Then he strode from the room and made for the nearest exit.
‘We’re leaving?’ She stared at him, wide-eyed, her cheeks flushed, Her lips soft and pink. She looked sexy. Adorable. Beddable.
‘Si.’
‘But it’s only ten-thirty.’
‘You want to stay?’
She shook her head so quickly, so adamantly, a long auburn curl slipped its binding and bounced against her cheek.
His answering smile was swift. Satisfied.
‘Good. Neither do I.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
LEO CONTROLLED THE urge to floor the Maserati’s accelerator until they’d cleared the mountain roads and had hit the expressway back to the city. Without traffic delays the journey time was forty minutes. He reckoned he could do it in thirty.
Helena leaned forward in the passenger seat, removed her other sandal and massaged her ankles. ‘I swear high heels were invented by men as instruments of torture.’
She sighed—a soft, breathy sound that coiled through his insides like a ribbon of smoky heat.
‘Could we have the air-con up a bit, please? It’s awfully warm.’
Happy to oblige, he adjusted the controls and glanced over as she settled back in her seat. Her eyes were closed, her features smooth apart from a slight frown, and for a moment he was reminded of his sister. Of that intriguing combination of strength and vulnerability some women seemed naturally to possess.
A sudden tightness invaded his chest—the same suffocating sensation he always felt when he thought of Marietta and the battles she’d had to face. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. He had no business comparing Helena with his sister. They were poles apart. He loved Marietta. She was his blood, and he’d give his life for hers in a heartbeat. The feelings Helena stirred in him were rudimentary, nothing more than lust—a lust he intended to sate before this evening was out.
Thirty minutes later, in the courtyard of his apartment building, he pulled open the passenger door.
Helena glanced up. ‘I can walk,’ she said, gathering her shoes and purse before climbing out.
‘We should see to that foot.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s fine. Really. It doesn’t hurt all that much.’
Inside, he ushered her into the building’s single elevator and watched her back into a corner, her belongings clutched in front of her like some sort of shield. Against what? Him? He thought of their too-fleeting kiss and all the little intimate touches and quips that had driven him slowly insane tonight. Anticipation spiralled in his blood.
‘The skin’s broken,’ he said, looking at her foot. ‘We should at least clean and dress the wound.’
They entered the apartment and he cupped her elbow, steered her towards the living room. Ignoring her mumbled protest, he sat her on the sofa and went to fetch the first aid kit from the kitchen. When he knelt in front of her she lifted her dress, obediently stuck out her foot and allowed him to clean the shallow gash. He finished by applying a neat dressing.
She offered up a smile. ‘Thanks.’
He nodded, but didn’t rise. Didn’t speak. He held her gaze until her lashes fell and she shifted slightly.
‘Leo...’
Liking the husky little catch in her voice, he sat back and hooked his hands behind her knees. Her teeth captured her lower lip and he held back a groan. The sight of her gently biting her own soft flesh was inordinately sexy. He pulled her to the edge of the sofa, spread her legs and moved between them.
Slim, toned muscles trembled under his hands. ‘Leo, please... Don’t do this.’
Undeterred by her soft plea, he cupped his hand under her left breast, cradling its fullness and weight in his palm. Only a sheer layer of silk separated his fingers from her flesh.
‘This...?’ He slid his thumb back and forth over the slippery fabric, teasing her nipple to a hard nub beneath the burgundy silk.
A tiny groan escaped her lips—a groan he might have mistaken for protest had she not arched into his touch.
‘Yes.’
Her throat convulsed around that single word, drawing his gaze to the base of her neck where the skin looked so soft, so delicate, it begged to be kissed.
He leaned in and pressed his lips to the fluttering pulse there. Oh, yes. Soft. Warm. Sweet. He breathed in her summery scent, used the tip of his tongue to taste her skin.
‘And this...?’
No words this time. No protest. Only a silent shudder that rode her body like the crest of a powerful fever. Satisfaction rippled through him. The message her body conveyed was unequivocal: she wanted him, hungered for him as fiercely as he hungered for her.
