‘Is that so?’ He lifted a finger and traced a fiery line from her jaw down to that delicate pulse-point in her neck. ‘Then why do I make you nervous? Or is there another reason your heart is beating so wildly right now?’
She smacked his hand away and tried to straighten, barely daring to breathe. If she swayed the tiniest fraction their bodies would connect. Just the thought made her nipples peak hard and sensitive under the cotton layers of her bra and blouse.
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she snapped, but his gaze was already dipping, taking in the evidence of her body’s swift, mortifying arousal.
When his eyes reclaimed hers, the naked hunger in those inky depths nearly took her knees from under her.
‘Your body betrays you, Helena.’
Before she could utter a denial his hands spanned her waist, his palms searing like hot iron through thin cotton as they slid upwards, coming to rest beneath the swell of her breasts. He dragged his thumbs up and outward, gliding them over taut, sensitive peaks. Her breath locked in her throat, a combination of panic and unbidden craving making her blood pulse at a dizzying speed.
‘I think you are not as immune to me as you would like to believe,’ he crooned in her ear.
And then he was setting her away from him. Stepping back. Giving her room to breathe.
Leaving her hot and flustered and confused.
He straightened his silver tiepin. ‘Those are my terms.’
His tone had turned crisp, businesslike, his face impassive, and she wondered with a touch of hysteria if the lust she’d seen in his eyes had been imagined or real.
‘Take it or leave it, Helena. But I need your answer—now.’
She hesitated, her thoughts splintering, scattering in too many directions. Too unexpected...too overwhelming...too crazy...
She drew a shaky breath and expelled it. ‘I... I don’t know...’
‘In that case we have no deal.’
And just like that he turned to go.
Stunned, she stared after him, motionless at first, then with teeth clenched, hands fisting by her sides. She closed her eyes, the throb in her temples building to a painful crescendo. What was she doing? Was she really going to stand here and watch him leave? After he had, in essence, offered her what she wanted? He’d asked for one week in return—one week out of her life. Was that sacrifice so unthinkable?
For her mother?
She snapped open her eyes. ‘Wait!’
He stopped, glanced back, one hand raised to the door. ‘Si?’
‘Five days,’ she croaked.
His arm lowered. ‘Scusi?’
She cleared her throat. ‘Five days,’ she repeated, certain he’d heard her well enough the first time. ‘And my own room.’
‘Seven.’ He turned, his dark eyes glinting. ‘And I can guarantee you’ll find more satisfaction in my room.’
Cocky bastard. She smiled thinly. ‘My own room.’
He shrugged, unconcerned. As if, for all his baiting, where she slept mattered to him not one way or the other.
‘And my father gets six weeks.’
A mirthless laugh rumbled in his chest. ‘Nice try.’
‘Five, then.’
‘Four.’
They stared at one another, eyes locked in challenge, each waiting for the other to concede. He wouldn’t, she knew, but she needed this final moment of defiance. Needed to savour these last precious seconds of sanity before she plunged off the edge into madness.
The prospect alone had fear clawing her insides, but it wasn’t the promise of night-time pleasures with the man who had once owned her heart that frightened her beyond measure. It was the hot, delicious, burgeoning spark of desire in her belly she could neither extinguish nor control.
She squared her shoulders. Hiked up her chin. Please don’t let me regret this.
‘We have a deal.’
* * *
On Thursday, close to noon, Helena’s mobile phone rang. She answered on the run, dashing out to collect a sandwich for David and a salad for herself prior to a lunch meeting.
‘You’re panting.’
Leo.
‘I’m running.’
Well, almost. Walking briskly. She dodged a flying cycle courier, who in turn dodged a double-decker bus.
‘Contrary to popular belief, secretaries don’t spend all day sitting on their backsides.’
An unexpected chortle came down the line. A deep, sexy, gravel and velvet laugh that reminded her, fleetingly, of the old Leo. Her stomach flip-flopped.
