‘Of course you caved. The girl genuinely needed you. I know you hate to admit it, but you like being needed.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Did she?
‘Okay, you don’t. So, do I have the pleasure of escorting him to the airport?’ Jovan asked, with no small amount of enthusiastic glee, as he walked towards her desk, where she was standing shuffling papers from one towering pile to another.
The fact she was making a mess to avoid this subject didn’t go unnoticed.
Oh, hell, this was not going to go down well.
‘No.’ And since she didn’t have the energy to tell Jovan he’d be escorting them both—together—and then deal with the inevitable fall-out—which was so unlike her it was frightening—she said, ‘I’ll explain later. Get going or you’ll miss Laurent.’
Jovan did a quick U-turn and headed towards the door—and the action popped a memory like some maniacal jack-in-the-box. Nicandro’s swift volte-face. One minute the consummate charmer, the next a predator. The lobisomem she’d seen from the start.
Strange, that all it had taken was one scan of his membership request, one perlustration of his past, one glance at the nebulous depths of his eyes and his moniker had bitten into her brain. Lobisomem: werewolf. A survivor despite or perhaps in spite of his origins. A lord of the night. His darkness a phantom entreaty to her soul.
But for several heartbeats in that room there’d been such violent anger in his eyes. A change so swift, so absolute, she’d felt the sharp edges of panic for the first time in years.
Where had it come from, that vitriol mutating his gorgeous whisky-coloured eyes to black pools of hate? Indifference she might have understood—but hate? Such a strong emotion. Made him appear dangerous. Deadly.
At first she’d thought his abrupt one-eighty had something to do with her diamonds—the only gift her father had ever given her, the only time he’d ever shown her he cared. It was the only possession she’d ever truly adored. Yet Nicandro had stared at them with a look of abject horror. It was the why that was bugging her. Yes, large black diamonds were extraordinarily rare—hers was one of a kind—but the way he’d gone on you would think it was an evil eye, some kind of black art mumbo-jumbo.
Rubbing at the aching spot between her eyes, she decided it was nigh on impossible to figure him out.
‘Jovan, before you go, what’s the name of that private investigator we occasionally use?’
He stilled beneath the archway leading back to the main suite and looked over his shoulder at her keenly. ‘We have several. Though it’s usually Mason, who tows the legal line—or McKay, who has no compulsion about being morally corrupt if given the right incentive.’
Another crook. Wonderful. Bad enough she was hearing rumours of Q Virtus being associated with the Greek mafia. Did she have Mr Carvalho to thank for that one too? She’d thank him, all right. With a swift knee-jerk in his crown jewels.
When she had the proof. If it was him.
So foolish, Pia. You’re still hoping there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this—an explanation that has nothing to do with Nicandro Carvalho, aren’t you? She couldn’t answer that question and not hate herself.
‘That’s him—he’ll do. McKay. Ask him to look into the history of Santos Diamonds. I don’t suppose you remember how and when my father took control of the company, do you?’
Jovan paused. Stared at her with an indecipherable look. He never paused.
‘Jovan? Did you hear me?’ Pia hadn’t seen him like this in ages. Almost haunted.
He gave his head a quick shake. ‘Yes—sorry...distracted. No, haven’t a clue.’
He also never lied to her.
‘It’s probably nothing, but let’s have the information anyway.’
‘Not a problem,’ he murmured, in a low, hesitant tone that said trouble was coming. The kind of trouble that could rock the very foundations of her life.
She just hoped he was wrong.
As soon as the door closed behind him she dumped the papers on her desk and without thinking of posture, or performing for an audience, she collapsed into the chair and sprawled all over it.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done this, she realised, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling. It reminded her of being no one—a forgotten girl in a basement room that shook with the heavy metal pounding from above, the acrid scent of drugged hopelessness drifting through the floorboards. The girl with a tainted past and only prospects of a no-good future.
In the next second, as if a ghostly fist had thumped the table, she bolted upright, pin-straight, and opened her laptop, pushing that girl—the girl who no longer existed—from her mind once more.
* * *
Nic woke to a warm, richly scented African morning, with a foul disposition from the unfathomable unrequited desire he’d suffered throughout the night and a note pushed beneath his door.
I am leaving at twelve noon and flying to Northern Europe on business. If you still wish to join me be ready at eleven.
Olympia Merisi
Join her? ‘I do not think so, querida.’ Did he look like a lapdog? Next she’d want him to bark.
Dios, he felt vile.
He dismissed the flash of self-honesty that his lack of sleep—when he should have slept like a babe after his major victory at the end of an eight-day quest—was making him too grumpy to think straight, and lurched out of bed with a hot head, ready to yank her into line.
His disgusting mood ruined a perfectly good morning as he showered and said goodbye to Narciso and Ryzard—taking one hell of a ribbing about the slight swelling around his lip, which they presumed was thanks to a ravenous petite q—and was led to Pia’s private suite.
One of the brutish security guards from the night before reluctantly let him in, and the fact that he looked a damn sight worse than Nic did, sporting a huge black eye, made him feel remarkably better.
‘You’re early,’ was her greeting when he strode through the door, ready to play hell and inform her that she would be travelling with him.
