by Lori Wilde
He was making her lose her cool in a way no one ever had. He was handsome and charming and accustomed to getting his way—a wealthy playboy who expected women to fall at his feet.
Well, he was in for a rude awakening if that’s what he expected from her. To hide her nervousness, she reached for her drink positioned at the edge of the pool and feigned a sip.
“Is your drink not to your liking?”
“Huh?” She blinked, her thoughts fuzzy-edged and murky.
“Your glass is still full. I could have Maria make you another.” He gestured toward the pink-bikinied barmaid who was wiping down the glistening chrome-and-glass bar with a white terrycloth towel.
“My drink is fine. I’m simply not accustomed to consuming alcohol so early in the day or during the week.”
“You don’t enjoy life until the weekend evenings?” He made a noise of disapproval.
“I work a lot.”
“I can tell,” he said, still with the disapproving tone.
“Where I come from, working a lot is considered an admirable thing.”
“No wonder my lingerie is not selling well in your country. Your people have no time for pleasure and play.”
“There’s more to life than just having a good time,” she snapped.
“How would you know?” he asked, “since by your own admission you do not make time to enjoy yourself.”
“I enjoy my job. That’s how I enjoy myself.”
“Are you sure, bonita? Perhaps you work because you are lonely, and doing tasks helps fill the empty space inside you.” He fisted his right hand and used it to tap twice over his heart, the water rippling with his movements.
She wished he’d stop calling her beautiful. It was distracting. “We’re getting off track here. I came to Rio to help you find a way to market your product in America.”
“We are not off track. We are precisely on track. You cannot market me or my product until you understand me.”
Bianca blew out her breath. She could feel the account— and her potential promotion—slipping through her fingers. “What are you saying?” she muttered in his native language.
“You may be able to speak Portuguese,” he said, “but you do not possess a Brazilian soul.”
Bianca scowled. “Of course not, I’m American.”
“But your eyes, your hair, your features, they speak of your Brazilian heritage that apparently you aren’t very familiar with. It is a shame.”
He was right about that. Her mother had taught her Portuguese and the samba, but Bianca’s mom had come to America from Brazil when she was only eight years old, and she’d quickly adapted, letting go of her old life in order to embrace the new one. She didn’t live in the past but looked always toward the future.
“As I said, you cannot help me, bonita, until you understand me.” Thomaz’s eyes glittered seductively in the sunlight. “My culture, my world.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. I’m here to sell you to an American audience. I should be the one teaching you about American culture.”
He studied her a long moment. “Perhaps you have a point.”
Whew. At last he seemed to be listening. It took all the willpower she had not to climb from the pool and run away.
“So,” Thomaz said. “Back to my proposal. You are scheduled to be in Brazil for ten days, no?”
“That is correct.”
He cocked his head and came up with another devil-may-care grin. “We spend the nights doing things my way. You learn to relax and learn the Brazilian way of life, and then we spend the days with you schooling me in how American commerce works. Otherwise...” He spread his arms and shrugged, his implication clear. Either do what he wanted, or he’d take his business elsewhere.
“I really don’t see the point,” Bianca protested.
“Then you do not agree?”
She wanted to say, Hell no, I don’t agree, and I’m not going to let you manipulate me into playing games. But then she imagined having to call her boss and explain how she’d blown the account. “That’s not what I said.”
“Then we have a meeting of the minds.”
“We have a meeting of the minds,” she said grudgingly.
“We must celebrate with a toast.” He reached over to pick up his tumbler from the edge of the pool and raised his glass. It contained the same clear liquid infused with slices of lime that was in her drink. A caipirinha, he’d told her it was called. “To a successful merger between Brazil and America.”
“To America and Brazil,” she echoed as she clinked the lip of her glass to his and then took a sip of the sweet, potent beverage.
As the liquid burned an icy path on the way down her throat and Thomaz Santos held her pinned with his wolfish gaze, a startling thought occurred to Bianca.
Had she just struck a bargain with the devil?
Thomaz studied Bianca through half-lidded eyes. The brilliant red of her swimsuit accentuated the gorgeous color of her light-brown skin. He couldn’t stop himself from staring. He’d never seen a woman so in need of good, honest lovemaking.
Not just hard-driving sex, either—although the prim, tight way she held herself told him she needed that, too—but this woman was desperate for both tenderness and long, lingering foreplay to teach her exactly what physical delights her body was capable of experiencing.
And he’d wanted to be her teacher since he’d first laid eyes on her two months earlier in the lobby of Stillman, Burke and Hollister. Something about her compelled Thomaz in a way he could not explain. It was more than just her beauty. Brazil was chock-full of beautiful women, and with his money and charm, he had no problem getting any woman he wanted. But the distrustful look in her eyes and the stubborn set to her chin told him Bianca was not like other women.
Immediately, he’d been intrigued.
This one was different. This one had not only brains and beauty, but moxie to spare. And beneath it all was a hint of old-fashioned shyness. Bianca St. James was the whole package, and he knew at once that his mother would have loved her.
You need a woman with a strong will, Thomaz. Why do you date these vapid Barbie dolls with no substance? she’d asked him on more than one occasion.