‘A car will pick you up tomorrow, at six p.m., to take you to the airport. Where do you wish to be collected?’
She jostled her way into a popular sandwich bar, wondered if he was still in London or back in Rome, then wondered why she cared.
She mimicked his cool, no-nonsense tone. ‘From the office.’
‘Fine. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.’ He ended the call as abruptly as he’d commenced it.
Helena frowned at her phone, then shoved it back in her blazer pocket and smothered a flash of annoyance. Letting his lack of geniality irritate her was silly—a waste of mental energy when she had none to spare. They weren’t a couple, and nor were they friends. Out of the public eye there was no need for pleasantries or false sentiment. And as for his taunts about her sleeping in his room, sharing his bed—turning their ruse into reality—they had been nothing more than that.
Taunts.
Unfortunately that thought didn’t placate her nerves later that evening as she stared at the neatly packed contents of her suitcase. Stomach churning, she ran through the list in her head one last time, confident she hadn’t overlooked any essential items. Tomorrow the compact roller case would wheel easily on and off the train to work and her canvas carry-on, holding her passport, purse, and the jeans and tee she would change into for travelling, was light enough to hitch over one shoulder should she need a hand free.
Satisfied, she made some peppermint tea to pacify her tummy and settled on her sofa. It was late now—well after eleven—and her flat was silent, the tenants upstairs and the neighbourhood streets finally, blissfully quiet. She sipped her tea, let the fragrant brew circulate and soothe, then put down her cup and picked up the envelope she’d pulled from her nightstand drawer earlier in the evening.
She lifted the flap and pulled out a photograph—a picture of a tiny baby swaddled in the soft folds of a hospital-issue blanket. For long moments she studied the image, noting every detail even though she could close her eyes and still know every individual feature by heart. From the adorable tufts of jet-black hair to the miniature half-moons of delicate lashes and the sweetest little Cupid’s bow mouth she’d ever seen on a child.
She’d named her son Lucas, and he would have been six now had he lived. She had other mementos of him, too. Small treasures. Keepsakes. Stored in the beautiful wooden memory box her mother had bought. But this image of her son—so tiny and precious, cradled in her arms as if he simply slept—was by far her favourite.
She swallowed and breathed through the dull, familiar ache that settled in her chest whenever she thought of her stillborn son.
Carefully, she slipped the photo back into the envelope.
Leo had been long gone by the time she had learnt she was pregnant, and though she’d known in her heart she had to tell him she hadn’t found the courage to do so. He’d been so angry the last time they’d spoken, his declaration that he never wanted to see her again so adamant and final. Far easier, she had discovered, to let fear and hurt rule her head than to step back into the firing line.
And yet the day she gave birth to their son—the moment she cradled his tiny, silent, still warm body in her arms—all that fear and hurt became trivial. Irrelevant. Because she knew. Knew that if Lucas had been gifted life she could never have kept him from his father. Could never have denied Leo the chance to know he had created such a beautiful, perfect little boy.
She rose, went to her bedroom and slid the envelope
back into her nightstand drawer.
Months of counselling had helped her to move on with her life, overcome her feelings of anger and guilt, but those dark, endless days of soul-destroying grief—she wouldn’t wish those on anyone. Not her worst enemy and not Leo. What could be gained now by dredging up all that heartache and sorrow? Nothing. It was history. Water under the bridge. Whatever cliché one wanted to assign it.
Some burdens, she reminded herself, were better borne alone.
* * *
Leo stood at the head of the steps that scaled the private jet and checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes.
Damn it. Why did his shoulders feel as if they were roped into knots the size of fists? And why couldn’t he shake this weird, jittery feeling from the pit of his stomach?
Granted, he’d expected the car he’d sent for Helena to have arrived by now, but it was Friday rush hour and this was London. Traffic would be hitting its peak and a fifteen-minute delay was negligible. If the driver had encountered any serious hold-ups, or if Helena had failed to show, he’d have heard by now.
