The Italian's Revenge

by Michelle Reid

  And she had agreed to his emotionally cold terms, hadn’t she? She’d acted as if they were the most reasonable requests in the world. To be honest, she hadn’t been able to think beyond the next kiss—and every kiss had the effect of binding her ever tighter to him. But several months had passed since he’d extracted that agreement from her and time changed everything. It always did. Time made your feelings start to deepen and made you prone to foolish daydreams. And what could be more foolish than imagining some kind of future with the billionaire designer with his jet-set lifestyle and homes all around the world? She, without a single qualification to her name, whose only skill was her ability to multitask in a restaurant?

  She pressed her lips against his shoulder, thinking how best to respond to his question—to show him she still had some control left, even if it was slipping away by the second. ‘Impatient?’ she murmured into his wet, bare skin. ‘If I’m going too fast for you, we could always put this on hold and do it later. Have that cup of tea after all. Is that what you’d like, Renzo?’

  His answer was swift and unequivocal. Imprisoning her hands, he pushed her up against the granite wall of the wet room, parted her legs and thrust into her, as hot and hard as she’d ever felt him. She gasped as he filled her. She cried out as he began to move. From knowing nothing, he’d taught her everything and she had been his willing pupil. In his arms, she came to life.

  ‘Renzo,’ she gasped as he rocked against her.

  ‘Did you miss me, cara?’

  She closed her eyes. ‘I missed…this.’

  ‘But nothing else?’

  She wanted to say that there was nothing else, but why spoil a beautiful moment? No man would want to hear something like that, would they—even if it was true? Especially not a man with an ego the size of Renzo’s. ‘Of course,’ she said as he stilled inside her. ‘I missed you.’

  Did he sense that her answer was less than the hundred per cent he demanded of everything and everyone? Was that why he slowed the pace down, dragging her back from the brink of her orgasm to tantalise her with nearly-there thrusts until she could bear it no more?

  ‘Renzo—’

  ‘What is it?’

  How could he sound so calm? So totally in control. But control was what he was good at, wasn’t it? He was the master of control. She squirmed. ‘Don’t play with me.’

  ‘But I thought you liked me playing with you. Perhaps…’ he bent his head to whisper in her water-soaked ear ‘…I shall make you beg.’

  ‘Oh, no you won’t!’ Fiercely, she cupped his buttocks and held him against her and he gave an exultant laugh as at last he gave her exactly what she wanted. He worked on her hard and fast, his deep rhythm taking her up and up, until her shuddered cries were blotted out by his kiss and he made that low groaning sound as he came. It was, she thought, about the only time she’d ever heard him sound helpless.

  Afterwards he held her until the trembling had subsided and then soaped her body and washed her hair with hands which were almost gentle—as if he was attempting to make up for the almost brutal way he’d brought her gasping to orgasm. Drying her carefully, he carried her into the bedroom and placed her down on the vast bed which overlooked the whispering treetops of Eaton Square. The crisp clean linen felt like heaven against her scented skin as he got into bed beside her and slid his arms around her waist. She was sleepy and suspected he was too, but surely they needed to have some sort of conversation instead of just mating like two animals and then tumbling into oblivion.

  But wasn’t that all they were, when it boiled down to it? This affair was all about sex. Nothing except sex.

  ‘So how was your time away?’ she forced herself to ask.

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘All good.’ He yawned. ‘The hotel is almost complete and I’ve been commissioned to design a new art gallery just outside Tokyo.’

  ‘But you’re tired?’ she observed.

  His voice was mocking. ‘Sì, cara. I’m tired.’

  She wriggled her back against him. ‘Ever thought of easing off for a while? Taking a back seat and just enjoying your success?’

  ‘Not really.’ He yawned again.

  ‘Why not?’ she said, some rogue inside her making her persist, even though she could sense his growing impatience with her questions.

  His voice grew hard. ‘Because men in my position don’t ease off. There are a hundred hot new architects who would love to be where I am. Take your eye off the ball and you’re toast.’ He stroked her nipple. ‘Why don’t you tell me about your week instead?’

  ‘Oh, mine was nothing to speak about. I just serve the toast,’ she said lightly.

  She closed her eyes because she thought that they might sleep but she was wrong because Renzo was cupping her breasts, rubbing his growing erection up against her bottom until she gave an urgent sound of assent and he entered her from behind, where she was slick and ready.

  His lips were in her hair and his hands were playing with her nipples as he moved inside her again. Her shuddered capitulation was swift and two orgasms in less than an hour meant she could no longer fight off her fatigue. She fell into a deep sleep and some time later she felt the bed dip as Renzo got up and when she dragged her eyelids open it was to see that the spring evening was still light. The leaves in the treetops outside the window were golden-green in the fading sunlight and she could hear a distant bird singing.

