by Trish Morey
Under the flannelette of her pyjamas her skin grew prickly and tight, her breasts heavy and instantly peaking. Did he have any idea how much she wanted him right now? Would it make a difference if he did?
She shifted herself up against her pillows, letting the covers slide down enough to reveal the low V of her top. He looked her way, captured her appraisal and held it, his eyes looking her over, as cold and assessing as calculator buttons as he reached into the closet. ‘Good morning. Sleep well?’
She had in the end. Surprisingly well. But that didn’t make up at all for her feelings of abandonment and her resentment of the same. ‘Better than you, I imagine.’
‘We pulled an all-nighter. There’s a problem with the zoning. Adrian thinks we’ve got it covered.’
He casually unhitched the towel, letting it fall at his feet and scrambling her brain in the process. He was half-erect, already magnificent, and her mouth went dry as every bit of moisture headed south. ‘What are you planning on doing today?’
She turned herself sideways, damning her decision to wear pyjamas at all, but knowing very well how her unfettered décolletage would look at this angle.
Whatever you’re planning, she wanted to say, I’m ready.
But she couldn’t. She wanted him to come to her. She wanted him to think it was his idea. She wasn’t about to beg.
With little more than a glance in her direction he pulled on a pair of black-silk underpants and resentment piled up anew, quashing all hope that this simmering need would be sated any time soon. He had to be kidding! How was she supposed to be his mistress if he wouldn’t even come to bed?
‘How long will you be?’
‘As long as it takes,’ he said grimly, donning a fresh shirt and tie. ‘Why don’t you go shopping? You didn’t bring many clothes. You can charge anything in the boutique downstairs to the room.’
The doorbell rang as he put the finishing touches to his suit, and he left to open the door, coming back sipping on a coffee.
‘I ordered breakfast,’ he told her as he checked the contents of his briefcase and snapped it closed. ‘Coffee, croissants and cooked breakfast. Okay?’
No sex on toast? Not okay at all. ‘You’re not eating, then?’
‘I’ll get something at the meeting.’ He checked his watch. ‘Anything you need, just call room service.’
She nodded dumbly, knowing room service didn’t have what she wanted on the menu, wondering if she should tell him.
But damn him to hell and back. She wouldn’t beg. She still had some pride left. Not much, admittedly, given the way she was feeling right now, but some.
The day was not going well. The zoning regulations that Adrian had assured him were under control were a complete and utter balls-up, and Quinn was playing hardball, thinking he’d found a flaw in their attack. Which he had.
The boardroom was stuffy as he listened to Adrian battle to claw back the ground he’d lost, the table surrounded by too many non-players that Quinn had dragged in to bolster his numbers. Dante was becoming more and more impatient as the deal that had looked in the bag was in danger of going belly-up. Something would have to give, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be him.
But unless he could find a way to apply the screws he was less and less sure of his ground.
Alongside the crusty shell at the opposite end of the table that was Quinn, sat his PA, feverishly minuting everything that was said. She was too young, too frenetic; he hadn’t given the ruddy-cheeked girl a second glance until she’d paused to jam her glasses higher up her nose and he’d noticed: green-lined eyelids, emphasizing eyes that were less than startling in colour. Mackenzi didn’t need that stuff, he decided, thinking back, remembering the emerald-green eyes he’d been forced to leave smouldering in bed this morning.
Despite the unexpected flannelette pyjamas, he’d been aroused the minute he’d seen her still lying asleep in bed, her rich reddish-brown hair swathed across her pillow, her bold features at rest. And then he remembered the way she’d looked when she’d awoken, her eyes still slumberous and seductive, and the way she’d leaned sideways, exposing her creamy, honeyed cleavage to his gaze.
Not nearly enough of it for his liking.
Even though at the time his thoughts had been filled with the complexities of the day to come, walking away had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. For a heartbeat he’d been tempted to join her, even if the team had been waiting for him downstairs. But he was determined the next time he took her he wouldn’t be like a rutting beast. If only to prove he could wait. If only because it presented a challenge he had to overcome.
Challenges he understood. Challenges he overcame every working day.
It made sense. After rushing their first encounter, and having their second and third cut short, he fully intended to ensure he had all the time in the world the next time. Now all he needed was to find a slot that would accommodate them both.
