A primitive part of him clawed to be free, to shove her skirt up, to push her down on the floor, to take her quickly, with all the need thrumming in his veins.
Some remnant of the gentleman he had once been made him release her, steady her with a hand on her elbow, and ask huskily, “Does that answer your question?”
She stood looking at him, blue eyes wide, fingers pressed to her lips. “Not a myth,” she whispered.
“No.” He wanted to laugh, but the effort of freeing her had strained something chivalrous inside him and he didn’t dare push the issue. “No, good sex is not an illusion, but what’s between us isn’t good sex. It’s more like a force of nature . . . or a trick fate has played on us both.”
“Funny. I thought . . . fate . . . I thought that when I saw you.”
“We are agreed. This is fate.” How pleased his grandfather would be to know that Roberto proved himself half Contini after all! Wild. Reckless. Incorrigible. “So we’ll spend the night together. You don’t have to tell me why. I don’t have to pretend to love you. And in the morning we’ll part, never to see each other again.” He’d never been rash before. Why now?
Ah, yes. Because his life had tilted sideways and everything he had known, everything he had been, had been knocked askew.
“All right. It’s a deal.” She extended her hand to shake his.
When he took it, he realized she trembled. He hoped not from nerves; he hoped from suppressed desire. Lifting her hand to his lips, he pressed a lingering kiss on the palm, then closed her fingers on it.
“But I don’t want to be seen leaving together.” For a woman who had been thoroughly kissed, she showed a practical streak.
For that matter, so did he. “I have to stay longer. To do less would be ungrateful to Mr. McGrath. So I’ll call my driver. He’ll pick you up when you step out the door. I’ll tell the concierge at my hotel that you’re coming.” He handed her his passkey.
She looked down at the card in her hand. “Aren’t you worried I’ll steal something?”
With all the people who were watching him? “That is the last thing I’m worried about.”
“Somehow I can’t imagine that you’re a trusting soul.”
And she was a discerning soul. “Tonight I will trust you with myself.”
She inclined her head, not because she believed him, but because she accepted his right to prevaricate. She strolled toward the door, each motion of her body beneath the scarlet gown an enticement. “Don’t change your clothes,” he said.
She turned back in surprise. “But I bought the most gorgeous negligee.”
Suspicion—some would call it good sense—rose in him again. “For me?”
“Yes. Well . . .” She shrugged. “For the man I found tonight. Luckily, it is you. The negligee is a cream silk with lace inserts here and—”
“I want to remove your gown,” he whispered huskily. At his own instructions, desire hit him hard and low. The thought of seeking out the zipper of that enticing dress, sliding it down, seeing what was beneath it . . . He took a step toward her.
She saw his craving and chuckled, low and warm. “Remember, Roberto, you must stay at the party for another hour.”
He did have to. He was in Chicago for one reason. No woman, however attractive, could change that.
“At midnight, you can turn into a pumpkin.” Again she strolled toward the door.
He remembered what he didn’t yet know, and called, “What’s your name?”
She leaned against the door frame, her body a beckoning silhouette, and smiled. “Brandi. I’m Brandi.”
“Brandi?”
“Yes?”
“You go to my head.”
Gwynne and a weary-looking man in a rumpled suit had engaged Uncle Charles in conversation. Gwynne’s husband. Gwynne leaned against him, holding his hand, secure now that he was there, and Brandi worked her way across the floor toward them.
Gwynne and Stan turned away as Brandi approached. Gwynne tried to stop, but Stan tugged her toward the buffet table, and she gave Brandi a helpless wave and followed.
Brandi had Roberto on her mind, so when Gwynne looked back with pity in her eyes, Brandi didn’t know what to think. Pity? For the woman about to spend the night with Roberto Bartolini? With a dismissive shrug, Brandi said, “Uncle Charles, I’m going to take my leave. I know I was going to stay, but the move . . . I have so much to do before Monday. . . .” She tried to arrange her expression to weariness, and not show the guests, and certainly not Uncle Charles, that she’d just experienced the kiss of a lifetime. When she thought of it, of Roberto, she wanted to put her hand over heart to feel it race and know, at last, that she was alive.
