Leo didn’t suffer the same affliction. He stood proud, unashamed of his arousal, his eyes trailing over her body like a starved man surveying a banquet, unsure which delicacy to devour first. The fierce glow in his eyes, the strength of his physical desire, told her he hadn’t begun to sate his appetite.
He ripped open a condom packet, sheathed himself, and stretched out beside her on the bed.
‘Beautiful.’ His teeth nipped her earlobe, grazed her jaw, tugged at her lower lip. ‘You are more beautiful than I remember.’
And as he kissed and nibbled and murmured words in Italian she didn’t understand, his hands roamed and explored, rediscovering all the secret places from the backs of her knees to the delicate tips of her ears that he knew would drive her wild.
‘And responsive,’ he added, drawing one of her moans into his mouth. ‘Still so responsive.’
‘Leo?’
He nuzzled her neck. ‘Si?’
‘Please shut up and make love to me.’
A brief moment of stillness, then a smile against her skin, a low, husky laugh that made her heart skip a beat. He moved over her, pushed his knee between hers, the chafe of his hair-roughened thigh exquisite on her sensitive skin.
He cupped her jaw with one hand, forced her to look at him. ‘No regrets.’
She frowned. ‘What—?’
‘Say it,’ he insisted.
‘Okay.’ Whatever. Whatever he wanted to hear. She needed him inside her. Now. She held his gaze. ‘No regrets.’
The words had barely left her lips and he was poised for entry, braced above her, his hot tip pressed against her opening. She knew she was slick, ready to take him, yet still that first powerful thrust had her gasping aloud. She reached up and curled her fingers into his rippling shoulders. When it seemed he’d filled every inch of her he pulled out, the movement slow, torturous, then slid back in, setting a rhythm that started to build once more into that hot, sweet pressure deep inside her pelvis.
She closed her eyes, tipped her head back, let the feel of him, the scent of him, overtake her senses. For so long she’d gone without luxuries, denied herself pleasures, but tonight she would not deprive herself. Tonight she would indulge. Tonight she would take everything Leo wanted to give her and more. And tomorrow—or the next day, or the next—she would deal with the consequences.
‘No regrets...’ she whispered, and she moved her hips, matched his rhythm, urged him on faster and harder, until she flew apart a second time and Leo threw his head back and roared.
* * *
Leo kicked the sheets off his body, stared at the ceiling and listened to the sound of running water through the closed bathroom door.
After a long night of incredible sex he should be lying here feeling sated and spent. Instead he wanted more. More of the woman he was right now picturing in the shower, her long limbs and lush curves all soft and slippery and wet. His body stirred and yet as much as he ached to join her under the water, hoist her against the marble tiles and lose himself once more in her velvety heat, he needed to employ some restraint. Needed to bank his lust and make sure his head—the one on his shoulders, at least—was still on straight.
Anyway, she’d be too sore to take him a fourth time, and he already felt caddish on that front. Not that he hadn’t tried to be the gentleman when, in the faint light of dawn, she’d winced as he’d entered her and clung to him when he’d tried to withdraw. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her—had told her as much—but she’d wrapped her endless legs around him, sunk her fingernails into his buttocks and pulled him in deep, driving all thoughts of chivalry straight out of his head.
He expelled a breath, aimed another kick at the sheets.
Did her soreness mean she hadn’t been sexually active for a while? In London she’d alluded to a boyfriend but he’d seen through that lie and he couldn’t believe she’d be here now if she were in a relationship.
He scrubbed a hand over his bristled jaw.
Seven years ago he had taken her virginity, and though he’d been furious with her afterwards for not warning him, secretly he’d been flattered, his ego pumped by the fact she’d chosen him to be her first lover. In a primitive and yet deeply satisfying way he’d stamped his mark on her, and for the first time in his life he’d known the powerful pull of possessiveness—the fierce, unsettling desire to know that a woman was exclusively his.