He shifted to cover her mouth with his, but she pulled back. Desire roughened his voice. ‘Do not tell me you don’t want this.’
‘You know I do.’
Her candid, husky confession kicked his pulse up another notch.
‘But that doesn’t mean we should.’
‘Tell me why not.’
‘It will only complicate things.’
His laugh was short. ‘Cara, our physical attraction is the only thing between us that is not complicated. What could be more simple, more natural, than desire between a man and a woman?’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t come here to sleep with you.’
‘Yet you just admitted you want to.’ More than anything else that frank admission fired his blood. Drowned out the rational part of his brain urging him to concede this was a bad idea.
She wedged her palms against his chest, shoved with surprising strength. Caught off guard, he rocked back on his heels.
‘Is this how it works, Leo?’ She shot to her feet and glared down at him, arms akimbo. ‘You buy me a dress and expect me to demonstrate my gratitude with sex?’
For a second he stared at her. Then, as her words sank in, he launched himself up, his blood roaring in his ears like the bellow of a wounded bull. The idea that he would use material gifts as leverage for sex was galling. Distasteful. He balled his hands lest he do something foolish like grab her and shake her. Demand an apology.
She collected her purse and shoes. ‘I’m tired,’ she said, her gaze avoiding his. ‘I’m going to bed.’ Alone. She didn’t need to say the word; it was implicit in her tone.
Hands fisted, heart thumping furiously, Leo stood silent and watched her stalk from the room. When he heard the closing snick of the guest room door he snatched up the first aid kit, strode into the kitchen and rammed it in a drawer.
He shoved his fingers through his hair.
Air. That was what he needed. And lots of it.
He shed his jacket, stepped onto the terrace and stared out over the endless tiled rooftops and church domes of Rome. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, forcing his chest to expand and contract with each lungful of air. His anger slackened in a matter of minutes but his body stayed tense, trapped in a state of aching arousal he was powerless to quell.
Powerless.
He clenched his jaw. No. That wasn’t right.
‘Powerless’ was holding on to his mother while the skies thundered and raged and the cancer stole the last of the light from her eyes. ‘Powerless’ was watching his father drown in the murky waters of addiction that had blinded him to his children and finally taken his life. ‘Powerless’ was walking into an ICU and seeing his sister’s broken body, then turning around and walking out so she wouldn’t see her big brother cry.
‘Powerless’ was not, by any stretch of its definition, some pathetic inability to bring his libido under control.
And yet this burning need Helena aroused in him, this inferno in his belly, would not be doused.
Turning on his heel, he marched inside and headed down the hall.
This night was not over.
Not by a long shot.
* * *
Helena stood barefoot in the en suite bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. ‘Congratulations,’ her reflection sneered. ‘You just earned the rank of fi
rst-class bitch.’
She laid her palms on the cold marble vanity unit and closed her eyes. Her body hummed with a current of sexual energy, her nipples felt exquisitely sensitive, and the wet heat of arousal lingered between her thighs.
Dammit. Why had he pushed? Why had she panicked? And why had she let that awful accusation fly from her mouth? His shocked face flashed into her mind and another burst of regret soured her tongue. She’d expected him to get angry with her; she hadn’t expected him to look hurt.
She straightened and ran her hand over her stomach. If she and Leo had made love would he have noticed any changes in her body? Any subtle post-pregnancy differences?
She had no stretch marks, thanks to the diligent use of hydrating oils and the benefit of youth. And, while her midsection was slightly more curvaceous than before, overall her body was thinner. No. She would not have needed to worry, she thought with an odd mix of certainty and regret. Her body would not have given up her secrets.
Heaving a sigh, she pulled the pins from her hair, undid the gown’s halter neck and let the seamless fabric glide down her body. With a tiny pang of regret she went to the wardrobe and hung up the dress, well away from her own clothes. The stunning silk creation had made her feel sexy and confident, more feminine than she had in years, but she could not accept it as a gift.