To her surprise, Uncle Charles didn’t object. “I’ll walk you to the foyer.”
She was so relieved, she didn’t notice the somber cast to his eyes. She got her things from the checkroom, and as he helped her into her coat, he said, “I was just talking to Stan Durant. You know he works at University Hospital.”
“Yes.” She buttoned her coat and wished Roberto were departing with her. Of course, they couldn’t leave together, but it felt odd going to an assignation by herself.
“Stan says there are rumors flying around the hospital that your fiancé . . . that Alan . . .”
Uncle Charles had succeeded in capturing Brandi’s attention.
“. . . married some female in a Las Vegas wedding.”
Busted! Busted, and now Uncle Charles was going to figure out why she was leaving, too. She probably had guilt written all over her face. “I . . . I didn’t want to tell you. . . .”
“Dear, dear girl.” He straightened her collar. “You were so brave to come here tonight when your heart is breaking.”
“Breaking. Yes.” Maybe guilt looked like suffering. Certainly she didn’t feel as if her heart were breaking. More like she couldn’t wait to make love with Roberto Bartolini.
“I’ll let you go without another word”—Uncle Charles took her hand—“but promise you’ll come to me if I can do anything to mend your grief.”
“If I think of something, you’ll be the first to know.” Or not. Uncle Charles would never find out how she mended her grief; on that she was determined.
“Let me bring my car around for you.”
“No!” She swallowed. “I mean, I’ve made arrangements for a car. But thank you; you’ve been very kind.”
He held her in place and looked into her eyes. “Promise you won’t be like your mother and let one bad apple spoil the whole crop. That lovely woman should have remarried years ago, and she won’t take a chance and trust another man.”
He was comparing her situation to her mother’s. It was inevitable, she supposed, but how she hated it! “I won’t. Good night, Uncle Charles.” She kissed his papery cheek and picked up her bag.
“Your car’s waiting, Miss Michaels.” Jerry opened the door.
A blast of frigid wind took her breath away. She gasped, then hurried out. A long black limousine stood at the bottom of the steps. The driver stood holding the door. He must be freezing. As she slid in, he tipped his hat, then shut the door and hurried around the car.
A dim overhead light illuminated the interior of black leather and polished wood. The clean, new-car smell intoxicated her. She sank back and let the seat heater thaw her bones.
“I’m Newby, miss. I’ll have you to the hotel in about a half hour.” The driver had a British accent, and just like in the movies, he wore a billed cap. “Can I get anything for you before we start? A drink? Something to read? A phone or computer? We have satellite connection if you’d like to check your e-mail or surf the Net.”
She was impressed. Of course she was impressed. “No, thank you, I’m going to sit back and enjoy myself.”
“During the drive, if you desire anything, let me know.”
“I will, thank you.”
“There’s a button right there to summon me.” He rolled up the window between the seats, put the car in ge
ar, and, unlike her cabbie, drove her smoothly down the road.
The luxury and the lack of reality enfolded her. She was on her way to an assignation with the man of her dreams, the assignation she’d successfully arranged for herself. Perhaps she had a career in labor negotiations. She’d made a bargain . . . but when Roberto had taken her hand, when he’d kissed her, he made it feel like more than a bargain.
Fate had given her just what she asked for.
Why did she choose this minute to remember that Fate always required payment for her services?
7
The concierge didn’t flinch when Brandi requested iced champagne, a bowl of fruit, and three dozen white candles. He asked only, “Scented or unscented? In jars? On stands?”
“Not scented, and a few in jars if necessary, but mostly I think simple pillar candles will do. Bring them in and place them . . .” She surveyed her temporary domain. Roberto occupied a corner suite on the top floor of the fifty-eight-story Resolution Hotel on Michigan Avenue.
