by Kate Hewitt
Which was why he had been so determined to cut off all his ties with his own father. The last thing he wanted to do was make the mistakes Lorenzo Ferrero had, chasing after some ridiculous and ever-elusive happily-ever-after and becoming increasingly more desperate to find it. Letting himself be used, hurt and humiliated, and for what? An amorphous emotion that didn’t really exist, or at least shouldn’t. Love.
Cristiano strolled towards the window, shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets as he mused on what lay in store for Laurel...and for him. He’d watched her on the casino floor, draped on Bavasso’s arm, her attempts at flirting cringingly over the top and obvious. She might be many things but what she definitely wasn’t was a good actress.
Bavasso, of course, had lapped it up and demanded more. A lot more, apparently, because after Cristiano had left the floor he’d stayed by the bank of security cameras in his flat, watching her, waiting—but for what? He was acting obsessed, which was stupid, but he hadn’t been able to keep himself from doing it.
He’d told himself it was because of their past—because he knew her mother was a thief and he had no intention of letting her fleece any of his customers, even one as unpleasant as Rico Bavasso. He’d told himself that, but he didn’t completely buy it.
Then everything in him had frozen and clenched hard when he’d seen her leave the casino floor, Bavasso holding her hand, practically dragging her towards the lifts. But she’d gone. She’d been smiling. For some reason that smile had reached a vulnerable place he hated the thought of even possessing.
Cristiano didn’t know what had happened upstairs in the hotel suite but he could guess all too easily. Still he’d stayed by the cameras, which was why he’d seen her running for the lifts, as if the hounds of hell were chasing her—or just one lascivious one. Whatever game she was playing, she’d decided not to see it to the finish. And, while Cristiano certainly believed in a woman’s right to say no whenever she chose to, it didn’t change his opinion of Laurel Forrester one iota.
On the cameras he’d watched her hit all the buttons, including the one for the penthouse. The lift doors to the penthouse were always locked, but with one flip of a switch Cristiano had sent Laurel straight up to him.
And now here she was.
The only question that remained was, what was he going to do with her?
He narrowed his gaze as he looked out of the window, the Colosseum lit up at night, a beacon to the city. He’d brought Laurel up here because she’d needed rescuing and he was a man of honour.
But honour only extended so far. And now, with the lift doors locked again, the only person Laurel needed rescuing from was him.
CHAPTER TWO
LAUREL PEEKED INTO the first room on the left, a sumptuous bedroom with an en suite bathroom, and then she tiptoed over thick, white pile carpet, past a huge king-sized bed on its own dais with a rumpled black satin duvet. This was where Cristiano slept, and she sensed him in every sleek and powerful line of the room. She smelled him too—that spicy aftershave and something else, something infinitely more male that wound through her senses and ignited fireworks in her belly. Fireworks she was going to do her best to ignore.
Her curious gaze took in the room’s stark elements—bed, bureau, view. No personal objects or mementoes, no photographs or knick-knacks. Not even a book. No sign of a woman, either, so perhaps he was between mistresses. But why was she looking? Laurel bolted for the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
The bathroom was just as elegantly stark as the bedroom, and almost as big. An enormous sunken black marble tub with gold taps, a separate infinity shower bigger than her bedroom back home and double sinks. Laurel registered the heat coming through the quarry tiles beneath her feet and let out a shuddery sigh, the events of the last few hours slamming into her all over her again.
The endless evening at the casino, while Rico had played baccarat and given her lascivious looks that Laurel had told herself were in her imagination. They had to be. Bavasso liked her mother. Her mother had said she was hoping for a ring, for goodness’ sake. He wouldn’t look at her. The only reason she was meeting him was to give her mother her blessing.
Wasn’t it?
Then the moment when he’d asked her to go upstairs, and Laurel had given her mother a frantic look. Elizabeth had smiled and had told her she’d be along in a few minutes and they’d all have champagne to celebrate. And Laurel had believed her. Of course she had believed her. Elizabeth was her mother and, while she’d done some questionable things over the years, she’d never done anything like this.