He didn’t notice her sleek, sophisticated up-do, or her flawless skin, or her kohl-rimmed eyes, or that pouty, provocative red mouth. Nor did he take any interest in the sharp-as-a-blade black business suit hugging her sinuous figure and nipping her waist. Absolutely not.
Her beefcake security guard plonked a case near his feet, no doubt wishing it were his head.
‘When did you arrive in Zanzibar?’ Nic asked, eyeing the cluttered floor.
‘Friday—same as you.’
‘You have a lot of luggage for a three-day stay, bonita. Did you bring the kitchen sink?’ Clearly her father paid her well for being...what? A glorified PA on a power trip? She could, of course, be his only heir. He’d have to kiss that out of her too.
‘Not this time. That one is Jovan’s,’ she said, pointing to the smallest of the designer six-piece set.
‘And Jovan is...?’ For a terrible moment he suspected he was experiencing a flicker of jealousy.
Dios, he was all over the place. What had she done to him?
‘My bodyguard.’
Yeah, right.
‘And a friend.’
Sure.
His mother had had lots of so-called ‘friends’. He’d actually liked a couple of them. Especially the one who took him to a Brazil game, where he’d met the players, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Which was odd, because he always remembered names—was good with them. It had used to come in handy when his father would innocently name-drop to catch him out. Anything to avoid the screaming matches that had inevitably followed.
Then he realised it was because he was still staring at Jovan—her friend.
It took him a while—what with Othello’s green-eyed monster riding his back—but he got there eventually.
‘Que? No. No way. He is not coming with us. That was not the deal.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, all innocent and light, in cunning contrad
iction of the devilry in her eyes. ‘Zeus insists. You don’t want to get on his bad side, do you?’
Nic’s temper gauge ratcheted up.
‘Fine. But not him. I don’t think he likes me.’ And he likes you far too much.
‘How observant you are, Nicandro.’
She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and leaned forward until he tasted her sweet breath.
‘In truth, he’d kick you as soon as look at you. So I suggest you stay on your best behaviour.’
From nowhere he had the impulse to grin, and he let it fly in the most wicked, debauched way imaginable. Naturally he earned himself a nice, slow stunned blink from her gorgeous violet-blues.
Unrequited, my foot.
‘Now I get it. He’s the modern-day equivalent of a chastity belt.’
She must be worried. Downright petrified of being alone with him.
As if a third wheel would dissuade him. He’d once outrun several of New York’s finest after he’d stolen a bagel for breakfast to appease his crippling hunger pangs, so he was damn sure he could lose this guy.
The edginess he’d felt the previous night evaporated at the warmth in her million-dollar satisfied smile as she shrugged one cashmere shoulder. So beautiful. So his.
Olympia Merisi wasn’t frozen. She only needed the higher heat from a slow burn to melt her resistance. He’d moved too fast, his impatience calling the shots, when he should have known better. He had to stop thinking of her as any other woman and use his brains instead of what was between his legs. Not that he’d ever had the need to switch or polish his technique, but people didn’t call him a dynamic powerhouse for nothing.
The reason he’d stormed up here now seemed unimportant. Like a tug of war that wasn’t worth landing on his ass for. And he was coming to realise he’d have to pick and choose his battles where this woman was concerned or they’d be at loggerheads for ever and he’d alienate her before he’d even begun. So he’d play along, for now, and slowly but surely gain her trust. When the time was right and he held her in the palm of his hand—then he’d take control. She wouldn’t know what had hit her.
‘Did you want something? You’re much too early.’
‘No, I simply wanted to see you sooner.’ And the hell of it was that was the God’s honest truth. Not that he intended to panic about it. His desire was to reach his end game and Miss Merisi was going to take him the scenic route. ‘Let’s do breakfast. I’m starving.’ For more than food.
‘Pia?’ the guy Jovan said, in an overly familiar way that said he would move Nic bodily if she gave the word.
Go on, buddy, try it. See how far you get.
‘Pia...’ Nic repeated, staring into those huge seductive eyes and watching them flare as he rolled the shortened name around his mouth as if he liked the taste of it on his tongue. ‘Very pretty.’
He watched her delicate throat convulse. ‘You may call me Olympia.’
She sounded so haughty and uptight he wanted to ruffle her feathers.
‘I think not. If he can call you Pia why can’t I? Unless, of course, Olympia is reserved especially for me. For those fortunate enough to have shared body fluids with you.’ He licked his lips to emphasise his point—to remind her that despite her deep freeze he had kissed her, and he would kiss her again, and next time she would melt.
Her gasp was so faint only he could hear, but any spectator would have to be blind not to see the pink flush enhancing the perfect sweep of her cheeks.
Oh, yeah, she wanted him, all right.
One look at the way her hands fisted by her sides and he also knew she wanted to thump him.
Score one, Carvalho. Ball in the back of the net.
Though it didn’t take long before his smile faltered and a dart of panic sped like an arrow into his gut. Had he seriously just stamped his possessive mark on her? No, impossible. He’d merely been staking his claim for the next eight days. After that she could do whatever she liked and he’d feel neither care nor concern because he’d have exactly what he wanted: Zeus.
