by Trish Morey
‘I tried to call. Your phone was off!’
She popped the ring pull and ripped off the lid, metal scraping open, the sound mirroring her grating nerves, before the smell of sardines and tuna assailed her nostrils, threatening her churning stomach. ‘My phone is on. It’s just the hills, they sometimes block the signal.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘And you’re insane. You show up here like Rambo, all guns blazing, and for what? Did you think I was trying to run away or something?’
‘Were you?’
She scoffed. ‘I wish. And do you think anyone would blame me? But no, we had a deal, remember? I do, even if it was a deal I was blackmailed into.’ She tossed the lid into the sink for now and plunged the spoon into the silver-and-pink mixture.
‘A deal,’ he said, ‘that you agreed to.’
He was standing between her and Misty’s bowl, so she circled to the left, keeping the timber island between them.
She crouched down low, spooning the seafood into the bowl. Misty stood guard until she’d finished, glaring at their unwelcome visitor, her tail pointing directly into the air, until Mackenzi stood up and Misty relaxed enough to gobble down her food.
So he’d found her gone, hadn’t been able to raise her on her mobile and had decided she’d changed her mind. ‘You really thought I’d done a runner, didn’t you? So, true to form, you had to do the caveman thing and come drag me back to your cave again. How sweet. I didn’t realize you cared.’
Fury, white-hot and bitter, surged through his veins. Yes, he’d been angry when he’d discovered her missing from the hotel—especially when he’d discovered how far away she lived. He hadn’t been overly worried that she’d reneged on their deal and run away, though. She needed this deal more than he did. But, when he hadn’t been able to reach her on her mobile, the doubts had crept in.
She tossed the tin in the rubbish bin and moved back towards the sink, and he surprised her by moving in her path, his large hands hot around her arms. The spoon dropped unheeded from her hand, clattering on the terracotta-tiled floor. ‘You want to see a caveman? I could take you right now,’ he said. ‘I could bend you over this damned bench you keep hiding behind and finish what I started before.’
Her eyes widened, her breath hitching up a notch telling him that it was more than shock that prompted her reactions. Her face was flushed, her breasts strained against the knit top and her nipples budded oh, so temptingly—but it was her eyes that gave her away, green eyes that flared with passion and barely repressed sexual need. Oh yes, she wanted this too.
The pink tip of her tongue emerged, moistening her top lip, and he watched it, fascinated. ‘And wouldn’t that just prove my point?’ she said, her voice shaky and a little breathless.
Dante stepped her back until the island bench stopped her, then placed his hands beside her, imprisoning her in the space between his arms. ‘Right now,’ he whispered, his voice low and gravelly, ‘I don’t give a damn about your point. Because right now…’
He saw a moment’s panic in those green depths, but it was just as quickly swallowed up in the flames that followed it. Flames of desire. For all her bluster, for all her ‘caveman’ rhetoric, she couldn’t wait to start work as his mistress, in his bed or out of it. Even now he could sense her will buckling as her body prepared to make him welcome. Already she would be wet and slick and hot for him. He smiled and dipped his head lower, liking the way she angled her head in readiness for his kiss, her lips slightly parting. She probably didn’t even realize she was doing it.
‘Right now,’ he repeated, his lips hovering bare millimetres from hers, ‘we have a plane to catch.’
Mackenzi blinked, confusion warring with a certain disappointment in her eyes as he pushed himself away. ‘Have you packed?’
She battled to gather herself, making a play of picking up the spoon and wiping at the floor where it had landed, keeping her face averted even though it was too late for that. He’d already seen the twin slashes of red that branded her cheeks. ‘Of course I’ve packed,’ she told him, in a voice that was a shadow of its former argumentative self. ‘But you said we didn’t have to leave until two.’
‘Change of plans. We’re flying out of Adelaide now, not driving, and going straight through to Auckland tonight. That’s why I was trying to call you. Are you ready? Said all your goodbyes?’
She sniffed, ignoring his questions. ‘I’ll get my bag.’
‘So you live alone?’ Dante asked her halfway during the short flight to Melbourne.
They were the first words he’d spoken to her for what seemed like forever; his laptop and papers were spread out all around him, keeping him fully focused until now. She preferred it when he was fully focused on his work. It was easier to pretend that she was cool about this whole mistress thing, easier to pretend that it was just another day in the office.
She put down her novel, thankful that the wide business-class seats at least afforded her a degree of separation from him that she wouldn’t have had in economy class. Not that she could imagine Dante slumming it in cattle class. He’d have trouble folding his long body into the constraints of one of those seats, for a start.
‘You were there at the house,’ she said at last. ‘Did you see anyone else?’ He’d followed her into her room when she’d retrieved her case—he’d raised an eyebrow at the size, or lack of it. And she hadn’t missed his eagle-eyed appraisal of her house, taking it all in, searching for something—evidence of cohabitation? ‘It’s just me and Misty.’
‘So who’s Richard?’
Oh God, they were back to this. But then Dante Carrazzo didn’t strike her as the kind of man who’d like to share. ‘Nobody. A man I knew once. A friend.’
‘A lover?’