He craned his head off the pillow and glared at the bathroom door. How many lovers had she taken since? One or two? A handful? Too many to keep count? A dark curiosity snaked through him. He should have given Nico a broader remit. Should have told him to look beyond her finances and living arrangements and dig a little deeper into her personal life: her friendships, her relationships. Her lovers.
He dropped his head back down and scowled.
Dio. What was wrong with him? Her liaisons with other men were no concern of his. Last night they’d indulged their mutual desire for one another—nothing more. A few hours of mind-blowing sex didn’t change their past, and it sure as hell wouldn’t change their future.
He swung off the bed, scooped his clothes off the floor and fired another look at the bathroom door. Either she’d managed to drown herself in three millimetres of water or she was taking her sweet time, hoping he’d give up waiting and leave.
Did she already regret their lovemaking?
The possibility turned his stomach to lead. He’d seen regret and something too much like pity in her eyes once before, the night she’d ended their relationship. He’d vowed he’d never let a woman look at him like that again.
As if he was a mistake she wanted to undo.
Naked, his chest tight, his shoes and clothes bunched in his fists, Leo turned on his heel and strode from the room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HELENA FLICKED A speck of lint off her black trousers and cast a sideways look at Leo. ‘Lunch was nice,’ she ventured, adjusting the car’s seatbelt over her blouse. ‘The hotel gardens were beautiful.’
His gaze remained on the road. ‘Si.’
Silence fell. She waited a moment. ‘Anna was conspicuous by her absence, don’t you think?’
He spared her a fleeting glance. ‘Si.’
‘I didn’t expect her mother to be so pleasant. We had a lovely chat over dessert. Do you know Maria well?’
‘No.’
Helena sighed. Excellent. Three monosyllabic answers in a row. She sank down in her seat. This was not the man who’d sat by her side at the long luncheon table in the sun-drenched gardens of the Hotel de Russie. That man had been charming and attentive, playing the role of affectionate lover with such consummate ease she had, for a time, confused pretence with reality. Had actually indulged the notion their lovemaking might have meant something more to him than just a convenient lust-quenching tryst.
A wave of melancholy threatened but she fought it back.
No regrets. Wasn’t that what she’d promised Leo? Promised herself?
She touched her mouth, tender still from his kisses, and conceded she’d allow herself one regret—that Leo hadn’t joined her in the shower this morning. Her fault, she supposed, for being a coward. For letting her fear of what the morning might unveil in his eyes send her scurrying for the bathroom. What she’d really wanted to do was run her tongue over his salty skin, straddle his hips and take brazen advantage of his desire for her in spite of her body’s tenderness.
When she’d finally emerged from the bathroom, her skin waterlogged from too long in the shower, Leo had been gone, the tangled sheets and the lingering smell of hot bodies and sex the only signs he’d been there.
She shifted in her seat, a sudden shiver cooling the warmth in her veins. Their lovemaking had been exquisite, everything she had expected, but in the sobering light of day nothing about their situation had changed. He was still a man driven by vengeance and she was still the daughter of the enemy he loathed.
Nothing would alter those facts.
Nothing.
Ten
long, silent minutes later, they walked into Leo’s apartment. Helena didn’t bother opening her mouth. She turned down the hall and headed straight for the guest room.
‘Where are you going?’
The question brought her up short. She whirled around. ‘To my room. Is that all right with you?’ She couldn’t keep the pithiness out of her voice. His taciturn behaviour had bugged her and, dammit, it hurt. ‘I’m going to change and go for a walk. Or do I need your permission for that, too?’
‘Don’t push my buttons, Helena.’
His deeply growled warning only fuelled her pique. ‘And what buttons would they be? Clearly not the ones that control your power of speech, or I might have got more than three words out of you in the car.’
A deep frown puckered his brow. ‘Why are you angry?’
She gave him an incredulous look. ‘Why am I angry? That’s a joke question, right?’
‘I am not laughing.’
No, he wasn’t. And neither was she. She stepped back, took a deep breath and tried for calm. Maybe they both needed some space. Maybe, after last night, she wasn’t the only one feeling awkward and confused.