Maybe after this meeting was done, this interminable meeting where Adrian still seemed hell-bent in holding court…
‘Gentlemen,’ he interrupted, when there was a break in the traffic and it should have been clear to everyone that this meeting was going nowhere. ‘And Miss Turner,’ he added, acknowledging Quinn’s PA whose ruddy cheeks flared even redder at his unexpected chivalry. ‘I think it’s time we realized that we’ve all got too bogged down in the detail. I suggest we take a break and come together again when we’re all fresh.’
Weary heads all around the table hesitated before nodding in agreement, and once he was certain he had majority support he followed up with, ‘Meanwhile, I invite Stuart Quinn and his wife to dinner tonight. Maybe over a civilized meal and a fine New-Zealand Sauvignon Blanc we can work out where we’re both coming from and settle this thing once and for all, before we hand it over to our respective teams to sort out the nuts and bolts?’
Quinn hesitated, his face a scowl before he nodded, clearly sensing he had Dante on the ropes. ‘A good idea,’ he huffed. ‘Let’s say eight o’clock.’
‘Good call,’ Adrian told him, slapping Dante on the back as they made their way to their waiting car. ‘Between the two of us, we’ll soon have Quinn begging for mercy.’
Dante stiffened at the unwanted familiarity. ‘No,’ he said, fixing him with his stare. ‘You’ve got the night off to chase up every possible politician you can get hold of to get to the bottom of that zoning change.’
‘But the dinner?’
‘I’m taking Mackenzi.’
‘But this is our chance to nail him to the wall,’ Adrian blustered. ‘Two against one. What good will she be?’
‘I don’t want you there tonight,’ Dante told his dumbfounded associate. ‘I’ve told you what I want you to do. Go do it.’
‘But—’
‘That’s all,’ he said, dismissing him as he stepped into the waiting car alone. He leaned back into the leather upholstery and stretched his spine. Adrian was becoming more and more of a loose cannon. He was someone Dante had trusted implicitly for years, but maybe too long if his lack of forethought was going to land them in a mess like this. He should never have gone to Ashton House and left Adrian in charge of the Quinn deal at this critical stage. But the thought of owning Ashton House at last was the culmination of a dream so big that he’d wanted to see it first hand, had wanted to visit that place one last time.
Before he wiped it from the face of the earth.
It was driving her crazy.
Mackenzi paced the living room’s long wall of windows, bored to distraction. And getting angrier by the minute. He’d brought her here, insisted she should accompany him, even chased her to her home to ensure she hadn’t changed her mind—and all for what? To be left sitting stranded in a hotel suite waiting until he had time for her.
Like a good little mistress, she’d browsed the boutiques, the gift store and the jeweller downstairs until she was sick of the sight of one more designer anything, and had taken herself off to wander the windy street
s. A sudden rain squall had sent her back to the hotel, and now it was after two in the afternoon, Dante had left before eight and she was going stir crazy. Twenty-four hours since they’d left Adelaide, and still he hadn’t made a move on her. Still he kept her waiting.
She threw herself down on the couch, plucking at the tasselled fringe of a cushion before tossing it away dissatisfied, deciding she needed to be up and moving.
So he was busy? Where was the all-conquering, all-powerful invader who’d plundered her when he’d found her asleep in his bed? Where was the ruthless savage who’d threatened to take her roughly yesterday? Had he taken to heart her request not to be taken like an animal? She doubted it. Doubted he even possessed a heart.
No, it was more likely she’d overplayed her hand, protested once too often, and he was over her already. Why else would he have ignored her so completely this morning when he was naked and halfway to being aroused, and she’d lain welcoming in his bed? More likely he’d already decided this was a mistake and he didn’t want her, and she wouldn’t even get to first base when it came to saving the hotel. He was paying her back, and his PA probably already had her return flight booked.
Damn the man!
Forty minutes later, when she was more strung out than ever, finally there was a sound at the door, the swipe of a card then a click, and he was back. She was ready to be accommodating, ready to forgive, and then he grunted what she guessed was supposed to pass as some kind of greeting when he saw her standing by the window.
It was the final straw. So much for her plans. The caveman was back in his cave, and there was no point trying to reason with a caveman.
She’d given up trying. From now on, just like her, the hotel was on its own.
She headed for the bedroom, tossing off a line she knew he’d hate but, by hell, that he deserved. ‘Successful day fending off dinosaurs?’