Laurel closed her eyes as she tried to will back the pain of the betrayal. Although, betrayal wasn’t the right word, not really, because Elizabeth hadn’t promised anything but the cold, hard cash she knew Laurel needed... And Laurel had been willing to take it. Did that make her any better than her mother, a woman who was always on the prowl for a man to fund her lifestyle?
Taking a deep breath, Laurel opened her eyes and then shrugged off the satin slip of a dress. It pooled at her feet and, overcome suddenly with a remorse so strong it felt like a physical illness, cramping her stomach and making her gorge rise, she kicked the offending garment into the corner of the room.
But that wasn’t enough—Laurel could still see the dress, a rumpled pile of silver, and with a little cry she snatched it up and pulled. The thin fabric tore easily, and within seconds the dress was in bright, glittering ribbons that she stuffed into the bin. Then she realised it was remarkably unwise to destroy the one piece of clothing she had. Was she meant to go confront Cristiano in nothing but a lacy thong? That would go over well.
With a groan, Laurel turned on the shower. She needed to wash and scrub off the scent of the expensive, cloying cologne that Rico Bavasso wore before she thought about what could she do—or what could she wear.
She stepped under the powerful jets, letting the water stream over and wash away her regrets...if only it could. She never should have agreed to her mother’s plan. Never should have sold her soul for a flimsy promise her mother now might not even keep. And if she didn’t...
Laurel’s heart lurched. It didn’t feel fair that she wanted so little, worked so hard and might still end up with nothing. But she knew there was no point in whining or crying about it. She’d made her own choices, and they hadn’t all been good ones. Some of them had been extraordinarily bad. Somehow she had to rescue what she could from the rubble of the last few hours.
She stayed in the bathroom for as long as she could, first under the soothing spray of the shower, and then brushing her hair. Thankfully there was a thick navy terrycloth robe hanging on the door and she swathed herself in it, grateful that it covered her from her neck to her toes. She needed the armour, flimsy as it was.
She also needed time to figure out a plan—and how to present it to Cristiano. She had, unfortunately, extremely limited resources or options. She’d left her handbag behind in Bavasso’s hotel room, with her money, driving licence and hotel key. Her passport, at least, was in the safe back at the shabby pensione where she and her mother were staying. But how was she going to get there? What if Bavasso was waiting for her?
Taking a deep breath, she decided it was time to face the music. Face Cristiano...a prospect that made her insides lurch with alarm even as a little ripple of anticipation shivered through her. She was looking forward to seeing him, even sparring with him, although heaven knew she shouldn’t be.
The relief she’d felt at being rescued, however accidentally, from Rico Bavasso’s clutches had dissolved, replaced with an uncomfortable realisation that there was no love lost between Cristiano and her, or Cristiano’s father and her mother. A bitter divorce had put paid to any family reunions, and if he remembered Laurel’s schoolgirl crush he certainly didn’t do so fondly. But surely he’d help her, a woman so obviously in distress and need? Cool and remote he might be, but he was—she hoped—a man of honour.
With nothing left to lose, Laurel headed back out to
the suite’s sitting room. Cristiano was stretched out on one of the sofas, his long, muscular legs propped on a glass-and-chrome coffee table, his high-tech smart phone in one hand as he scrolled through messages. He slid it into his pocket and stood up, all graceful, fluid urbanity, as she came into the room.
‘Feel better?’ he asked with a sardonic lift of one eyebrow.
‘Yes, thank you. Your shower is amazing.’ Her voice sounded thin and wavering, the voice of a girl rather than a woman. Laurel straightened. Cristiano might reduce her insides to quivering jelly—it was hard not to be affected and, yes, dazzled, by a man who exuded so much potent, masculine sexuality—but she could still take control of this conversation. ‘I need to ask a favour of you.’
Cristiano looked unsurprised. ‘Oh?’ His voice was mild and enquiring, yet something dark pulsed underneath that innocuous tone, something that made Laurel feel even warier than she already did.
