Tempted by Trouble

by Michelle Smart

  The sooner she was out of here, the better. With any luck, she would be able to get a flight back today.

  As far as her finances were concerned, she had enough squirreled away to stay in a cheap B and B for a few days. That should be enough time to find another waitressing job and live off the tips for a while.

  Maybe she should dye her hair and change her name…

  A sharp pain across her ribs doubled her over, the pain so acute it made her dizzy. Fearing she would be sick, she clung to the banister, all plans for the immediate future gone.

  She crawled the rest of the way to her bedroom. The only thought that kept her going was getting off this godforsaken island. Once she was away from here, she would never, never see Marco Capello again.

  …

  Marco parked his car in his underground garage, his mind troubled. He had been uneasy since Pippa padded out of his kitchen. Had she been as stiff when he collected her yesterday? He honestly could not remember. Being with her again had knocked him sideways in ways he could never have anticipated.

  He had to hand it to her, though: the woman knew how to act. Her wide-eyed innocence at any suggestion that she had caused damage to anyone but herself deserved an Oscar.

  Or so he had thought.

  Since he had left the house, a little voice in his head had been nagging away at him. What if she was telling the truth?

  He had gone back to his office, sat through the latest round of meetings with his lawyers, and found his concentration shot.

  His company and personal fortune were practically invulnerable to outside forces, but as he knew from experience, one little error for whatever reason could be the start of his downfall.

  Never again would he allow himself to be exposed. Never again would he stare ruin in the face or taste the fear of failure.

  He had always been dedicated and diligent in his approach to work. Starting over, he had simply raised his game and driven all outside distractions away through single-minded focus.

  Until Pippa had come back into his life, he had never lost that focus.

  What if she was telling the truth?

  How badly he wanted it to be true. And how badly he wanted it to be a lie. If she was telling the truth, then someone—a man—really had assaulted her. A man had put her through physical and emotional pain.

  And he had hurt her, too.

  Years of pent-up fury had tumbled out of his mouth and he had been deliberately cruel. He should have been pleased to have finally delivered the long overdue home-truths to her, but all he felt was an aching twist in his guts, a vat of acid regurgitating within him.

  It wasn’t even her stiffness that troubled him, although that played its part. What really troubled him was the vivid bruise running the entire side of Pippa’s left thigh. He’d caught a glimpse of it as she shut the kitchen door. The bruise was a deep bluish-purple. He’d had to blink a couple of times before he registered what he was seeing.

  The image of that bruise was still there, hovering beneath his eyelids.

  Where the hell had it come from? It was far too large to be passed off as a bump against a door or table.

  What if she was telling the truth?

  What if she was facing a prison sentence for something she hadn’t done?

  What if she was innocent?

  Unable to concentrate on the job at hand, eventually he gave in. He told Marnie, his personal assistant, to rearrange his remaining appointments, then strode out of the building and headed home, an event that caused all his Grand Cayman–based staff to whisper among themselves in shock. It was unheard-of for Marco to cancel appointments. He was a workaholic, and here he was, canceling appointments two days in a row.

  He wondered if she’d had any luck in getting a flight home. She might already have left. A tiny bead of sweat popped out on his forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  “Joycy, where is Pippa?” Marco asked as soon as he stepped into the kitchen.

  To his surprise, Joycy threw him a black look. “She is out by the swimming pool.”

  “So she’s still here, then,” he said under his breath, dropping his briefcase on the kitchen table and chucking his jacket and tie on top of it.

  “No thanks to you.”

  That stopped him in his tracks. “What do you mean by that?”

  She threw her tea towel on the side. “That girl is not well. You cannot let her leave.”

  Too impatient to satisfy himself that Pippa was still there and hadn’t magically transported herself off the island, he brushed aside Joycy’s observations. He strode through to the living room and opened the sliding door that led outside. He walked down the marble steps, smelling the heady scent of jasmine and honey blossom. Like the rest of his property, the kidney-shaped swimming pool was secluded from prying eyes, encircled by a six-foot wall.

  She was lying on a sun lounger with a parasol shading her from the glaring heat of the afternoon sun. A thin pale blue sarong that matched her eyes covered her like a blanket, but it wasn’t until he was standing over her that he realized she was fast asleep. Her face was pressed into a novel she had been reading before sleep had taken her.

  He bent down to shake her but stopped short of touching her, alarmed at the depths of his need to feel that creamy skin beneath his fingers. He swallowed, unable to tear his eyes away.

  In repose she looked more like an angel than ever. He’d never seen such silky white-blond hair on any other woman. She’d tucked it behind her ear, exposing the delicate curve of her neck, onto which he felt an irresistible urge to press his lips.

  The ache in his groin made him take a step back and close his eyes.

  Pippa was a beautiful woman. It was only natural for his body to react to her, no matter how unwanted a reaction it might be.

  He had gone without sex for too long. That was the only logical explanation for the ferocious lust he felt whenever he was with her. It was the only explanation for the desire that simmered in his blood when he was away from her.