“Listen to your mother,” his father would say affectionately and sling his arm over his wife’s shoulders. “She’s always right.”
His mom would nudge Poppy in the ribs, then they would laugh and kiss each other. They were both gone now: the smiling mother with soft hands and the hushed fragrance of nutmeg, the doting father with a thick moustache and teasing eyes.
How he still missed them.
Idly, Thomaz wondered what his parents would think of him now. Of what he’d done with his grandmother’s business. How he’d expanded her legacy. Of that, they would be proud. But of his personal life? No doubt they’d be disappointed. Wondering why at thirty-two he hadn’t married and produced a passel of children.
In truth? He’d never found any relationship that could come close to what his mother and father had shared. The playboy lifestyle suited him, and for the most part, he was happy.
He enjoyed the company of women. Tall ones, short ones, thin ones, curvy ones, blondes, brunettes, redheads. He had no preference. He loved their soft skin and long legs and the illogical way their minds worked, so different from men and yet so disarming.
His gaze flicked over Bianca, and he felt a strange pull he’d never quite experienced before. This one, the purling breeze seemed to whisper. She’s the one.
That thought unsettled him, and he wondered where in the hell it had come from. It was irrational. He’d never thought such a thing before, and yet there it was, circling his brain like a prayer.
Bianca took a long pull on the straw in her drink. He kept watching her, savoring the way her eyes widened and her tongue flicked out to lick away the drop of caipirinha that had fallen onto her bottom lip.
“There’s just one issue I want to get straight,” Bianca spoke, but he could barely hear
her, he was so busy staring at her sweet pink mouth.
“Mmm,” he murmured, wishing he could pull her up against him for a hungry taste.
“Our relationship is strictly professional.”
“But of course,” he said, “what made you think otherwise?”
She looked caught off-guard by his question, but then recovered quickly. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Ah,” he murmured, coming so near that they were almost touching. “That.” He playfully cast a glance over his shoulder as if searching for eavesdroppers and lowered his voice to a teasing croon. Twin spots of pink flushed her cheeks. “What have you heard?”
“I...um...uh...” she stammered. “You know.”
Thomaz liked the way her eyes widened and her lips tightened when she got flustered, but he could tell she was struggling hard not to show that he’d knocked her off-balance. “How could I know if the talk is going on behind my back?”
She swept a hand at the penthouse rooftop. “You’re a man who appreciates his indulgences.”
“Any specifics on what those indulgences are?” he teased.
“Drinks in the middle of the day...” She held up her glass.
“And?”
She cleared her throat. “Umm... It’s rumored you’re a flirt and something of a dynamo in the sack.”
“Sack?” Thomaz didn’t quite understand the English idiom.
“It’s slang for bed.”
Intriguing. “So I’m good in bed,” he restated. He arched an eyebrow and grinned.
Bianca shrugged. “That’s the rumor.”
“Where did you hear it?”
“Actually, in the elevator on the way up. Two women were talking about you; one said you were a wonderful kisser, and the other...” The color on Bianca’s cheeks darkened, and she ducked her head and crossed her arms over her chest. “She said kissing wasn’t even your best bedroom skill.”
“Did she elaborate?”
Bianca squirmed. “Um...the word tantric might have been mentioned.”
“Ah.”
“And...um...” She was speaking so softly he could barely understand her. “Something about an hour-long orgasm.”
He could tell she was wondering if such a thing was even possible. “I’m a man who takes his time.”
Bianca gulped visibly. “Anyway, I’m trying to be clear that I’m not going to have sex with you, tantric or otherwise.”
She was lying about that. The pulse jumping at the hollow of her throat gave her away.
“Just because I know how to enjoy myself doesn’t mean I’m interested in you, either.” No way was he confessing the truth—that in his mind he was already making love to her.
“You’re not?”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Ms. St. James, but I am not interested in anyone who is not interested in me.”
She blew out her breath. “Oh. Well then, that’s great.”
“It does make me wonder, however, what you’re so afraid of.”
“Me?” She tossed her head, and Thomaz had a wild desire to take the pins from her hair and watch the sable strands cascade to her shoulders. There was that blush again, bringing high color to her cheeks, and suddenly Thomaz just knew that this woman had never had an orgasm. At least not with a lover.
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
He couldn’t resist teasing her. “Not even one-hour orgasms?”
2
Promptly at eight p.m., Bianca opened the door to Thomaz’s knock.
He stepped over the threshold smelling provocatively of leather and sunshine and raked his gaze over her. A smile tipped his lips. “You look very beautiful.”
Bianca raised an index finger. “No compliments. That’s crossing the line. This is a business arrangement and nothing more.”
He nodded, but somehow the expression on his face seemed to say, that’s what you think.
She was being fanciful and probably reading way more into it than he ever intended. Feeling flustered, Bianca glanced around the room for her purse and spied it on the end of the bed. She scooped it up and raised her head to see Thomaz’s eyes on the bed. Was he thinking what she was thinking? What the hell was she thinking?
One-hour orgasms.
Electricity fairly crackled in the air between them. Thomaz extended his arm. “Shall we?”