She didn’t like being up so high. Heights made her queasy. But as long as she didn’t look out the window, everything was fine. More than fine. The ceilings in the sitting room and the bedroom soared two stories, and skylights showed the stars glittering bright and cold in the black of eternity. In the sitting room, the gas fireplace bathed the walls in a flickering golden glow.
Roberto’s laptop, a marvel of technology with its custom case, sat on the antique desk. In fact, all the furniture looked antique, yet the seats were comfortable and included a backless sofa upholstered with a striped satin fabric and standing on clawed feet. “I think I’d like you to place them there on the table.” She gestured toward that sofa.
“Behind the fainting couch?” the concierge asked.
“Yes. Exactly there. I’ll distribute them. I’ll need them in the next half hour.”
“Of course.” He bowed his way out.
Brandi waited until he’d shut the door before picking up her bag and tearing into the bathroom. She had her ablutions all planned out, and in less than forty-five minutes she had showered, shampooed, and slipped back into her scarlet dress and her gold shoes. She dried her hair and clipped it atop her head. She dabbed her neck and wrists with sandalwood- and orange-scented perfumes. She lit the candles and posed on the fainting couch, reclining on her side, her head propped up in her hand, the flames flickering around her, bathing her with sultry intent. She was confident she’d done everything to make this her night of sensual debauchery with the sexiest man in Chicago—a man of her choice.
Then Roberto walked in, and she realized she could control everything tonight . . . except him. In her carefully plotted scheme of revenge, he was the unknown element.
He stopped short at the sight of her. His hands flexed. His eyes narrowed.
A pirate.
He looked like a pirate.
He moved into the room, discarding his bow tie and jacket, and he didn’t swagger, but he did . . . stalk. And he looked hungry.
Suddenly she felt less like a seductress and more like a maiden to be ravished.
But he sounded mild enough. “Do you like your accommodations?”
“I’ve never seen anything so lovely in my life. The view . . .” She gestured at the two gigantic corner windows where the lights of Chicago spread out like candles on a cake, and beyond that Lake Michigan was a dark blot in the icy night.
“Good.” His already deep voice deepened more. “I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy.” She sat up a little straighter. “Very happy. That bathroom is the epitome of decadence. I could perform the solo from Swan Lake right there between the tub and the vanity.” She was chatting, and all because her heart was beating faster.
This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? The chance to make love with a man every woman dreamed of?
Of course it was, but she hadn’t taken into account that women dreamed of dangerous men. Surely an Italian count with a reputation for great sex wasn’t dangerous, but right now, in the dark, knowing that soon their bodies would meld, he seemed dangerous.
In fact, now that she thought about it, he’d seemed dangerous at the party, but her own fury had insulated her from apprehension.
Now, torn between trepidation and a rapidly increasing awe, she chewed her lip and watched as he unbuttoned his shirt.
Clothed, he gave the impression of being tall and healthy, but his suit hid the cascade of muscled ribs, the ridged belly, the bulging arms. This man took working out to an art, and that surprised her. Most men who exercised to such a state of fitness worshipped their own bodies and had no time to admire a woman.
All Roberto’s attention was fixed on her. It was almost intimidating to be the focus of so much attention. Intimidating . . . and exciting.
“On the way here, I convinced myself that my eyes had deceived me. I told myself there was no way you could be as magnificent as I remembered. But you . . . with your golden hair piled high on your head and the red silk caressing your glorious curves”—he smiled, and dimples pressed deep into his cheeks—“and those frivolous gold sandals, you look like a Roman feast.”
“Do I?” Odd how easily her cold feet warmed under the sunshine of his praise.
He returned her to the time when she was eighteen, at college, and just learning of her potent sexual appeal. Tiffany had told her that youth was the greatest aphrodisiac of all, but until Brandi saw the senior frat boys sauntering toward her, one by one trying desperately to impress her, she hadn’t realized how right her mother could be.