She almost laughed. Richard had fancied himself as a lover, that was true, even if she’d never lived up to his expectations. Then she remembered the too-easy smiles, the too-easy charm—the too-easy hurt—and she frowned instead. ‘For a time, I guess you could say that.’
‘What happened?’
‘He lied to me. Simple as that. He lied to me about something important and I could never trust him again.’
‘What did he lie about?’
This time she did allow herself a laugh, a self-deprecating laugh, bitter and short. ‘He was married. The whole time he was with me, he had a wife and two kids tucked away in Sydney. Little surprise he went away on business a lot. He obviously told his wife the same thing.’
He said nothing for a while, and she was beginning to think she’d bored him rigid with her pathetic recollection.
‘You thought I was Richard last night.’
‘Did I? I can’t imagine why.’ And that, at least, was the truth. Richard had been an adequate lover; he’d certainly thought so. He’d gone through the mechanics of sex with a textbook precision she had no doubt he employed in every facet of his MBA life. But, for all his charm, good looks and easy smiles, he’d failed to get her pulse racing, just as he’d never once blown her world apart.
She was an ice queen, he’d told her. He loved her, he’d told her—another lie—but she had a fundamental problem and she was lucky she had him to help her through it. Coming after a first ill-fated romance, she had started to believe he was right.
Until last night, when Dante had blown her away, and kept threatening to do again every time they were alone together.
What was it about this man with dark, turmoil-filled eyes, who bullied and forced her into a deal she had no idea he’d even honour? A man who taunted her unmercifully, who threatened her with sex on a kitchen bench-top and then deprived her of the same.
Cheated her of the same.
Surely she should hate a man like that?
It was a kind of hate, she told herself. A simmering resentment for all that he had done and all that he had assumed. The scene in the kitchen played over again—the anticipation, the sheer depths of disappointment when she’d all but offered herself to him and he’d w
alked away. Oh yes, a blistering resentment for all that he hadn’t done.
Less than twenty-four hours after one chance bedroom encounter, one bedroom awakening, and her body was practically begging for more of the same. She couldn’t even kid herself she was only interested in sleeping with him for the lifeline it gave the hotel. Not any more.
Damn the man; she’d take the lifeline, but she also wanted what he could offer her.
And she wanted it bad.
The pilot’s voice sounded over the intercom, informing them that they’d started their descent into Melbourne. The first leg of their journey was nearly over. Dante packed away his laptop and returned to his reports, saving her from any more questions but unable to save her from her thoughts.
Dante’s investment manager, Adrian Stokes, met them at the airport. A tall, pigeon-chested man with sandy, receding hair, he gave her a curious once-over like she was no more than some shell someone had collected on a beach. And then he proceeded to ignore her. Which suited her just fine. The two men obviously wanted to discuss business, so it was an easy decision to swap seats so the two of them could spend the entire next leg to New Zealand plotting whatever corporate uber-plan it was they were hatching.
It was easier sitting apart, her headphones delivering a constant supply of her favourite country-ballads over the drone of the engines. She stole a glance across the aisle, saw their heads bowed together in fervent conversation, Dante’s long fingers wrapped around a fountain pen, his expression serious. It was easier, and she knew she should feel relieved. Yet part of her missed that almost electric sensation that accompanied his proximity, part of her missed the energy he radiated, the sizzle on her skin when they touched, the danger.
If she’d ever wondered what it meant to be a mistress, now she knew—having had his attention to herself for almost an entire day, only then to find herself being shoved aside to make way for his business associate, someone who could help him build his fortune to even greater heights. She was an indulgence. A diversion. Merely one or two weeks of down-time entertainment for a busy empire-builder.
The same one or two weeks she had to convince him not to close down Ashton House.
She’d been a fool today, pushing him away, insulting him at every opportunity and testing his limits, thinking this was all about her. It wasn’t, not in the wider sense. She was just the vehicle. Because it was about saving Ashton House, and if she couldn’t win this man over in bed how could she ever expect him to relent about the fate of the hotel?
Damn it all, she might only be his mistress, but that didn’t mean she was without influence.
One or two weeks of opportunity.
And she wouldn’t waste another minute of it. Starting right now.
She turned her head, caught his eye this time, held it, and smiled.
He was halfway through outlining their strategy for tomorrow’s meeting with Quinn when he saw her. He paused, confused when for once she didn’t look away and bury her face in her book. Confused even more when she smiled. What was that about?
‘Dante?’
He looked back at Adrian, who was staring at him, frowning. ‘You were saying?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Where was I?’
‘She’s kind of pretty,’ Adrian conceded, throwing a glance Mackenzi’s way, and clearly ready for a change of topic. ‘Even though she could do with a nose job.’
Dante frowned. He didn’t think her nose was that bad. Kind of cute, in a way.
‘Her name sounds familiar,’ Adrian added.
‘It should. She’s the ex-manager of Ashton House.’
Adrian’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Ah, she’s a woman.’
‘Very much so.’
Adrian grinned. ‘And so she agreed to come along for the ride, given she was going to lose her job when you shut the hotel anyway?’