Just as she could not fall into Leo’s bed.
Oh, she would find a night in his arms explosive and unforgettable, of that she had no doubt. But they had a history of heartache and hurt, a past they couldn’t erase, and there was no escaping the fact he still didn’t trust her. Why would he? She was Douglas Shaw’s daughter, guilty by association in Leo’s eyes.
Perhaps seducing her and bedding her would have been no more than an opportune means of revenge?
Suppressing a shiver at the idea of such a callous motive, she closed the wardrobe door, pivoted on her heel—and screamed.
Leo.
Not inside the room, but standing in the doorway, his large frame silhouetted by the lighting from the hall. His hand rested on the handle of the door she knew she’d closed behind her. Had she been so lost in thought she hadn’t heard the latch click? Or had he worked the handle with deliberate stealth?
He stared at her—silent, unsmiling—then stepped into the room and quietly closed the door.
Fright galvanised her. ‘Get out!’
She hugged her arms over her breasts, glanced at the bed and considered diving for the safety of the covers. But he was already advancing.
‘Leo, stop.’ She was naked except for a thong! ‘This isn’t fair.’ She backed up, felt the wardrobe door colliding with her bare buttocks and back. ‘Get out,’ she repeated, but this time her demand sounded weak. Unconvincing.
He stopped in front of her, leaned the underside of one forearm on the wood above her head. The suit jacket was gone, the black silk shirt unbuttoned to a point midway down his chest. She dropped her gaze and caught an eyeful of hard muscle under a dusting of fine hair. Before she could stop it, a groan rose in her throat. She wanted so very badly to slide her hands inside that shirt. To run her palms over his wide shoulders and thickly muscled chest.
‘Tell me you are not a liar.’
She blinked up at him. ‘Wh...what?’
‘Tell me,’ he barked, making her jump.
She scowled to let him know she didn’t appreciate being shouted at—or being backed against a wardrobe naked, for that matter—but the set of his jaw told her he didn’t give a damn what she did or didn’t appreciate.
She found her voice. ‘I’m not a liar.’
‘Tell me I can trust you.’
She hesitated. Test or trap? Both, probably. She licked her dry lips. ‘You can trust me.’
His gaze held hers. ‘Now look me in the eye and tell me you do not want me, do not want this—’ The fingers of his right hand skimmed down her stomach, slipped inside her thong and, before she could fully realise his intent, pushed into her slick folds. ‘And then I will leave.’
Heat erupted between her thighs, flared like wildfire through her pelvis. Gasping, modesty forgotten, she dropped her arms and wrapped her hands around his wrist. ‘Don’t!’ she croaked.
He thrust one finger upward, straight into her hot, moist core, then withdrew and circled his wet fingertip around her sensitised nub. Her legs nearly collapsed.
‘Tell me, Helena.’
His rough command sent a hot shiver racing over her skin.
‘Tell me exactly what you don’t want.’
Convulsively her hands tightened on his wrist, his strong tendons flexing in her grip as his fingers stroked and teased. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, tensed her muscles to stop her body trembling. God help her. How could she tell him no when every inch of her flesh screamed yes?
‘So wet,’ he murmured, his other hand cupping the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. ‘So ready for me.’
He kissed her until her bottom lip came free of her teeth, then sucked the tender flesh into his mouth. His tongue explored, invaded, as bold and shameless as his fingers—a dual assault that spun her senses until she couldn’t tell which way was up.
He eased back enough to speak. ‘Soon I won’t be able to stop, so if you want me to leave—if you do not want this—you need to tell me now.’
She squeezed her eyes closed and prayed for sanity even as a part of her scoffed. Sanity? She’d forfeited that the moment she’d agreed to spend seven days with him in Rome. And no matter how many reasons she gave herself for why they shouldn’t do this, why she shouldn’t give in—why everything about this was wrong—one incontrovertible truth remained. She wanted this man, burned for him, and it really was that simple. That natural. Just as he’d said.
