by Caro LaFever
Well, he was about to get a dose of the real Darcy Moran.
She gave him her best smile. The one that always got her anything she wanted from anybody she dealt with. “I’m excited to be here.”
“Is that so?” His only reaction was a slight lift of one satanic brow. “I was under the impression you wanted nothing to do with me. I’m glad to hear you’re excited to be with me.”
Darcy stared at him with shock. The man hadn’t even blinked when she’d used one of her best weapons on him. What if her lures didn’t work? What was she going to do then? Swinging her head away from his penetrating stare, she looked out the window again.
Come on. You’ve conquered a lot worse than this man.
She pushed past her worries. She was capable of winning this contest of wills. More than capable. After all, she had many more weapons to use. She had a wily, sharp brain. She’d survived the worst as a child by cunning and fast talking. She’d escaped danger many times using myriad tricks to protect herself. Somehow, she would dazzle and manipulate this man into submission.
Brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead, she tried to ignore the shaking of her hand. A little voice in her head screeched a warning she couldn’t ignore, though. How would she lure and enchant him without falling under his spell?
Impossible, another voice inside her tutted. The man had blackmailed her. There was no way she’d ever feel attracted again to this man.
No, she was completely safe. But he wasn’t.
She peeked at him, through her long lashes, which she knew she used to excellent effect. His eyes narrowed and his big body stiffened.
Ha!
She would win this battle. She would prove her mettle. He might have won the first clash. The war was only beginning, though.
“I’m excited to be in New York for the first time.” Purposefully, she lowered her voice, putting a touch of husk in her tone.
“With me,” he added. He observed her as if he were about to pounce, yet he wouldn’t. The man had too much pride. Maybe even as much as she had.
Easy-peasy, another voice chimed in her head. She was safe. Very, very safe. She could tease and play and provoke all she wanted. Because of his pride, he’d wait until she made the first move simply to prove a point.
He’d be waiting forever.
She threw her best smile at him once more. This time, she noticed the slight tensing of his jaw. The man was going to be eating out of her hand in short order. “The city is what excites me. All the places and happenings will provide me many hours of enjoyment, I’m sure.”
“And I am sure I’ll provide you many more hours of enjoyment than any city could.” He lounged on the leather seat, a male filled with supreme confidence. “But only after you admit I excite you.”
“My, that ego of yours is quite impressive,” she drawled.
“I have other impressive qualities.” His deep voice curled around her, his gaze promising sultry sin.
She succeeded in stopping the quiver threatening to run through her blood. Still, for the life of her, she couldn’t think of what to say in response.
Where was her quick tongue? Her quick wit?
The beep of his phone caused him to looked away, releasing her from his scrutiny. Releasing her from any need to rebut him. His face turned from wicked teasing to grim determination. The Italian words rolled out of his mouth, staccato with tension and rapid force.
Exactly as Matt had indicated, his older brother lived for his work, lived and breathed his company. Although he had made himself her enemy, she struggled with a faint welling of compassion for the guy. He didn’t have a clue what was important in life. Friends. Family, if you were lucky enough to have one. Finding something you did with your heart, like her painting. Instead, it appeared from the hours she’d spent with him, he buried himself in work every time it called. Yet this didn’t make him happy. The expression on his face, whenever he worked, made it clear. He wasn’t doing this for the love of the work.
Why did he work so hard if not for the love of it? He had enough money amassed in his bank coffers to live the rest of his life in ultimate ease. What drove this man to work non-stop?
He clicked off his phone and glanced her way.
“The only thing you do is work, isn’t it?” she said, giving him a pitying look.
“No.” His eyes went hot. “I make time for other pursuits.”
“Really?” She countered his suggestive gaze with one of disbelief. “I can’t imagine it.”
“Pleasure.” He drew the word out, slurred it with his accent. “I pursue pleasure on occasion.”
The limo’s temperature seemed to instantly spike thirty degrees. Her cold hands went slick with sweat. She pulled them from between her legs and ran them across the smooth surface of the seat. The warm leather made her brain think treacherously of another kind of warm skin.
The man knew how to turn on the heat. A hot stare and a couple of words, and he had her thinking of stuff she never, ever thought of. Bodies and skin and sexual stuff. Still, he’d run into a worthy adversary. He could turn the heat to boiling and she wasn’t going to get burned.
Yet she’d play the game. She definitely knew how to play the game.
“What gives you pleasure?” She gave him a faint smile as if she were only mildly interested in the answer. “Sports? The theatre?”
“No,” he volleyed back. “Sex.”
His blunt word slammed the ball right onto her side of the court. She was ready for him. “I’m amazed you would take time away from making your next billion for such a simple pleasure.”
“Simple?” His mouth quirked in sardonic humor. “There is nothing simple about having sex with me. As you will soon find out.”
“Dream on.”
He chuckled and the damn, distracting dimples showed themselves in all their fine glory. “I will have many dreams of you, carita. Eventually, I will make them come true for both of us. Of that you can be sure.”
Before she could respond, the limo slowed, then stopped.
