by Abby Green
Gracie watched as Rocco pulled pen and paper out of a drawer and scrawled a couple of numbers and names on it before putting it into her numb hand.
‘That’s my executive assistant’s number if you need to get me. I’ll be in meetings all day on the other side of the city. You can use the phones in the apartment.’ His eyes flashed. ‘Needless to say, any calls to your brother will be recorded. I’ve also written down my old housekeeper’s number, so you can call to consult with her on what I’ll expect.’
Gracie looked down at the paper and then heard his mocking voice.
‘My main head of security is positioned right outside this apartment and he can see every movement in and out of the building. If you attempt to leave you’ll merely be brought back.’
She looked back and held up the paper, muttering caustically, ‘You mean I don’t have a direct line to God?’
Rocco smiled and it was wicked, making Gracie’s heart-rate and body temperature soar.
‘I reserve my private number for people I wish to speak to—not miscreants and thieves.’
His words had an instant effect on Gracie, causing a hot flush of anger to rise when she thought of the long struggle she and her brother had faced to drag themselves out of their adverse circumstances. ‘You know nothing about me. Nothing.’
His eyes turned cool. ‘I know all I need to know. Keep out of trouble until I see you again.’
Gracie watched as he turned and strode away, and shamingly her anger drained away as she found herself wondering what kind of person someone like Rocco would want to give his private number to and speak with in low, intimate tones.
Anger at her wayward imagination made her call defiantly after him, ‘Don’t think you can get away with this. You’re nothing but an … autocratic megalomaniac.’
Rocco turned around and Gracie’s heart stuttered to a halt when she saw the anger on his face. Fear gripped her, but it was fear because of her helpless physical response to him. This awful weak yearning he effortlessly precipitated.
‘If you’re so concerned then by all means call the police. And while you’re onto them you can fill them in on your brother’s recent activities. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear about his progress in the real world since prison.’
Gracie gulped. She felt sick. ‘You know I can’t do that.’
In that moment Gracie could see the long lineage of aristocratic forebears stamped onto Rocco’s arrogant features. He had her all boxed up and judged and right where he wanted her.
‘Well, then, you’d better get acquainted with this apartment—because it’s your home for the forseeable future.’
After he’d walked out Gracie tried hard to drum up anger or even hatred, but to her intense chagrin all she could seem to think of was the way he’d insisted on feeding her the previous evening.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROCCO sat in the back of his chauffeur-driven car. The London traffic was at a standstill. He could sense the tension in his driver and leaned forward to say, ‘Don’t sweat it, Emilio. I’m not too bothered about time.’
The driver’s shoulders visibly slumped a little. ‘Thanks, Boss.’
It was only when Rocco sat back again and flicked the switch to raise the privacy window that he went very still. He never usually went out of his way to put people at ease. He thrived on knowing that people never knew what to expect from him, or which way he’d jump. He was never rude to employees. He was scrupulously fair and polite. But he knew he possessed that edge. People were never entirely comfortable around him.
Except for Gracie O’Brien. She wasn’t comfortable around him either, but she stood up to him like no one else ever had.
With the utmost reluctance Rocco had to concede that there was a strong possibility she wasn’t lying when she said that she’d had nothing to do with her brother’s plans. She’d looked far too shocked the previous evening when he’d mentioned jail, and if she’d known what he’d done she’d have to have been aware that jail was an option. Plus there was the fact she’d come to the offices in the first place.
Nevertheless, he’d learnt a lesson about trusting his instincts when it had come to her brother, so he’d be a fool to trust her for a second. Even if everything else had checked out once she’d told him who her brother was.
His security contacts had access to confidential information. She was listed as his sister, no criminal record—unlike her brother. No other siblings. No mention of parents. A grandmother appeared to have brought them up briefly and then Social Services had taken over. They’d come from one of the roughest parts of London, and without even knowing the details Rocco could close his eyes and imagine the scene. Disadvantaged areas were the same the world over.
Going through her pitiful personal possessions, he’d come across a file full of sketches and text. It looked like a mock-up of a children’s book and he had to admit it was surprisingly good.
He’d also come across a photo of what had to be her and her brother when they were kids. She’d been freckle-faced, with a huge gap-toothed grin, red hair in pigtails, her arm tight around her smaller brother, who had looked skinny and nervous, shy behind thick glasses.
Rocco felt his chest grow tight. His fists clenched. He would not let those huge brown eyes get to him. Or her apparent vulnerability. She was as tough as nails. Clearly out to protect her brother at all costs, whatever her involvement. He’d never really known what that kind of loyalty was like and didn’t like the sensation of envy which lanced him. It was further evidence of their bond, and he would watch her like a hawk until her brother resurfaced.
Rocco would not admit on any level that this desire to keep her close had anything to do with her enigmatic personality or her physical appeal. This was about seeing justice meted out. That was all. One million euros of it.
It was only when he looked at the leafy suburbs passing by outside the car that Rocco realised he hadn’t thought of Honora Winthrop once. Determined not to let the arrival of Gracie O’Brien derail his life any more than she already had, Rocco made a call and ignored the sense of claustrophobia that spiked when Honora Winthrop answered her phone.