She was still glaring at him, her glorious eyes flashing with unconcealed irritation. At second glance he revised that to absolute fury.
‘I’m going to have to say no to breakfast, Nicandro,’ she hissed hotly. ‘With that none too subtle reminder I seem to have lost my appetite.’
All this frisky repartee was a serious turn-on. Between her posture and his arousal both of them were as stiff as a board. She seriously needed to loosen up.
Right then it struck him. The key to Pia Merisi. He had to coax the woman to liberation. Unpin that hair, unstrap that dress, unhook that bra, unchain all that control. Unleash all that fire.
Undo her one button at a time.
Reaching up, he stroked the side of his finger down her smooth cheek and felt her vibrate like a tuning fork. ‘Ah, querida. I think I’ve just given you a different kind of hunger—that is all.’ Then he brushed his thumb over her bottom lip and pressed against it in the guise of a kiss. ‘Until later, tchau.’
Then—in a satisfying juxtaposition to the night before—he sauntered from the room and left her standing there, likely foaming at the mouth, watching his retreating back.
CHAPTER FOUR
PIA KEPT HER head high as she slid gracefully into the leather interior of the luxurious Mercedes waiting outside the private back entrance of the Barattza, still holding on to her temper by the skin of her teeth, frankly amazed that she hadn’t followed Nic to his suite and ripped him to shreds.
As she’d watched his retreating back, with an oppressive silence thickening the air around her, she hadn’t been able to chance a look at their little audience. She only had to think of how that pow-wow must have looked to her people. Hoping beyond hope that she hadn’t just plummeted in their estimation.
Sharing body fluids?
Had he deliberately been trying to belittle her? Undermine her?
Didn’t he know how hard she’d had to work to be taken seriously just because she was a woman? Of course he didn’t. In his eyes she was probably some stylish Jezebel, playing secretary just to feed out of the troughs of her father’s cash, sullied with her own craven self-importance!
She could just imagine what her father would have said if he’d witnessed that overtly sensual display of Nicandro stroking her cheek and thumb-kissing her. Her stomach churned at the mere thought.
‘You’re a woman—you have to work twice as hard to gain respect. Whoring yourself out will do you no favours, Olympia.’
So at the risk of making the situation look even worse, or blowing her true identity and a plethora of secrets sky-high, she hadn’t blown a fuse in front of her staff. No, she’d kept her cool. And it had almost strangled the life out of her. Still was.
When she’d made this deal with him she hadn’t expected to face these kinds of problems. How it would look to other people. How she would feel about his opinion of her that her value was only high enough to grace his bed.
It stung.
It was a poisonous battle between her hard-won pride and the need to protect Q Virtus.
Dammit, she wanted him to take her seriously. To know she was a successful woman in her own right. Then maybe he wouldn’t treat her like some two-bit tramp.
Tough. She was just going to have to swallow it and suffer.
It would have been so much easier if she could have cancelled this business trip to Northern Europe but the time of year was imperative. Winter was setting in and the window for her hotel rebuild was so small she had no wriggle room.
Fact was he was bound to discover some of her interests over the next few days. It was inevitable.
Well, she’d just have to play the pretty little heiress, helping Daddy to uphold the ranks as she judiciously scrutinised her every discerning word.
Or, better yet, not talk to him at all. If he ever got his gorgeous taut backside inside this car. Clearly his time-keeping was as abysmal as his integrity.
Briefcase to the floor, t
able down in front of her, she flipped up the lid on her laptop and scanned the trading page to check the stockmarkets. Her every action pre-programmed into her psyche. Her body on autopilot, going through the motions like the machine she was.
Until from the corner of her eye she saw the man himself stroll from the hotel as if they had all the time in the world. It was that insolent swagger that revved her temper—the very temper that had been idling for hours—into first gear.
As if there were a glitch in her system Pia’s fingers mashed the keys, and no matter how hard she tried to reboot, despite every firewall in her arsenal, she felt as if she was being infected with a virus. The Carvalho Virus. It even sounded deadly.
Case in point: she was now staring out of the window, watching that hateful, sublime, ripped body saunter towards the car beneath the bright flood of the African sun, dressed in suit trousers and a fine tailored black shirt that clung to his wide sculpted chest as the breeze licked over him, his jacket hanging from the finger curled like a hook over his shoulder.
Her stomach did a languorous, wanton roll that utterly appalled her.
There he was—a study in contrasts. With that imposing regal bearing and yet the dissipated air of a roguish bad-boy, with unkempt hair, huge designer sunglasses and voguish shoes. The heady mix collided to make some kind of prince of darkness.
Pia could count her past lovers with very few digits and little enthusiasm, but she instinctively knew what sex with Nicandro would be like—carnal, dark, and completely hedonistic—not her kind of thing at all. Which likely made her dead or a liar.
The door swung open and he slipped onto the leather bench, all smooth elegance as he made himself comfortable beside her. He smelled fresh from the shower and splashed with a hint of expensive cologne that prodded her hormones to sit up and take notice. She ignored them—and him—while her temper shifted into third gear. Lord, she had to calm down before she exploded.
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