“Finally.” He slipped his mobile phone into his pocket. “We are here.”
She peered out the window to see five flags whipping in the wind and an impressive marble entryway. “Where’s here?”
“The Plaza.” His door was eased open by the doorman and he stepped into the biting cold of a November winter.
Slipping across the length of the seat, she was instantly conscious of how rumpled she appeared. She still wore her one good suit, though it had long ago given up any semblance of freshness, and was wrinkled and creased. Much like her hair and probably her face.
The doorman, dressed in a smart, navy suit with gold braiding, gave her a surprised appraisal. Darcy lifted her chin. What did it matter what she looked like? She wasn’t going to be intimidated by anyone.
La Rocca glanced over his shoulder at her. His gaze narrowed.
Her chin thrust out another notch. She certainly wasn’t going to let him intimidate her.
“It’s a good thing I made arrangements,” he murmured under his breath, condescending satisfaction oozing through each word. He gave her one last scan before turning away.
Bristling, she watched him as he started climbing the red-carpeted stairs. What gall. What arrogance. What the hell did he mean by made arrangements?
She gritted her teeth and controlled the urge to snarl.
Okay, he held a certain amount of power over her for now, still she wouldn’t allow him to dictate anything more than where she stayed for the next month. That was the limit of her cooperation.
“Vene,” he barked at her, gesturing with impatience.
What did that mean? But she knew what it meant. Follow him. Do what he told her to do. Be an obedient—
“Darcy.” He turned to stare at her, his satanic brows frowning. “Do I need to remind you of your father’s predicament?” Not waiting for her reply, he swung around and climbed the last of the stairs, the doorman rushing to open the door before him.
Grumbling under her breath, she followed him up the staircase and through the gold-embossed doors.
Straight into heaven.
Pale marble floors gleamed like satin. Inlaid tile swirled and enchanted in patterns which made her want to kneel and run her hands across them. Huge chandeliers glistening with fractured glowing glass splattered warm light on the lobby. A marble embossed circular table stood in the middle of the room laden with a stunning display of gardenias and greenery arching to the ceiling.
Every drop of artist’s blood in her rose in acknowledgement of pure beauty. “Blimey.”
The Great Man turned to stare at her. “You like this?”
“Yes.” Immediately, she chastised herself for letting her true reaction to this extravagance show. After all, she’d been able to keep her composure throughout these last luxury-filled hours. While she’d been transported to the airport in a sleek limo. When she’d been ushered into a lavish private plane. As she’d been offered expensive champagne as they lifted off. Pride had saved her. She would not let anything this man did or said or owned intimidate her or impress her. Or at least let him know it did.
But now, now she’d shown him…
“You see?” He walked to her side and leaned down to whisper the rest of his words in her ear. “I promised you I would provide many things for you. Many things that will pleasure you.”
His breath slipped around her, rich and warm. The heat of his body encircled her, mixed with the musk of his scent, earthy and exotic. In one single moment, he wiped the beauty of the lobby away, leaving in its place his beauty. He was a pleasure to smell, she thought in a daze. He’d be a pleasure to taste.
The lobby blurred in front of her as his presence enveloped her.
“Mr. La Rocca.” A man dressed in a tuxedo approached. “How nice of you to visit us once more. If you would follow me, I will show you to your room.”
The Great Man stepped back.
A shudder of something she didn’t want to admit feeling rippled through her, but she was a realist. The blackmail had not doused the lust for him. “Bloody hell,” she muttered.
“Vene.” He barked the word over his shoulder again as he strode towards the elevators.
His arrogance doused the last remaining spark of lust in a flash. Okay, she knew the danger now. So she would tease from a distance. She would cajole from several feet away. She would make sure she never got close enough to be tempted.
And she would win. She would come out of this situation with the win.
“Darcy.” His voice now vibrated with irritation. He turned to glare at her from the elevator doors. The concierge gave her a look of astonishment. The apparent fact she was accompanying the Great Man had managed to crack his smooth facade.
Never let it be said that Darcy Moran wasn’t worthy of being anywhere she wanted to be. Thrusting up her chin, she swept towards them as if she were Queen of England.
La Rocca smirked.
The other man’s eyes widened.
She reached them just as the doors of the elevator hummed open and she stepped in. The men followed. She positioned herself on the other side of the concierge near the wall. Looking at the man, she gave him her best smile. He stiffened and then smiled in a stunned sort of way.
Typical.
It was always this way when she used her finest weapons. Let the Great Man put that in his hat and stew on it. She glanced over to see his reaction.
La Rocca met her gaze from the other side of the man, and drat him, chuckled.
Fine, let him continue to underestimate her. She swung her focus to the front and watched the lights flash as they climbed the floors.
He’d be sorry, very sorry when she won.
Within minutes, they were being ushered into a room filled with Louis XV furniture, Persian rugs, and antique paintings. Her frustration and irritation seeped away when she stepped into the beautiful room. As the two men talked, she circled the living room, slipping her hand across the plush upholstery, admiring the downy carpet with its splashes of vibrant red mixed with muted green and gold. She walked to the fireplace and scanned the oil painting of a Renaissance lady dressed in a vivid purple, her serene visage ruling all she surveyed. Pulling her gaze from what was clearly a masterpiece worth thousands, she noticed the staircase arching to another floor.