She retreated another step. ‘I think we both need some breathing space,’ she said, and turned.
‘Do not walk away from me, Helena.’
Ignoring his grated command, she strode down the hall. She needed the refuge of her room. Needed to break the spell his presence cast over her. He looked so big and dark and formidable, and yet her pulse quickened not with anxiety or fear but with the vivid memory of all the ways his hands and mouth had explored her body last night.
She reached the bedroom doorway but he was right behind her, his arm bracing against the door before she could close it. ‘Please go away,’ she said, her voice steady even as her insides trembled.
He followed her into the room. ‘Why? So you can have your “breathing space”? Is that what you need after a night in bed with me, Helena?’
She frowned at him, perplexed. ‘I think you need some space, given your present mood.’ Heart pounding, she put her purse on the dresser and removed the earrings that were starting to pinch. ‘What is wrong with you, anyway?’
‘I don’t like being dismissed.’
She paused to stare at him. He looked utterly gorgeous in a light blue open-necked shirt and navy trousers, even with his features drawn into hard, intractable lines.
She put the earrings down. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘No regrets. That is what we agreed, si? And yet this morning you could not face me. You hid in the bathroom until I gave up waiting and left.’ He stalked forward. ‘Why, Helena? Was the idea of waking up beside me so unpalatable?’
‘Of course not!’
Her heart climbed into her throat. Oh, God. Had her act of cowardice unwittingly hurt him? As swiftly as the idea entered her head she rejected it. Leo wasn’t the vulnerable type. Men like him were thick-skinned. Impervious. More likely his pride had suffered a blow. He probably wasn’t used to women deserting his bed. Anyway, it wasn’t even his bed she’d deserted.
‘What is this really about, Leo?’ She shored up her courage with a flash of anger. ‘Your ego?’
Before he could answer she spun away, but he caught her wrist and swung her back to face him. The action was firm, not rough, and his grip didn’t hurt, but still an ugly memory snapped in her mind. Reflexively she ducked her head, instinct driving her forearm up to protect her face.
A sharp, indistinct sound came from Leo’s throat. He released her and she glanced up, saw the colour drain from his face.
‘Mio Dio. Did you think I would strike you?’
Her chest squeezed. ‘No, I... Of course I... I mean, you would never...’ She bit her tongue and mentally cursed. Her babbled response had only worsened his pallor. She pulled in a deep breath. ‘No,’ she repeated, firmly this time. ‘Of course I didn’t.’
She reached out to touch him, to show she wasn’t afraid, but this time he was the one who spun away.
‘Leo, wait...’
But he didn’t. And before she could find the right words to stop him, to erase that bleak look from his face, he was gone.
* * *
Leo stood on the terrace in the sultry afternoon heat and raked his fingers through his hair. His insides churned. The idea of Helena believing he would physically hurt her—despite her claim to the contrary—turned his stomach.
‘Leo?’
He gripped the railing, loath to turn. Loath to look at her lest he see that flicker of fear on her face again.
‘Leo, I... I’m sorry.’ She appeared at the railing beside him. ‘It was just a stupid reflex, that’s all.’
He stared across the rows of tiled rooftops baking under the brilliant Roman sun. ‘I would never harm you. I would never harm any woman.’
Her hand covered his, squeezed lightly, then slid away. ‘Of course. I know that.’
Did she? Or was she offering words she thought would mollify him? The need to test that theory overtook him and he turned, lifted his hand and brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. She didn’t flinch, and his relief was a balm more powerful than he could have imagined.
He dropped his hand. ‘I am sorry. I scared you and that was not my intent.’
‘I wasn’t scared. Like I said, it was just a reflex.’
Leo studied her for a long moment. ‘You assumed I would hit you, Helena.’ Just saying the words made his stomach roil again. ‘For most people that is not a natural reflex.’
‘So I’m not “most people”.’ She shrugged, a smile flickering briefly on her lips. ‘Really, it’s no big deal. Let’s forget about it.’