She let go of his wrist. ‘Please...’ she whispered, not caring how breathless and needy she sounded. ‘Don’t stop.’
He did stop, and she groaned, opened her eyes and frowned her dismay.
He gave a throaty laugh. ‘Do not fret, cara.’ He cupped his hands under her bottom, lifted her off her feet and headed for the bed. ‘We are going somewhere more comfortable.’ He started to walk and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the base of her throat, his tongue dipping into the delicate hollow there.
She shivered with delight. If she came to her senses, told him to stop, would he honour his word and leave? She wrapped her legs around his torso, hooked her ankles behind his back. She didn’t want the answer to that question. Didn’t want to contemplate anything, feel anything, beyond the hot rush of anticipation in her veins. Surging her hands into his hair, she pushed his head back and covered his mouth with hers. He shuddered, growled something against her lips, and she sensed his control, like hers, was starting to slip.
When they reached the bed, her reluctance to unwrap her legs had him overbalancing. He crashed down on top of her, crushing her breasts, spreading her thighs wide beneath his hips. Their mouths jerked apart and the air left Helena’s lungs with a whoomph.
‘Dio!’ He levered his weight from her with one elbow. ‘Are you hurt?’
She shook her head, too breathless for words, too aroused to care about anything other than getting her hands inside his shirt. His skin next to hers. She reached for a button, her fingers fumbling, shaking, until he closed a fist over her hands and stilled them.
‘Soon,’ he murmured, dropping a long, wet kiss on her mouth that made her forget what she was doing. ‘First, I have something to finish.’
He lowered his head, closed his lips over one erect nipple and sucked the aching peak deep into his mouth. Then, when a shudder racked her body and she moaned, he turned his attention to the other.
Helena arched her back and dug her nails into the bedding. She couldn’t decide which was more exquisite. More erotic. The graze of his teeth or the flick of his tongue. She writhed. ‘Leo...’
As if responding to her strangled plea, he surged up, knelt between her thighs and slid his palms behind her knees. Their gazes
locked and her breath hitched in her throat. She could see the intent in his smouldering eyes, knew that what he had in mind would drive her over the edge in seconds.
He spread her legs and stared down at her. ‘I want to know if you taste the same, cara. If you are still sweet and hot.’
She rolled her head, tried to grasp his wrists. ‘No... Wait...’ Too soon. She would come apart too soon. And she wanted this to last. Wanted to savour every spark, every touch, every spine-tingling sensation. Wanted him to ride the swells of pleasure with her. Inside her. ‘Not yet...’
He wasn’t listening. Hands braced on her thighs, he dropped to his stomach, hooked aside her thong, and used his mouth and tongue to take her to the crest of a swift, shattering climax. She bucked against his hands, cried out something—his name?—and then she was arching up, her thighs clenched, her fingers plunging into his hair, holding tight as each powerful wave of her orgasm rocketed through her.
Her blood pulsed. Her breath came in ragged little bursts. And through a dizzying haze of sensation she felt his hands release her thighs. Felt wet, searing kisses trailing across her hips and tummy, over her breasts and up her neck.
‘Like honey,’ he rasped. ‘Hot liquid honey.’
He slid his mouth over hers, his kiss scorching, possessive, then pushed to his feet, tore off his shirt and tossed it to the floor. Shoes and socks next, then belt, trousers—a short pause to extract something from a pocket—and lastly his briefs. All removed in seconds.
He leaned down, hooked a finger in her thong. ‘As sexy as this is, it needs to come off.’ And with one yank it too was gone.
Her mouth dried. He was magnificent. Like a modern-day centurion with his wide shoulders and deep chest, his hard, flat stomach. A line of dark hair tapered south, drawing her gaze down until her eyes stopped at the sight of his impressive arousal. For a second she thought about reaching out, wrapping her hand around him, but a surge of belated shyness kept her hands by her sides, made her contemplate sliding under the covers so she didn’t feel so exposed.
Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian Page 11