‘Not quite. Mackenzi was quite vocal in her objections to me closing down the hotel. I made a deal with her—if she’d come with me, I’d think about changing my mind.’
Adrian’s smile widened, his eyes glinting as if he’d been let in on a delicious secret. ‘You told her you’d think about it?’
It was Dante’s turn to smile. ‘That’s about the size of it.’
‘But you’re not going to change your mind about Ashton House, are you? That’s never going to happen.’
Dante took one last glance at Mackenzi, now engrossed again in her novel. He could almost feel sorry for her—almost. Then he turned his attention back to the figures. ‘Not a chance.’
It was one in the morning by the time they landed in Auckland, closer to two by the time they’d disembarked and cleared customs, and another hour more by the time the stretch limousine had deposited them all at their hotel and they’d checked in. With the time difference, it was really closer to her midnight, but after a broken night’s sleep last night, and a day fraught with tension today, Mackenzi’s sleep-deprived body could easily have accepted the time as a fact. In any one else’s presence.
Even Adrian’s non-stop tale of matters at ‘Carrazzo central’—his pet name for the Melbourne head office—during the ride into the sleeping city hadn’t dulled her senses. In fact it had only sharpened her resentment of the man, as he’d pointedly ignored her throughout. She wondered if Adrian was an MBA. She didn’t like him already.
Then Adrian was gone, and there was something about being led through the hushed hallways of a sleeping hotel, being led to their suite—the suite in which she would properly become his mistress—which made nonsense of the hour and honed her senses to wide-eyed wakefulness.
Would Dante expect her to commence her duties tonight, having found her a bed like she’d demanded? After experiencing his sensual tug on her most of the day, a tug that had threatened to bring her undone at least twice, she didn’t doubt it.
The porter ushered them into their suite, but instead of the bed she’d been expecting to confront there was a lounge, large and plush and rich with sateens and velvet upholstery. A dining room for eight adjoined it, the table set with a massive floral centrepiece. A room to one side served as an office. At the far side of the suite lay the master bedroom—the size of a generous suite itself. The super king-sized bed piled with pillows dominated the spacious room, a tray on the table alongside bearing an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes.
But it was the bed her eyes returned to.
She gulped. A person could get lost in a bed that big. Then she looked at Dante, directing the porter with their bags, and changed her mind. She’d never be lost with him alongside. She trembled at the prospect. What would it be like to share his bed? To go to bed with him at night and wake up to him in the morning? How would it feel to have his body nestled against her own?
Soon she would find out.
She crossed to the large bank of windows and opened the net curtains, revealing the lights of the city in all their glory. Dante saw the porter out. She heard the door to their suite and finally, once again, they were alone.
At last!
CHAPTER SIX
ANTICIPATION curled and danced in her gut and she trembled anew, wrapping her hands around her midriff and clutching hold of her arms. She heard his approaching footfall on the plush carpet, and knew exactly the moment when he entered the room—but she refused to turn or acknowledge him, lest her features give too much away.
‘Do you want anything from room service?’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, her voice little more than a croak.
She heard him moving around behind her, unzipping his case, rattling in the closet. ‘Then just make yourself at home. I shouldn’t be too long.’
This time she turned around. ‘Too long?’
There was a knock on the door. ‘That’ll be Adrian and the finance people,’ he said, picking up his briefcase.
‘It’s three o’clock in the morning!’
‘We’ll be in the office. We’ll try not to disturb you.’ And he pulled the bedr
oom door closed behind him.
Mackenzi stood there, staring disbelievingly at the window. What kind of people held business meetings at three in the morning? She heard their low, muffled voices as they entered the suite and she felt the suite go quiet as they were ushered into the office and the solid door closed between them. She felt the ease with which he’d abandoned her like a slap in the face.
She paced the room for what seemed like forever, and skimmed her way through a dozen pointless television channels before deciding that, if she couldn’t beat him, she might as well avoid him. With a grateful sigh of thanks for her foresight, she donned her flannelette pyjamas and slipped between the covers, lying in the endless wide bed in the dark with only the lights of the city for company. She wasn’t waiting up for him, she told herself, she wasn’t disappointed. So why did she feel frustrated beyond belief?
The glare of a brand new morning through uncovered windows woke her. That and the sound of the shower as she came to in a dizzy panic, wondering where she was, instantly remembering, and cursing herself for falling asleep. How could she not have noticed Dante coming to bed? He’d proven the night before that he made no concessions to a sleeping woman.
She looked around, but the other pillows lay where she’d left them, still in pristine condition, untouched, the rest of the expanse of bed-covers smooth.
He hadn’t come to bed.
He emerged from the bathroom a few moments later, padding across to the closet, a towel at his waist the only attempt at modesty. The dizzy sense of detachment she’d had on wakening returned tenfold. His hair was finger-combed and still damp, his face rugged and unshaven and muscles packed his skin, sculpting his flesh into an artist’s delight. A woman’s delight.
And yet he wasn’t handsome, not in a classic way. He was chiselled and rugged and solid as rock. In a suit he looked potent enough. Near naked, freshly showered, he looked positively dangerous. She wanted to experience that danger again. She wanted to feel his power unleashed inside her.