He wasn’t fooled. Not by her dismissive tone nor by that brave attempt at a smile. Her determination to downplay the matter only sharpened his interest. He moved, putting Helena between him and the view and gripping the railing either side of her, hemming her in. He wouldn’t touch her or frighten her again—not intentionally—but he would have the truth.
‘Was it a boyfriend?’ His gut burned, outrage simmering like a vat of hot oil beneath his calm.
Her lashes lowered. ‘No.’
His hands flexed on the railing. ‘Your father?’
She hesitated and the burn in his gut grew hotter. Thicker.
‘You said he was difficult to live with,’ he prompted, when the silence stretched.
Finally she looked up, her face pale even as a hint of defiance shimmered in her blue eyes. ‘Must we have this conversation now?’
‘Si,’ he said. ‘We must.’
Her gaze tangled with his for a long, taut moment, then she pulled in a deep breath and puffed it out. ‘In that case I think I need to sit.’
* * *
Leo set two glass tumblers on the coffee table in the living room and poured a finger of whisky into each. He recapped the decanter, sat on the brown leather sofa and faced Helena. Inside him acid churned, along with a hefty dose of impatience, but pushing her would have the reverse effect. So he waited.
‘My father’s a consummate Jekyll and Hyde,’ she said finally. She picked up her glass and stared into the pale bronze liquid. ‘Charming when he chooses to be, lethal when he doesn’t.’
‘And he has struck you?’
Helena swirled the whisky, then sipped, grimacing a little as she swallowed. ‘Twice.’ She put the glass down, slipped off her shoes and curled her legs beneath her, favouring her bruised foot. ‘The first time I was thirteen. My mother was good at running interference between Father and me, but I provoked him one day when she wasn’t around. He backhanded me across the face.’
The acid rose into Leo’s throat. A man could inflict pain on a woman or a child with an open-handed slap, but a backhand was a whole different level of vicious. He clenched his jaw.
‘It hurt,’ she went on, her gaze focused inward now, presumably on the past and whatever unpleasant images her memory had conjured. ‘But the pain didn’t make me cry nearly as mu
ch as the argument my parents had afterwards.’
Her chin quivered. The tiny movement was barely visible, yet still a deep-rooted instinct urged him to fold her in his arms.
He resisted.
Not only because he had told himself he wouldn’t touch her unless invited, but because the compulsion stirred a dark, remembered sense of futility and loss. Of how he’d felt as a child, wanting to protect his mother, then his father, only to face the bitter reality that loving them, believing he could save them, had not been enough.
Loving them had only made his sense of inadequacy, of life’s unfairness, more unbearable when they were gone.
Leo swallowed, tightened his jaw. He wouldn’t let emotion distort his thoughts. Not now, in front of Helena—the woman for whom he’d once lowered his guard, opened himself to the possibility of love, only to have life serve him yet another reminder that love only ever led to disappointment and loss.
He dragged his hand over his face. Pieces of past conversations were slotting together, crystallising into a picture he didn’t much like. This won’t hurt only my father. It will hurt others, too—my family.
He refocused. ‘This grace period for your father and his company—who are you really buying time for?’
She blinked, but didn’t prevaricate. ‘My mother.’
‘Why?’ He knew the answer—it had already settled like a cold, hard mass in his belly—but he wanted to hear her say it.
‘When my father is angry or drunk or upset about something he can’t control—like losing his company...’ She paused, and the brief silence practically crackled with accusation. ‘He lashes out at her.’
Leo pushed to his feet, his blood pounding too hard now for him to sit. He stared down at her. ‘So you’re telling me the takeover has put your mother at a greater risk of abuse?’
‘Yes.’
He scraped his fingers through his hair. Frustration, along with another, more disturbing emotion he didn’t want to identify, sharpened his tone. ‘Why did you not tell me this a week and a half ago?’
Her chin snapped up. ‘I told you I was worried for my family.’
‘But you didn’t give me the whole story.’ He paced away and back again. ‘Dio, Helena!’
Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian Page 12