  He had always been choosy, so it was no surprise his impulsive date the night before had been something of a disaster. His date had been a fiercely intelligent lawyer with a strong philanthropic streak, who by rights ticked all the boxes in his ideal of the perfect woman. Beautiful and glossy, she looked the part, too. Yes, the perfect woman, the type any man would be proud to have on his arm. Except her earnestness had bored him to tears and he’d spent the entire meal trying not to think about his feisty, flighty, troublesome houseguest. In the end, he had made his excuses and driven his date home early.

  Even if he was a man who could just take a woman with no thought to the consequences, Pippa would still be off limits. Even forgetting the past, she was still Pippa, the little girl hiding under the table.

  She’d been technically an adult at the age of eighteen when she had first stolen his breath. Even if he’d been free and she’d been sober, he would never have taken advantage of what she’d been offering.

  She was too young for him.

  No she’s not. She’s a twenty-five-year-old woman.

  He swatted the sly thought away.

  He was going to have to bite the bullet and wake her up. He was going to have to touch her.

  Chapter Four

  Usually, music was Pippa’s solace and salvation, the one part of her life that was good and wholesome. She would have given anything to be able to sit down at the beautiful Steinway and play all the tension away, but her left wrist was still far too sore.

  She had been ordered out of the house by an irate Joycy, who refused to let her help in any shape or form. The housekeeper had ordered her to rest and get some sun but not before applying liberal amounts of arnica to her bruises, promising they would heal quicker with it.

  It had been the strangest sensation, being tended to in an almost motherly fashion. Joycy’s simple kindness had touched her, her no-nonsense manner ensuring that Pippa obeyed without arguing.

  She had settled wi
th a book by Marco’s swimming pool, relieved the stone wall designed for privacy hid the sea. It might be broad daylight but after that confrontation with Marco, she just didn’t have any energy left to confront her issues with the sea as well. Her phobia—a phobia she hadn’t even known existed until she arrived here on Grand Cayman—had certainly been worse last night when the sea had appeared as a dark, malevolent entity, but at least the shutters could be closed and the view cut off.

  The printed words of the novel flitted in front of her eyes. All she could see was Marco and the whispered memories that came into sharper focus.

  She had never been able to pinpoint when, exactly, she had fallen for him. All she knew was that from their very first meeting, she only had to think of him and her heart would sing.

  Childhood had turned into adolescence and with her developing figure had grown her developing attitude and sexual stirrings. Around the age of fifteen, her hero worship had turned into a thumping great crush. When she looked back, her adolescent attempts to gain his attention made her wince. She might as well have carried a sign around her neck saying “I fancy Marco.”

  And was it any wonder?

  When at sixteen she had styled her hair into bright pink spikes, she had caught the amusement in his eyes.

  “An excellent choice for a Pink Hedgehog Party,” he had said. “But maybe a little much for a trip to the ballet?”

  Naturally, she hadn’t taken the blindest bit of notice, but the kindness of his words and tone had canceled out her father’s unspoken fury.

  That had been Marco all over. His amusement wasn’t always apparent but he was never afraid to tackle her behavior.

  Somehow she had managed to convince herself that one day he would notice her for the woman she had believed herself to be.

  She could not have been more mistaken.

  A shadow crossed her body, waking her from the light sleep she had drifted into. She blinked to focus and found Marco staring down at her.

  Their eyes met and something jumped between them. In that moment she saw the yearning mirroring her own, that same untouchable desire that could never be acted upon.

  “I’m sorry I’m still here,” she said, dropping her eyes. Her voice sounded dry and brittle to her own ears and she realized she had absolutely no moisture in her mouth. She licked her lips and curled up a little tighter. It didn’t help that Marco towered over her, seeming to suck every fresh bit of air in the vicinity, leaving her breathless and starved for oxygen.

  “I couldn’t get a flight home today, so I’m booked on a flight for tomorrow morning.” She added with forced brightness, “I’ve even booked a taxi.” She had been lucky the airline allowed her to change her departure date at no cost.

  He shrugged. “That is not a problem. It is your decision to leave, not mine.”

  He took a seat on the lounger opposite her, resting his muscular arms on his strong thighs. He’d undone most of the buttons on his shirt giving her an excellent view of his hard, bronzed chest covered in a thatch of thick, dark hair, a sight that sent a deep pulse throbbing low in her core.

  She swallowed and forced her eyes elsewhere. Gingerly, she sat upright, wincing as her aching body protested against any movement. She adjusted the sarong so it covered her from her collarbone down, trapping it under her arms so she could hold it securely. There was no way she was allowing Marco to see the skimpy blue and white-striped bikini she was wearing underneath. She remembered all too vividly his absolute rejection of her the last time he had seen her half-naked.

  Carefully, she swung her pale legs round so her feet could touch the ground. “Did you want me for anything?” she asked. “Or have you come home early to throw some more insults at me?”

  She mentally congratulated herself for sounding so poised despite the butterflies playing havoc in her stomach.

  “What is wrong with your wrist?” he asked, his sharp eyes clocking the white bandage that until now had been covered by her clothing.