‘Could you please send someone—one of your staff, perhaps—to my hotel? I need my things—my clothes and my passport.’ She lifted her chin, forcing herself to meet his sardonic, silvery gaze. ‘I’m intending to leave Rome as soon as possible.’
He cocked his head. ‘Things not work out to your satisfaction here, then?’
She couldn’t miss the mocking note in his voice and a flush swept over her. Still she kept his gaze. ‘No.’
‘Rico Bavasso doesn’t like to be thwarted, you know,’ Cristiano said after a moment when he continued simply to study her, an inspection so thorough Laurel felt as if he could see beneath the big, bulky robe she wore.
‘I guessed as much, which is why I’m planning on leaving the country.’
‘You think it will be that easy?’
Unease tightened in her gut and flared through her insides. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Bavasso is a powerful and unpleasant man,’ Cristiano stated flatly. ‘You chose the wrong mark, bella.’
She stared at him, that one work reverberating through her. Mark. So he thought she was a con artist, one step up from a prostitute, perhaps. She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t even be surprised. She’d been acting like one, more or less, all evening, even if she’d never meant things to unravel the way they had. Shame burned deep, singeing her conscience, her soul. Why had she been so stupid; so desperate?
And as for Bavasso being both powerful and unpleasant...having it confirmed was the last thing she needed right now.
‘He’s not my mark,’ she said. Cristiano merely looked disbelieving. ‘You have no right to judge me,’ she snapped, her nerves strung tight. Cristiano was hardly the person to be angry with, but no one else was available, and frankly she could use a tiny bit of sympathy right then. ‘So what do you suggest I do?’
‘Lie low for a while,’ Cristiano stated carelessly, as if it was all of very little concern to him. And, of course, it was. She might have been semi-cyber-stalking him for the last ten years but Laurel very much doubted he’d given her so much as a thought. She was half-amazed he’d even remembered her name.
‘Lie low,’ she repeated, and she was the disbelieving one now. ‘How? And where? I left my handbag in his hotel suite and all my belongings are back in the pensione.’ She drew a quick, sharp breath. ‘Will you please send someone to fetch them? It’s a small favour...’
‘A small favour? I’m hardly about to send one of my staff into a very difficult situation, bella.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ she returned tightly. She knew he didn’t mean it and it felt mocking. A sneer she couldn’t stand when she already felt scraped raw, everything about this situation making her feel intensely, painfully vulnerable.
‘Why not?’ Cristiano challenged, his voice turning soft, seductive. ‘You are very beautiful. I am merely stating fact.’ His gaze lingered, caressing her, making her respond. She felt heat unfurl in her belly and pool between her thighs, a treacherous and most inconvenient heat she was doing her best to deny.
‘Why is it difficult?’ she persisted, trying to pretend he wasn’t affecting her. That a blush wasn’t sweeping in a scorching tidal wave over her entire body.
‘Because Bavasso is an unpleasant man and he is likely to make things difficult for anyone who helps someone who thwarted him. I have no doubt he will have his security detail waiting at your hotel. If someone shows up asking for your room key, they’ll know.’
‘But couldn’t you...couldn’t someone be discreet?’
Cristiano’s eyes narrowed. ‘You might feel entirely at ease with putting an innocent person in such a situation, but I am not.’
Laurel swayed as she was hit afresh by what an awful mess she’d managed to get herself into. Feeling as if her legs might give way beneath her, she walked to the sofa across from Cristiano and sank onto it. ‘What am I going to do?’ she whispered, more to herself than to Cristiano. She dropped her head into her hands and closed her eyes. ‘What am I going to do?’
* * *
Cristiano suppressed the pang of sympathy he felt for Laurel. The sight of her sitting there with her head in her hands, her hair falling in a golden-brown waterfall around her face, her robe gaping open to reveal slender, golden thighs... What man wouldn’t be affected? Not just by sympathy, but by desire. He suppressed that too. It was inconvenient at the moment, although he’d noted Laurel’s obvious response to him with interest. He’d also noted her attempt to cover it. For whatever reason, she didn’t want him knowing how he affected her, and she hadn’t made any attempt to ask to stay, so what game was she playing?