  It felt surreal lying here. The prestigious square on which he lived sometimes seemed like a mirage. All the lush greenery gave the impression of being in the middle of the country—something made possible only by the fact that this was the most expensive real estate in London. But beyond the treetops near his exclusive home lay the London which was her city. Discount stores and tower blocks and garbage fluttering on the pavements. Snarled roads and angry drivers. And somewhere not a million miles from here, but which felt as if it might as well be in a different universe, was the tiny bedsit she called home. Sometimes it seemed like something out of some corny old novel—the billionaire boss and his waitress lover. Because things like this didn’t usually happen to girls like her.

  But Renzo hadn’t taken advantage of her, had he? He’d never demanded anything she hadn’t wanted to give. She’d accepted his ride home—even though some part of her had cried out that it was unwise. Yet for once in her life she’d quashed the voice of common sense which was as much a part of her as her bright red hair. For years she had simply kept her head down and toed the line in order to survive. But not this time. Instead of doing what she knew she should do, she’d succumbed to something she’d really wanted and that something was Renzo. Because she’d never wanted anyone the way she’d wanted him.

  What she was certain he’d intended to be just one night had become another and then another as their unconventional relationship had developed. It was a relationship which existed only within the walls of his apartment because, as if by some unspoken agreement, they never went out on dates. Renzo’s friends were wealthy and well-connected, just like him. Fast-living powerbrokers with influential jobs and nothing in common with someone like her. And anyway, it would be bizarre if they started appearing together in public because they weren’t really a couple, were they?

  She knew their relationship could most accurately be described as ‘friends with benefits’, though the benefits heavily outweighed the friendship side and the arrogant Italian had once told her that he didn’t really have any female friends. Women were for the bedroom and kitchen—he’d actually said that, when he’d been feeling especially uninhibited after one of their marathon sex sessions, which had ended up in the bath. He’d claimed afterwards that he’d been joking but Darcy had recognised a grain of truth behind his words. Even worse was the way his masterful arrogance had thrilled her, even though she’d done her best to wear a disapproving expression.

  Because when it boiled down to it, Darcy knew the score. She was sensible enough to know t
hat Renzo Sabatini was like an ice-cream cone you ate on a sunny day. It tasted amazing—possibly the most amazing thing you’d ever tasted—but you certainly didn’t expect it to last.

  She glanced up as he walked back into the bedroom carrying a tray, a task she performed many times a day—the only difference being that he was completely naked.

  ‘You’re spoiling me,’ she said.

  ‘I’m just returning the favour. I’d like to ask where you learned that delicious method of licking your tongue over my thighs but I realise that—’

  ‘I learned it from you?’

  ‘Esattamente.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Thirsty.’

  ‘I expect you are,’ he said, bending over to brush his lips over hers.

  She took the tea he gave her and watched as he tugged on a pair of jeans and took his glass of red wine over to his desk, sitting down and putting on dark-framed spectacles before waking his computer from sleep mode and beginning to scroll down. After a couple of minutes he was completely engrossed in something on the screen and suddenly Darcy felt completely excluded. With his back on her, she felt like an insignificant cog in the giant wheel which was his life. They’d just had sex—twice—and now he was burying himself in work, presumably until his body had recovered enough to do it to her all over again. And she would just lie back and let him, or climb on top of him if the mood took her—because that was her role. Up until now it had always been enough but suddenly it didn’t seem like nearly enough.

  Did she signal her irritation? Was that why he rattled out a question spoken like someone who was expecting an apologetic denial as an answer?

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  This was her cue to say no, nothing was wrong. To pat the edge of the bed and slant him a compliant smile because that was what she would normally have done. But Darcy wasn’t in a compliant mood today. She’d heard a song on the radio just before leaving work. A song which had taken her back to a place she hadn’t wanted to go and the mother she’d spent her life trying to forget.

  Yet it was funny how a few random chords could pluck at your heartstrings and make you want to screw up your face and cry. Funny how you could still love someone even though they’d let you down, time after time. That had been the real reason she’d sent Renzo’s driver away. She’d wanted to walk to the Tube so that her unexpected tears could mingle with the rain. She’d hoped that by coming here and having her Italian lover take her to bed, it might wipe away her unsettled feelings. But it seemed to have done the opposite. It had awoken a new restlessness in her. It had made her realise that great sex and champagne in the shadows of a powerful man’s life weren’t the recipe for a happy life—and the longer she allowed it to continue, the harder it would be for her to return to the real world. Her world.

  She finished her tea and put the cup down, the subtle taste of peppermint and rose petals still lingering on her lips. It was time for the affair to fade out, like the credits at the end of the film. And even though she was going to miss him like crazy, she was the one who needed to start it rolling.

  She made her voice sound cool and non-committal. ‘I’m thinking I won’t be able to see you for a while.’

  That had his attention. He turned away from the screen and, putting his glasses down on the desk, he frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I have a week’s holiday from work and I’m planning to use it to go to Norfolk.’

  She could see he was slightly torn now because he wasn’t usually interested in what she did when she wasn’t with him, even if he sometimes trotted out a polite question because he obviously felt it was expected of him. But he was interested now.

  ‘What are you doing in Norfolk?’

  She shrugged her bare shoulders. ‘Looking for a place to rent. I’m thinking of moving there.’