  “It’s sprained,” she replied shortly, absently flexing her fingers, pleased the pain was a little less acute. In a few days, she would be able to play her piano again, a happy thought that immediately deflated as she remembered she no longer had one.

  “How did you do that?”

  She rolled her eyes but kept her mouth shut. She had already tried to explain and been blown out for her efforts. Marco had chosen to believe her father’s version of events.

  His black eyes narrowed. She followed his gaze to her shoulder, where another vivid bruise resided.

  Feeling strangely disquieted, she leaned forward to collect her glass from under the lounger, wishing he wouldn’t look at her with such intensity. She could feel him studying her body, looking for more bruises. Luckily, her sarong covered the worst of them.

  Before she knew what was happening, he reached out a hand and lightly traced the angry bruise on her shoulder. His touch sent a zap of electricity racing through her and she shifted away, blood thundering in her ears.

  Where had that come from? One little touch and she reacted as if she’d had an electric shock?

  “How did you get this bruise?” he asked quietly, his eyes somber.

  “What do you care?” she demanded, wishing he would just leave her alone. “Go about your day and don’t worry about little old me. I’ll be gone in the morning and you’ll never have to think about me or my war wounds again.”

  The pulse in his jaw began to throb, the intensity in his eyes almost frightening her, not because of any anger—for once there wasn’t any—but because of the sadness there.

  “Pippa, take your sarong off.”

  “What?” She tightened her hold on it. “I most certainly will not!”

  “Either you remove it or I will.” His calm voice broke no argument.

  She was damned if she was going to obey him. “If you lay a single finger on me, I swear to God I will scream my head off,” she warned, getting to her feet, her eyes darting around for any form of assistance.

  “And who will hear you?” he mocked gently. “This is private land and Joycy is virtually deaf.”

  “How convenient for you.”

  “Sarcasm does not become you. Now take it off. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

  “No.” There was no way on earth she was going to let him see her, not after the way he had rejected her semi-naked body seven years ago. She could not bear to witness that same look, that pained disgust, in his eyes.

  Pippa grabbed her book and turned, but he was too quick. As she took a step away, he pinched the corner of the offending material and it fell down with a soft swoosh to her ankles.

  For a moment she was too outraged to say or do anything, could only stand half-naked in front of him in mortification.

  The horror seeping over his face broke through her stupefaction, galvanizing her to plant her hands on her hips and exhibit her body for the one set of eyes that had rejected it. “Happy now?” she snarled, color flaming her cheeks. “Satisfied I’m still as disgusting and undesirable as you remember?”

  His eyes fixed on the dark, bruised band around her midriff. His voice not quite steady, he said, “Sit down, cara. You’re not going anywhere until I get some answers.”

  It was the gentleness in his tone that knocked the fight out of her. Wearily, she sat back on the lounger, picking up her sarong and spreading it across her lap. She rubbed her eyes, suddenly wishing she could throw herself into his arms and have him soothe all the pain away.

  As if he could read her mind, Marco switched loungers so he was sitting next to her. “Where else are you injured?” he asked, his tone surprisingly tender.

  Mutely, she pointed to the side of her skull and winced as he placed a hand on her head. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised.

  She was powerless to do anything to stop him. Her legs had turned into spaghetti and it took all the strength she possessed to stop herself from melting.

  He began to rub the pads of his fingers over her s
calp and she closed her eyes to the seeping sensations that spread from the tip of her head to the curl of her toes. His touch was gentle but firm and she curled her fingers into tight balls to stop herself from swaying.

  When he found the hard lump on the side of her scalp, she heard him suck in a breath, could feel the tension in his fingertips as they carefully ran over the tender area.

  Her heart nearly stopped. A split second later, it began beating at such a galloping rate she was sure it would burst out of her chest. He smelled so exotically masculine, was so utterly virile. The feelings he evoked scared the hell out of her. There was nothing familiar about it, nothing that resonated with the almost innocent teenage crush she’d had on him. This was pure, unadulterated desire.

  If she had known how intensely she would react to him, she would never have set foot on the island. She would have taken her chances recovering in a cardboard box.

  …

  Marco turned Pippa’s stubborn body round so he could look at her properly. Her eyes were wide but any emotion was masked, as if she had pulled the shutters down on her feelings. The urge to run his finger down her cheek was too powerful to resist. He felt a tiny shudder as he traced skin as soft as butter, softer than his wildest imaginings.

  “When are you going to tell me the truth about what happened?”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “I tried to tell you this morning. You didn’t want to listen.”

  As if his hands had a life of their own, Marco tipped up her chin. What was she thinking, he wondered, his stomach aching at the irrational need possessing him, the need to kiss away all her pain, to make her better, make her whole. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his face, smell her sweetness. The urge to taste those delectable lips became all-consuming. Just one taste. Just one bite of the forbidden fruit…

  Her eyes darkened in confusion and he smothered a groan as the tip of her pink tongue poked between her lips.

  No, no, no. This was a mistake. He dropped her chin and edged away from her. She had clearly been on the receiving end of a violent attack and he had been consumed with kissing her?