‘The answer seems fairly obvious,’ he remarked as he strolled to the window and gazed out at the view of Rome’s skyline by night. ‘You stay here.’
He glanced back at Laurel; she raised her head, her aquamarine eyes wide with shock, the exact colour of the sunlit Aegean Sea. Her hair hung in damp ringlets around her heart-shaped face and her robe—his robe, actually—had slid off one shoulder, revealing its perfect curve.
‘Stay here?’ She frowned, her expression of confusion almost comical and definitely suspect. She was putting it on quite thickly for his benefit, and why? This was surely what she’d wanted. What she’d been hoping for. He was a far better bet than Bavasso. So did she think her reluctance would somehow earn her brownie points or, heaven help him, trust?
He trusted no one, especially not a woman like Laurel Forrester.
‘Yes,’ Cristiano answered, his voice clipped, touched with impatience. ‘Stay here.’
‘For how long?’
‘As long as is necessary.’ He paused, letting his gaze sweep over her once more. The robe gaped at her chest and he could see the shadowy vee between her breasts, almost glimpse their sweet, apple-like curves. ‘As long as I want you to stay.’ She drew in a quick, sharp breath, colour flooding her face. She almost looked outraged. ‘You don’t need to look quite so bewildered,’ Cristiano drawled.
‘Why shouldn’t I be bewildered?’ Laurel demanded. ‘It almost sounded as if...’
‘As if what?’ Cristiano prompted silkily. She bit her lip and looked away.
‘Nothing.’
Cristiano almost laughed at that. She didn’t want to overplay her hand. She was so obvious, it amused him. Almost. The trouble was, he hated game playing. All his liaisons had been conducted with discretion and honesty, from their businesslike beginning to the expected end of the transaction. This would be no different, but he’d humour her for a little while...just to see where she’d go with this. What exactly she was trying to get? How much?
‘So how long would that be?’ Laurel asked, straightening as she drew the robe closed at her throat, every inch the outraged virgin. ‘Because I don’t even have any clothes.’
‘A day or two at most. Bavasso will have moved on by then, no doubt.’ He let his gaze linger. ‘As for clothes... I’m not at all sure they’ll be necessary.’ She gasped and he laughed. ‘Relax, bella. I’m only joking.’ Sort of. ‘I’ll arrange for some clothes to be brought up to you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly and looked away. Cristiano propped one shoulder against the floor-to-ceiling window, taking the time to study her. The puppyish roundness of her teenage years had melted away, leaving behind a lithe yet curvaceous body. She was slender, verging on petite, yet her legs seemed endless and golden, her hair a cascade of colours, from chestnut brown to tawny orange to pure gold. She must pay her hairdresser a fortune.
‘So where is home, out of interest?’ he asked. ‘Since it’s obviously not Rome.’
She darted him a quick, suspicious glance before answering, ‘Illinois.’
‘Illinois?’ That surprised him, although he knew she and her mother were American. His father had picked up Elizabeth Forrester in a third-rate casino in Miami and had married her just four days later. ‘Chicago?’ He would have expected Los Angeles or New York, somewhere where she could be seen and admired—and where she could find a sugar daddy.
‘No, a small town you’ve never heard of.’ Her tone was repressive. ‘Are you going to order those clothes?’
‘You’re being quite demanding, for a woman who has nothing to offer... Unless you do have something to offer?’ He intentionally let a note of innuendo into his voice and saw how her pupils flared in response. This was so easy.
‘My gratitude,’ Laurel bit out. She turned her head away, refusing to look at him.
‘Ah, well, the question remains, how is one’s gratitude expressed?’ He enjoyed toying with her, enjoyed the way her breasts rose and fell with every agitated breath. A rosy blush swept across her collarbone. She had the most delectable skin, all golden cream and roses. He couldn’t wait to touch it. Taste it.
‘I would hope a simple thank you would do.’ In one abrupt movement she rose from the sofa, pulling the huge robe more tightly around her slender frame. ‘I don’t understand you, Cristiano. An hour ago I was attacked. Why are you toying with me like this? Do you enjoy being cruel?’