  ‘You mean you’re leaving London?’

  ‘You sound surprised, Renzo. People leave London all the time.’

  ‘I know. But it’s…’ He frowned, as if such an option was outside his realm of understanding. ‘What’s in Norfolk?’

  She’d been prepared to let him think that she just wanted a change—which was true—and to leave her real reasons unspoken. But his complete lack of comprehension angered her and when she spoke her voice was low and trembling with an anger which was directed as much at herself as at him.

  ‘Because there I’ve got the chance of renting somewhere which might have a view of something which isn’t a brick wall. As well as a job which doesn’t just feature commuters who are so rushed they can barely give me the time of day, let alone a please or a thank-you. The chance of fresh air and a lower cost of living, plus a pace of life which doesn’t wear me out just thinking about it.’

  He frowned. ‘You mean you don’t like where you’re living?’

  ‘It’s perfectly adequate for my needs,’ she said carefully. ‘Or at least, it has been until now.’

  ‘That’s a pretty lukewarm endorsement.’ He paused and his frown deepened. ‘Is that why you’ve never invited me round?’

  ‘I guess.’ She’d actually done it to save his embarrassment—and possibly hers. She’d tried to imagine him in her humble bedsit eating his dinner off a tray or having to squeeze his towering frame into her tiny bathroom or—even worse—lying on her narrow single bed. It was a laughable concept which would have made them both feel awkward and would have emphasised the vast social gulf between them even more. And that was why she never had. ‘Would you really have wanted me to?’

  Renzo considered her question. Of course he wouldn’t, but he was surprised not to have got an invite. You wouldn’t need to be a genius to work out that her life was very different from his and perhaps if he’d been confronted by it then his conscience would have forced him to write a cheque, and this time be more forceful in getting her to accept it. He might have told her to buy some new cushions, or a rug or even a new kitchen, if that was what she wanted. That was how these things usually worked. But Darcy was the proudest woman he’d ever encountered and, apart from the sexy lingerie he’d insisted she wear, had stubbornly refused all his offers of gifts. Why, even his heiress lovers hadn’t been averse to accepting diamond necklaces or bracelets, or those shoes with the bright red soles. He liked buying women expensive presents—it made him feel he wasn’t in any way beholden to them. It reduced relationships down to what they really were…transactions. And yet his hard-up little waitress hadn’t wanted to know.

  ‘No, I wasn’t holding out for an invite,’ he said slowly. ‘But I thought you might have discussed your holiday plans with me before you went ahead and booked them.’

  ‘But you never discuss your plans with me, Renzo. You just do as you please.’

  ‘You’re saying you want me to run my schedule past you first?’ he questioned incredulously.

  ‘Of course I don’t. You’ve made it clear that’s not the way you operate and I’ve always accepted that. So you can hardly object if I do the same.’

  But she was missing the point and Renzo suspected she knew it. He was the one who called the shots because that was also how these things worked. He was the powerbroker in this affair and she was smart enough to realise that. Yet he could see something implacable in her green gaze, some new sense of determination which had settled over her, and something else occurred to him. ‘You might stay on in Norfolk,’ he said slowly.

  ‘I might.’

  ‘In which case, this could be the last time we see one another.’

  She shrugged. ‘I guess it could.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘What were you expecting? It had to end some time.’

  Renzo’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Up until a couple of hours ago it wouldn’t really have bothered him if he’d been told he would never see her again. Oh, he might have experienced a faint pang of regret and he certainly would have missed her in a physical sense, because he found her enthusiastic lovemaking irresistible. In fact, he would go so far
as to say that she was the best lover he’d ever had, probably because he had taught her to be perfectly attuned to the needs of his body. But nothing was for ever. He knew that. In a month—maybe less—he would have replaced her with someone else. Someone cool and presentable, who would blend more easily into his life than Darcy Denton had ever done.

  But she was the one who was doing the withdrawing and Renzo didn’t like that. He was a natural predator—proud and fiercely competitive. Perhaps even prouder than Darcy. Women didn’t leave him… He was the one who did the walking away—and at a time of his choosing. And he still wanted her. He had not yet reached the crucial boredom state which would make him direct her calls straight to voicemail or leave a disproportionately long time before replying to texts. Lazily, he flicked through the options available to him.

  ‘What about if you took a holiday with me, instead of going to Norfolk on your own?’

  He could tell from the sudden dilatation of her eyes that the suggestion had surprised her. And the hardening of her nipples above the rumpled bedsheet suggested it had excited her. He felt the sudden beat of blood to his groin and realised it had excited him too.

  Her emerald eyes were wary. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He got up from the chair, perfectly aware of the powerful effect his proximity would have on her as he sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Is that such an abhorrent suggestion—to take my lover on holiday?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not the type of thing we usually do. We usually stay in and don’t go out.’

  ‘But life would be very dull if only the expected happened. Are you telling me that the idea of a few days away with me doesn’t appeal?’ He splayed his palm possessively over the warm weight of her breast and watched as her swan-like neck constricted in a swallow.