All of which meant he needed to kill this obsession with his watch and relax.
This arrangement of theirs might top the scale of hare-brained ideas, but his impromptu return to London on Monday had at least gained him an edge. In less than an hour he’d blindsided Helena at her office—fair payback for ambushing him at the hotel—tossed her firmly on to the back foot and enjoyed their verbal sparring to boot.
Though not nearly as much as he’d enjoyed putting his hands on her.
His fingers curled at the memory of her skin’s heat penetrating his palms through her thin blouse and the way her nipples had pebbled in response to his touch. At some point the vibrant girl with her bold colours and creative ambitions had given way to a woman too content with mediocrity, yet he’d seen a spark of fire in her blue eyes that convinced him some remnant of that passionate, captivating girl still existed.
A flash of reflected sunlight at the edge of the Tarmac caught his eye and he squinted into the lowering sun. A silver SUV with tinted windows approached, cruising to a stop in the traffic safety zone alongside the aircraft hangar. The driver sprang from the vehicle and made for the other side, but his passenger had already climbed out. Smiling at the man, her loose curls tossed by the evening breeze, she spoke a few words Leo strained to hear but couldn’t catch from where he stood.
He sucked in his breath, the edgy, irritable mood that had plagued him all day dissipating beneath an entirely different kind of tension.
Dio.
Even casually attired, the woman was a breathtaking vision. A perfect combination of long, slender limbs and feminine curves in all the right places. An ache stirred deep in his groin as he watched her cross the Tarmac, her rounded breasts clearly outlined beneath her figure-hugging tee, the denim of her jeans stretched over shapely hips and slender thighs. In one hand she carried a jacket, in the other a small holdall.
He descended the steps. When she neared he took her bag, slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him. Her eyes widened, her mouth forming a perfect O of surprise.
‘Ciao, Helena.’ He lowered his head, intending to drop an experimental kiss on those sweet, inviting lips, but she averted her face and his mouth collided instead with her cheek.
Her body stiffened. ‘People are watching,’ she hissed.
He glanced at the men in overalls working around them, some engrossed in their tasks, others paused and openly staring.
‘So they are.’ He dragged her closer, some deep, primal instinct urging him to send a clear message to the onlookers. Mine. He turned his attention back to her mouth. ‘Perhaps we should not disappoint them?’
Her eyes narrowed to pinpricks of sapphire and she pulled in a breath, but whatever retort hovered on that pretty pink tongue she chose not to share it. Instead she twisted from his grasp and started up the steps, the mesmerising roll and sway of her hips holding his gaze captive. He tightened his grip on her bag, his amusement tempered by a sting of annoyance.
Was this how she planned to fulfil her role as his mistress? By tolerating his touch only when it suited her?
Think again, cara.
‘Drink?’ he offered after he’d stashed her bag in an overhead locker and snapped the cover closed. For a woman she travelled exceptionally light. The carry-on he’d just stowed was small and compact, the single piece of luggage the driver had removed from the SUV not much larger.
The observation gave him pause. A week ago he’d have shrugged it off, assumed she planned to hit the shops in Rome and buy an extra case to carry home her purchases. Now, after Nico’s report, he knew that scenario was unlikely. Despite her family’s enviable wealth, Helena’s lifestyle appeared modest, even frugal. A revelation he found oddly disturbing.
She tossed her jacket over a seat. ‘Yes, please.’
He moved to a built-in bar where a bottle of champagne sat chilling on ice. He filled two long-stemmed flutes, handed one to Helena and raised the other in a toast. ‘To our arrangement.’
She hesitated before touching her glass to his. The crystal sang sweetly as the rims clinked. ‘To our arrangement.’
Her head arched back on her graceful neck as she took a surprisingly long swig of the effervescent liquid. She lowered the glass, gestured a hand at the cabin’s interior.
‘You travel in style.’
