—since the moment Antonio’s lips had crashed down onto hers. Perhaps even since the previous night.
It was as if her skin was feeding off the strange tension that had been summoned by their bodies’ wants and desires in the car journey back from the restaurant. The silence that had fallen between them only seemed to place a spotlight on it, illuminating what she wasn’t naïve enough to dismiss.
But was she brave enough to ask—demand for herself what her body wanted?
Looking at Antonio now, standing before the large windows, his broad shoulders and lean hips accentuated by the smooth planes of his suit, staring out at the stars, she knew that it had always been going to come to this.
He had coaxed from her body things she had never imagined. He had made her feel sexy, wanted and desirable. And Emma didn’t want to let go of it—didn’t want to sever the strange thread that bound them together.
Her cancer had struck at a time when she had been inexperienced, and nothing and no one had tempted her since.
And if some part of her warned that this wasn’t just about claiming her body, that it was much more to do with her heart, then she ruthlessly forced that thought aside. She wanted to strike through that invisible wish on her Living List. The one that she’d never had the courage to write down, but now had the courage to ask for.
‘Antonio—’
‘No.’
‘I haven’t—’
‘You don’t have to say it, Emma. You shouldn’t say it. Shouldn’t ask it of me. You should go to bed.’
His tone was dark and heavy—rough like bitter coffee and as tempting as sin.
‘You don’t know what I’m going to ask,’ she assured him...assured herself.
He turned, then. Pinned her with his hawk-like gaze. She knew it was meant to intimidate, but instead it served only to enflame.
‘Really? I am a man very well versed in feminine desire, Emma. A woman does not...you do not need to put into words what I see in your eyes. What your body is crying out for.’
Embarrassment stung her cheeks. She had thought that he might be as surprised as she was to find herself asking for such a thing. But he had known. Had seen it in her. Had everyone else?
But she refused to be ashamed of it. She held his gaze, used it to empower her. She felt herself stand tall against the onslaught of his presence.
‘You asked me what I wanted, Antonio. Back at the gala. And yesterday you said that I had not asked anything for myself. So now I’m asking. I want you. This night. Just one night,’ she said, leaving the rest of her thoughts unspoken.
She wanted to feel cherished...wanted to love her body. Wanted him to love her body.
‘Do you know what you’re asking, Emma?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you really? A no-strings affair? Just sex? You are too innocent to know the consequences of your request.’