Then she’d met Alan, the sensible choice, and she’d done the right thing. She’d accepted his proposal. She’d been with him for four years, and somehow during that time the thrill of knowing she could smile and turn a man into a willing slave had vanished, leaving behind a female prosaic and almost weary.
Now Roberto caressed her with his deep voice, and called her magnificent, and she believed him.
Recalling her plans for seduction, she slithered back on the couch and stretched, her arms a graceful arch over her head, her breasts almost—almost!—slipping free of their restraint.
His harsh inhalation was a balm to her soul.
She released the clip that held her hair in place, and shook her head. The newly highlighted strands tumbled around her shoulders.
She barely saw him move, yet suddenly he was kneeling at her side.
“You’re a Roman feast, and you convince me I’m a conquering gladiator.” The warm, rich timbre of his voice had changed. He sounded guttural with desperation. With need. Catching her head in his broad hands, he held her still for his kiss—a kiss of rough desire, of tender desperation.
Where had he learned to kiss like this, with just the right pressure of his lips on hers, with a tongue that stroked the cavern of her mouth so expertly she felt a growing warmth between her legs? He lifted his lips, and she pressed her thighs together, trying to preserve the sensation.
But he was only moving up to kiss her eyelids, then over to suck her earlobe, then bite it with a gentle nip that made her gasp and struggle briefly.
“Did I injure you?” he murmured. When she didn’t answer right away, he drew back and wet his finger on his tongue, then slid it along her lower lip. “Darling, you have to instruct me. I never want to harm you. To tease you, to titillate you, to make you cry aloud with ecstasy. But hurt you, never.”
“No. No, you didn’t hurt me.” Yet the sudden change from pure slick recklessness to the sharp edge of his teeth reminded her to be wary. She didn’t know this man. He was big, far taller and broader than she had remembered. And the way he watched her, as if he were a predator and she his prey . . .
Yet when he said, “I only want to take you to the brink of pleasurable insanity,” she learned she trusted him to take care of her—her body and her feelings—far more than she had trusted Alan for a long, long time. And she realized, also, that Roberto’s voice, his accent, his words, and his care for her created warm havoc in h
er body.
Grasping the edges of his shirt, she pulled him up to her and kissed him. Kissed him as she had never had the nerve—or the interest?—to kiss Alan. She captured Roberto’s tongue and sucked on it, needing the taste of him in her mouth, needing the intrusion of his body into hers. When she finally let him go, she asked, “That brink of pleasurable insanity?”
He ripped the remaining buttons off his shirt. Actually ripped them.
They bounced across the floor. He gestured at them, at himself. “You make me a beast.”
“I do, don’t I?” And how pleased that made her! She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, down his arms . . . everywhere she touched his skin flushed and burned with fever.
He shook himself free of the shirt and cupped his hands over her bare shoulders. “I savor the silk of your skin, the strength of your arms.”
She looked at him: at his face, his chest, his waist. In awe, she whispered, “You are so beautiful.”
“Beautiful? Me?” He chuckled in resonant amusement. “Men are not beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful like a statue, like art, like”—she looked up at the skylight—“like the stars in the midnight sky. You’re so much more than I expected . . . but you’re everything I deserve.”
“I like that you have such expectations, and that I fulfill them. Most American women, they can’t say what they wish.” His Italian accent was strong and tender. “They haven’t the words, or they’re too shy to use them. I always pitied them for that deficiency. But you . . . you speak to me and I am mad with passion. Do you want a madman?”
“I want you.” In a leisurely gesture, she stroked the straining neckline of her dress. “I want you to undress me.” My God. She was actually purring.
“I know a few things about undressing a woman, and somewhere on this gown there must be a zipper.” His gaze roamed over her, but he wasn’t looking at the dress. He was looking at her.
Dangerous Ladies Page 7