This was a hotel? Her mind boggled. The only kind of hotel she’d ever experienced was when her pop and mum got thrown out of their flat and they’d been forced to stay in a hotel room with only one bed. She’d slept on the floor that night, breathing in the smell of cigarette smoke.
“The bedroom is upstairs.”
The words jerked her attention from her surroundings and put it solidly on him. The concierge had left.
They were alone.
He lounged on the doorframe, looking impossibly handsome and polished. His suit showed not one tiny wrinkle. His hair swept back from his face in perfect formation. His eyes were clear and alert, even though they’d left London late in the night and it was now close to midnight here. She had slept on the plane, yet as far as she’d seen, he'd never stopped working.
She felt like a wet rag in front of a crisp linen handkerchief.
“You’re tired.”
“A little.” She stepped behind an antique velvet sofa feeling a need for some protection from his perfection.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and sleep.” He took a quick glance at his watch. “I have some work to do.”
“Work. Again.” She stared at him. “At this hour?”
“I can put work aside, carita, if you wish to indulge in my other pursuit.” His lazy grin teased her. “Pleasure.”
“No.”
“Much to my regret. However, I’m a patient man.” He waved to the stairs. “Go on. I’ll be here in the study.”
A sudden thought flashed in her brain. She’d been so caught in the whirlwind which was Marcus La Rocca she hadn’t thought, hadn’t remembered. She glared at him with resentment. “I don’t have any clothes.”
“I took care of it.” He turned and walked toward the study.
“What?”
Glancing over his shoulder, he pointed skyward. “Go and see.”
What overconfidence. The man went ahead and got her some clothes without consulting her? She marched to the elegant stairs, vowing to hate every article of clothing and throw them right in his face.
The upper floor was dominated by the bedroom and bath. Her focus went to the armoire. Throwing open the doors, she gasped. The closet was stuffed full of scarlet satin flounces and frothy cream creations. She couldn’t help herself, her artist hands slid over the gorgeous fabrics. There were dresses and suits, even a long gown in ruby red which fluttered through her hands. She opened the drawers and found cashmere jumpers in a riot of colors along with elegantly cut slacks in fine wool. Another drawer provided a lacy bounty of panties and bras.
A heated blush rose up her throat at the thought of him ordering these for her.
Then she lost her temper.
She stomped down the stairs and zeroed in on the computer light edging from the study.
“You can’t possibly be serious,” she snarled at the man whose back was to her.
He turned and gave her an annoyed glare. “I believe I have informed you of my seriousness in all things.”
Holding up a bra, she nailed him with a glare of her own. “I can pick my own underwear.”
“But it is not necessary. I have already done so.”
“Without my consent.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t think you would mind a whole new wardrobe.”
“I do mind.”
“Tough.” He stood and sauntered over to her. “No woman of mine is going to appear like a bag lady.”
No woman of mine.
The words shot through her like an arrow, leaving a trail of unwanted enchantment behind.
Bag lady.
That stung and infuriated her.
“I’
m not your woman. I’ll dress any damn way I want to.”
“You agreed to be my woman for the next month.” His silver eyes flashed. “You’ll dress in a manner fitting to your new role.”
“I’m here with you only because you forced me—”
“I gave you a choice.” His accent became more pronounced. “You chose me.”
“I chose the lesser of two evils, but that doesn’t mean I have to bow down to all your commandments.”
“Actually, it does.” Leaning in, his every word brushed her skin. “It means exactly that. With one exception.”
At the mention of their bargain about sex, a blush stained her cheeks. Embarrassment fired her temper higher. “I’m not going to tart myself up for you.”
“Tart?” His satanic eyebrows rose. “I was quite clear about what I wanted in your wardrobe. I don’t believe Bergdorf Goodman does tart.”
Her mouth dropped at the mention of the high-class store. She was poor, still she’d read, dreamed, heard how the rich lived. She’d simply never thought of herself experiencing the lifestyle. She should be enjoying this. Why was her temper getting in the way of taking what was offered?
Because she had principles. She wasn’t like her mum. She wasn’t.
“I finally have you speechless. How delightful.”
“You must have spent a fortune.”
“I had a feeling the silence wouldn’t last long.” His hand slapped onto the doorframe, effectively pinning her to the wall. “What I spent is no concern of yours. Go upstairs, put on one of the dozen nightgowns I bought you, and enjoy. Like any other woman would.”
“I don’t—”
“Remember your father, Darcy?” he whispered in her ear. “Remember your poor father who is even now getting treatment for his addiction?”
She sucked in a hot breath and met his threatening frown. “I hate you.”
Pushing himself off the doorframe, he paced to the desk and his ubiquitous computer. “It is a surprise when a woman is given a brand-new wardrobe and says she hates the man who gave the clothes to her. Nevertheless, I will survive the shock. And your stated feelings for me.”