He considered the gleaming mahogany fixtures, fine Italian leather and thick cut pile carpet. The expansion of his business into Asia and North America over the last few years had demanded extensive travel, and his board had deemed the corporate jet a justifiable expense.
‘You sound surprised.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s more luxurious than I’d expected.’
‘And you disapprove?’
For a second the question seemed to throw her, then her features morphed back into an aloof, dignified mask. ‘No. Of course not. It’s just...not what I’m used to these days.’
‘And what are you used to?’
Her eyebrows tugged together. ‘I don’t know. Things more...ordinary, I suppose.’
‘In that case—’ he took her glass, placed both flutes on the bar ‘—you will need to reacquaint yourself with things less...ordinary.’
He moved closer, enjoying the way her eyes flared wide, the titillating glimpse of her tongue as it darted across her lower lip. She was nervous, despite her cool, controlled demeanour. The skittering pulse at the base of her throat gave her away.
‘And there is one more thing you must become accustomed to.’
She notched her chin. Quietly defiant. Utterly beautiful. ‘And that is...?’
He captured her jaw between thumb and forefinger. ‘Me.’
CHAPTER FIVE
HELENA SWALLOWED. THE generous mouthful of bubbles she’d foolishly imbibed on an empty stomach was meant to give her sass and courage. Instead she felt lightheaded and shaky on her feet. She wanted to turn her head, tear her gaze from those mesmerising eyes, but his fingers held her captive.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Then I will demonstrate.’
The instant his head lowered, panic seized her. ‘Wait!’ Her hands flew to his chest. ‘What are you doing?’
He halted, his lips mere inches from hers, his black-fringed eyes glittering like a star-studded night. With what? Amusement? Desire?
‘Demonstrating my point.’
She pushed harder, her fingers tingling, his warmth—his vitality—seeping through the fabric of his shirt and into her nerve-endings. ‘What point?’
‘That you seem to have developed an untimely aversion to me.’
He grasped her wrists, the latent strength in his long fingers making her bones feel small. Fragile.
‘No one will believe we are lovers if you balk at my touch.’
She tried to free herself but he held fast, keeping her hands anchored to his chest. Under her palms his heart beat
strong and steady, unlike hers, which had launched into the cardiac equivalent of a Fred and Ginger tap routine.
‘We agreed to play lovers in public.’ Why did her voice sound so high and breathless? ‘Not in private. And I’ve proved to you I can do this.’
‘Yet you stiffen in my arms like an innocent.’
He pulled her hands upward, linking them behind his neck. Dragging her body into agonising contact with his.
‘It will not do, Helena. Carlos Santino is an astute man, his daughter no fool. If we are to convince them you must learn to relax with me.’ His big hands circled her waist. ‘And now is the perfect time for a lesson.’
Heat spiralled through her, but she fought the shiver of desire gathering momentum in her muscles. He was testing her boundaries, pushing her limits, and she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her quiver. She dropped her arms and willed her body to go lax. Unresponsive. She could struggle, make it difficult for him, but he was strong. He’d kiss her anyway. Better to play it cool and aloof and retain at least some scrap of dignity.
She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together and waited, but the expected pressure of his mouth didn’t come.
His hot breath skimmed her lips as he spoke. ‘Your little martyr act doesn’t wash with me, cara. Admit it. You want my kiss. My touch. Your body craves it—’ his hand rose to the back of her head and closed around a fistful of curls ‘—just as mine does.’
She opened her eyes and shook her head—or tried to. Moving was difficult with his long fingers tangled in her hair. ‘You’re wrong.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ His teeth flashed, his quick smile too sharp. Too knowing. ‘I remember the nights you begged for my touch...the nights you lay naked beneath me, panting and pleading—’
‘Stop!’ His brazen words evoked a hot rush of erotic memories. Fresh panic spurted in her chest. ‘Maybe this was a...a mistake.’
His eyebrows hiked. ‘This was your idea, remember? What are you afraid of?’
Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian Page 7