Gracie woke from a fitful sleep at five the next morning. She was still disorientated at first, and a familiar knot came into her belly when she realised where she was. A grey dawn light was breaking over London. Her mind went over the previous day and evening. Thankfully she’d been in bed by the time Rocco had come home, and she’d only heard faint sounds as he’d moved around.
He’d made a curt phone call late in the evening to inform her that he’d be dining out and she’d made a face at the phone, hating herself for wondering who he was dining with. After Rocco had left the apartment that previous morning Gracie had looked wistfully at the apartment door and had even opened it—only to find a large atrium outside and a huge barrel of a man sitting at a desk which seemed to have a dozen monitors.
He’d stood up to an alarming height and asked easily, ‘Need to go somewhere, Ms O’Brien?’
Gracie had shook her head. ‘I was just having a look around.’
Perfectly friendly, the man-giant had said, ‘I’m George, and I’m here to take you wherever you want to go, so if you need anything just shout.’
Gracie had mumbled something incoherent. Evidently George was also there to make sure she didn’t go anywhere without him as her close companion. Exactly as Rocco had warned. She’d gone back into the apartment and made a phone call to the last housekeeper, who sounded like a pleasant older woman. She’d cheerfully outlined for Gracie the list of chores Mr de Marco would expect to be done.
Gracie had stood in Rocco’s bedroom and looked at the tousled sheets. His unmistakable scent had hung tantalisingly in the air. Musky and male. The indentation caused by his body had been evident, and Gracie had gone hot when she’d found herself wondering if he slept naked.
Feeling hot all over again, thinking of that bed and those sheets, Gracie registered that she was thirsty and got up.
She stumbled out of the room, still foggy with sleep.
She was only belatedly aware that the kitchen light was on when she walked in and had to squint her eyes against it. When she saw a big dark shape move she screamed, suddenly wide awake.
Eyes huge, she took in the sight that greeted her. Rocco de Marco was standing in the kitchen, bare-chested and in nothing but a low-slung and very precarious-looking towel, which hugged his hips and barely covered his thighs.
A million things hit Gracie at once, along with a shot of pure adrenalin: he must have just showered as his hair was still damp; his skin gleamed olive in the light; his chest was broad and leanly muscled with a light covering of crisp dark hair that tapered down to that towel in a tantalising silky line.
He was more beautiful than any man had a right to be.
Realising all of those things, and also that she was looking at Rocco as if she’d never seen a man before, she tore her gaze away and blurted out, ‘You’re meant to be asleep.’
‘Well,’ he pointed out dryly, ‘I’m not. I always get up around now.’
Gracie refused to look at him, hovering in the doorway.
Her heart was still hammering from the shock. ‘Shouldn’t you … put on some clothes or something?’
Again with that dry voice he pointed out, ‘You’re equally undressed. I might ask the same of you but I’m not sure I want to.’
At that Gracie looked at him, and felt scorching heat climb up her chest to her face. Rocco’s gaze was dark and lazy, taking in her bare legs, the T-shirt which came to the top of her thighs, and then moving back up to her face. Gracie knew she must look a sight, with her hair all over the place and wild. She couldn’t for a moment dwell on the fact that she might have seen a predatory gleam in his eyes. She could remember the distaste on his face when he’d stood back from frisking her.
Her throat was so dry, but she fought the urge to swallow. It made her voice sound rough. ‘I just wanted to get some water.’
Rocco gestured with a hand. ‘By all means. Never let it be said that I deny my prisoners the basics.’
That sardonic delivery restored some of Gracie’s composure and she willed herself to move forward to the shelves. Very aware of her bare feet and Rocco’s lazy gaze, she ignored him and reached up to get a glass on a shelf far too close to him for comfort. And then … couldn’t reach it. Not even on tiptoes. She was very aware of her T-shirt riding up over her bottom and cursed silently, thinking of her very worn plain white knickers.
Suddenly a wave of heat emanated from behind her, along with a distinctive scent, and a very muscled brown arm was reaching up past her to pluck a glass down. His front was almost touching her back. Gracie knew if she stepped back she’d walk right into him, and felt weak at the strength of longing that rushed through her to know what it would feel like to have his arms wrap around her.
But then he put the glass down on the counter beside her with a clatter and moved away, taking that heat with him. Gracie gripped the glass and slowly turned around. For a big man he moved incredibly silently and gracefully. He was already on the other side of the kitchen island, sipping from a mug, regarding her as coolly as ever.
Gracie felt as if she was wading through treacle just getting to the sink to pour the water. The air had become dense with some kind of tension that was completely alien to her. She felt as if it was coiling deep within her, making her feel alternately light-headed and shaky.
‘There’s bottled water in the fridge.’
Gracie filled the glass and cursed herself for not going that route in the first place. ‘Tap water is fine. Bottled water is a waste of money.’ She turned around with her glass clutched in both hands like a shield.
Rocco raised a brow. ‘Now you’re an environmentalist?’
Pride stiffened Gracie’s backbone. ‘I do care about the environment, as it happens.’