She took his elbow even though it wasn’t smart, but she couldn’t fight him on everything. It was exhausting, constantly being on guard. He escorted her downstairs, then tossed the valet his keys. She let go of his elbow while they waited for the valet to bring the car around.
She wasn’t surprised when a low-slung, red Ferrari convertible pulled up in front of them and the valet got out. Perfect car for a playboy.
Thomaz tipped him an obscene amount of money and then opened the passenger door for Bianca. The back of her arm brushed against his shoulder as she climbed in, and instantly, hot sparks of awareness shot through her.
This was going to be a long ten days.
Think of something else. Business. That always works. She narrowed her eyes and collected her thoughts. Business. Yes.
Why was her mind suddenly blank? Did it have something to do with the man sliding behind the wheel, gripping the gearshift with his strong, broad fingers?
Determinedly, she glanced out the window as he put the Ferrari in gear and zoomed off. The lively streets were crowded with people. The air smelled of the tropics, rich and floral and fruity.
Thomaz came to a stop outside a valet stand in front of an elegant restaurant built with white stone and decorated with black wrought-iron fencing. The parking lot was packed, and delicious smells wafted in the air—roasted meats, exotic spices, sizzling onions and garlic. Bianca’s mouth watered. Thomaz claimed her arm again and guided her into the restaurant.
She didn’t know what to think about his proprietary touch or the fact that she enjoyed it.
The material of his silk suit grazed her side. Tailored, luxurious, the suit fit him like a glove. The maitre d’ greeted Thomaz as if he was a long-lost brother and spared an appraising stare for Bianca. Probably assuming she was the billionaire’s latest conquest.
Bianca proudly tossed her head and lifted her shoulders. She was no one’s conquest.
The maitre d’ escorted them upstairs to a table with a stunning view of the ocean. Her heart skipped a beat at the breathtaking beauty of the water bathed in moonlight. Thomaz pulled out her chair for her, and she was so near she could smell his cologne—a bracing fragrance, hearty and substantial.
Not what she would have expected from a playboy billionaire. She sat and he retreated to take his own chair. The maitre d’ unfurled the linen napkin onto her lap. Discreet, top-notch service. She wondered how many women Thomaz brought here. Hundreds probably.
The sommelier hurried over and without even asking her preference, Thomaz ordered a bottle of very expensive white wine.
“Don’t feel you have to spend a lot of money to impress me,” Bianca said. “I’m not impressed by wastefulness.”
Thomaz chuckled. “I would ask for the same whether you were with me or I was alone, bonita; no need to get your back up.”
Was she being overly sensitive? Probably. She could so easily see herself getting swept away with his bold, grand gestures—the city, the fast car, the elegant restaurant, the overpriced wine. All the stuff of a glorious seduction. Well, he’d picked the wrong woman to wow. She refused to be seduced.
The sommelier returned and went through the ritual of uncorking the bottle and giving Thomaz a taste for his approval. Thomaz nodded, and the wine steward poured two glasses.
The waiter came over and again Thomaz ordered for them both. As an independent woman, Bianca chafed at his take-charge manner, but a secret part of her thrilled at his polished command, and she had to admit it was nice not always having to be in control.
“You do eat meat?” Thomaz asked after the waiter disappeared.
In that instant of hes
itation, she saw vulnerability slip across his face. The man wasn’t quite as self-assured as he wanted everyone to believe.
“Yes.”
He smiled and looped his arm around the back of his chair in a cocky slouch, his uncertainty vanishing so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined it. And there was definitely no uncertainty in the way he was looking at her now.
Her womb jumped with a swift squeeze of ravenous need, a deep-seated tightening of desire. A sizzling hot wetness slicked her body. She had to calm down, get hold of herself, or one of her friends would soon be ringing her cell phone and asking if she was losing her head to temptation. Bianca drew in a slow, deep breath.
“You seem more relaxed already,” he said.
“I’m feeling more relaxed.” The deep breathing worked wonders.
This time his smile was unexpectedly gentle, and Bianca felt something unspool inside her.
“Thomaz! I thought that was you.” A man’s voice broke the silence.
Thomaz’s smile changed from intimate to public as he raised his head to greet the round-faced man about his own age walking up to their table.
“Philippe.” He stood, and they clasped each other in a hearty embrace.
Philippe cast a glance at Bianca, and she saw surprise cross his face. What was that all about?
“I was having dinner with some clients and saw you over here. I had to come by and say thank you, thank you, a million times thank you,” Philippe said in Portuguese and pumped Thomaz’s hand.
He was talking fast, but Bianca could understand the gist of the conversation.
“You have brought my wife and I much joy, much happiness.” He turned to Bianca. “You are with a very great man.”
She halfway expected the guy to genuflect.
Thomaz looked embarrassed, and Bianca could have sworn he was blushing beneath his deep tan. “It was not me, Philippe—”
“You are too modest.” Philippe’s face was animated, and Bianca could tell he meant every word. “Not many rich men give of themselves and their money so generously.”
Thomaz squirmed under Philippe’s praise. “I’m glad I could help your family. Give them my best, would you?”