Before he could question her again, or make some acerbic comment, he put his cup down. ‘If you’ll excuse me I’ve got a busy day ahead.’
He moved towards the door with all the lethal grace of a jungle cat, and yet looked as suave as if he was fully dressed. Gracie’s eyes felt burnt just from looking at all that bared skin and taut musculature.
He turned at the door and said with a definite glint in his eye, ‘Remind me to show you how to do hospital corners. That’s how I prefer my bed to be made in the future.’
She looked at the empty door after he’d disappeared and it took a few seconds for his words to register. When they did, she wanted to throw the glass into the empty space he’d left behind. The arrogant so and so. She clamped her lips tight together. She would not let him get to her. She repeated this to herself as she went back to her bedroom, feeling very skittish.
Rocco stood under the punishing spray of a cold shower just a few moments later. Damn that woman. When she’d appeared in the doorway in nothing but that flimsy T-shirt and bare legs he’d blinked because he’d thought she was an apparition. He’d only just had a shower which he’d had to turn to cold because he’d woken from lurid dreams of stripping Gracie O’Brien bare and laying her out on his bed in all her pale glory.
When he’d realised she wasn’t an apparition the blood had rushed south and hardened his body with an embarrassingly immediate effect. Thankfully she’d been so shocked to see him he didn’t think she’d noticed.
He’d been unable to compose himself, as if confronted with a naked woman for the first time. He cursed volubly. What was it about her that turned him on so effortlessly? She was wild and untamed. As unsophisticated as you could get. Freckles, for crying out loud. All over. All down her legs and arms. And, he imagined, on her breasts, which would be so pale against his skin …
He cursed again when he thought of her stretching up to get that glass. His eyes had been glued to her smooth pale thighs and the pert curve of her bottom, that tantalising glimpse of white cotton. Never had such an unsexy fabric looked so sensual. Like a fool he’d moved closer, ostensibly to help her reach the glass, only to come so close that he had been able to smell the surprisingly sweet and clean scent of her shampoo. No perfume, just something faint, like wild flowers. More subtle and alluring than he would have imagined possible.
Her hair had brushed his bare chest and the nearly overwhelming urge to press close and slide his hands up and under that shirt, around to cup her breasts and feel their weight and firmness, had had him jumping back and away like a scalded cat to the other side of the kitchen.
Rocco shut off the shower and stepped out for the second time in the space of half an hour. He vowed at that moment to do everything in his power to find Steven Murray, so that he could draw a line under this incident once and for all and get this woman out of his head.
For two days Gracie managed to avoid Rocco by making sure she was up after him in the mornings and in bed before he came back to the apartment at night. Luckily, he seemed to be busy. She was congratulating herself on having evaded him for the third morning in a row when he suddenly emerged from the study in the apartment, issuing a string of expletives, looking seriously disgruntled. And absolutely gorgeous in faded jeans and a T-shirt.
Gracie couldn’t avoid bumping straight into him, and sprang back as if burnt, heat washing through her body like a tidal wave. She went hot and cold all at once. She could smell his scent on the air, musky and masculine. He glowered at her from his superior height and Gracie fought the urge to apologise.
To fill the silence and deflect him from her embarrassment she blurted out, ‘What are you doing here?’
Looking seriously disgruntled now, he said, ‘Sometimes I work from this office—if that’s all right with you?’
A little redundantly she found herself asking, ‘Is there something wrong?’
Rocco’s dark gaze swept over her and Gracie burnt up even more.
‘My chef has just rung to say he’s ill, and his replacement is busy. I have someone coming for dinner this evening and I didn’t want to go out, but now it
looks as though I’ll have to.’ Rocco chafed at having to look at the reasons why he didn’t relish being seen out in public with Honora Winthrop, when just a few days ago he would have welcomed the prospect. The woman standing in front of him, who’d been avoiding him zealously for the past two days, was far too close to those reasons for comfort.
Something pierced Gracie’s insides as she wondered churlishly if this dinner was a date. His mistress, perhaps? Again, almost without thinking, she found herself saying, ‘I can cook if you like?’
Rocco smiled mockingly. ‘You? Cook?’
His obvious incredulity combined with her recent disturbing flash of something which felt awfully like jealousy made her say waspishly, ‘I can do better than baked beans and toast, if that’s what your tastes run to.’
His eyes darkened at that, and dropped again in a lesiurely appraisal, as if he was contemplating his tastes running to her. Gracie squirmed. He was just playing with her.
She drew back and stepped away, feeling seriously prickly, cursing herself and her mouth. ‘Look, forget I said anything. It was a stupid idea.’
She was almost past him when he caught her arm and stopped her. His entire hand wrapped around her bicep. The breath stopped in her throat and she swallowed painfully. Slowly, she turned and looked up. His expression was contemplative, and he didn’t let her go.
‘Can you really cook?’
Gracie nodded, and fought the urge to tug her arm free. She didn’t want him to see that he affected her. ‘If you give me a list of what you want I’ll do my best. How many is it for?’
A shadow crossed his face. He dropped her arm abruptly, as if he’d just realised he was still holding it.
‘Two.’
That curious pain lanced Gracie again. She crossed her arms. ‘I can manage two.’