He growled. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He hadn’t slept for thirty-something hours, Quinn was playing hardball and smart-mouth Mackenzi wasn’t making things any easier. In fact, he was beginning to wonder why he’d brought her along for the ride. As mistresses went, so far she was a major disappointment. He should have taken her in the office when he’d had the chance and tamed her into submission right then and there. Instead he’d given her space.
What the hell had he been thinking? She’d been the one lying in wait in his bed for him, the one who’d responded in flames to his touch, the one who’d agreed to become his mistress. Nobody set conditions on Dante Carrazzo—least of all someone he’d expected to provide nothing more than a few nights’ pleasure.
He poured himself a whiskey and threw it back neat, liking the burn, relishing the burst of warmth all the way down. The Quinn deal was in danger of falling apart around his ears—he wasn’t used to that—and the only thing that had changed lately was this woman and her constant interruptions into his thoughts. How was he supposed to concentrate on a five-hundred-million dollar deal when his mind was trapped on how he was going to tame a tongue that could slice you apart? There were other things he had planned for that tongue, other things that her current mood told him he wasn’t going to be enjoying any time soon.
So much for fantasy.
From the bedroom he heard closet doors banging, the scrape of metal on metal, a thud.
‘If it’s all the same to you,’ he called out, gazing into his glass and already thinking he’d have to make the dinner with Quinn alone, ‘I’m not really in the mood for any of your “Neanderthal” rhetoric right now.’
‘No?’ he heard her say. ‘That’s too bad. Because I’m not in the mood for social niceties right now.’
‘I don’t remember ever asking you for social niceties.’
She walked past the open door, a bundle of stuff in her hands. ‘Of course. I forgot. You merely expect me to be your mistress.’
He sighed roughly and poured himself another shot. Made it a double. By God, anyone would think they were an old married couple. No wonder he didn’t do family.
Dante turned away, staring out the windows, his blood raging, never before having been driven to such insanity by one woman, and more and more forgetting the reasons for choosing this particular woman to accompany him. Where was the woman who’d lain like a temptress in his bed this morning? What had happened to her?
Maybe he should send her home now. After all, he had no intention of changing his mind about the fate of Ashton House, and it wasn’t like she was enjoying her part of the bargain.
He angled himself towards the bedroom door. ‘You didn’t seem to have a problem with agreeing to be my mistress before.’
She flashed past the doorway. ‘Well, I’ve got a problem with it now.’ He frowned and took another swig. Two minutes later she passed the doorway again, this time carrying her sponge bag from the bathroom.
What the…? In half a dozen strides he was there, his blood running cold at the sight of her bending over her case on the bed, as she tried to press the mess of belongings in flat enough to close it. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What’s it look like? I’m leaving.’
‘Why?’
She zipped up the case, picked up her bag and faced him at the door. The colour was up in her cheeks, her breathing rapid, yet her eyes looked as cold as glacial chips. ‘Because this was a mistake. I should never have come. Now, if you’ll just let me pass?’
He didn’t move, fury turning him rigid. No woman walked away from Dante Carrazzo, not even one he’d already decided to throw out. ‘We had a deal. You agreed to this.’
‘I didn’t agree to sit around all day like some vacuous bimbo, waiting to serve her surly master.’
He leaned in closer to her. ‘Plenty of women would enjoy the privilege.’
She stood her ground, only the rise and fall of her chest betraying her quickening breathing. ‘I think you’re confusing “enjoy” with “endure”.’
He growled, his fingers tight around his glass. ‘You seemed to enjoy serving me just fine last time.’
She tossed her chin higher, her colour rising. ‘I was asleep.’
‘Then maybe I should wait until you’re asleep,’ he suggested. ‘You’d be a damned sight less argumentative, for a start.’
‘And maybe you should just stop playing this game and get it over with!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE’D FLUNG the glass aside and crossed the room in a heartbeat, ignoring the smash of glass as he slammed her against the wall, punching the air from her lungs before she’d even realized what was happening, before she could react. And then his mouth was on her, hot and furious, his hands wild and tearing at her clothes.
Damn it, he’d waited long enough. Put up with more than enough. Forget the niceties; blood was pounding in his ears, a tribal beat, a call to action. It was time to show her what she was here for.
Heat met him where he’d been expecting fight. The hungry heat of her mouth, the tangled dance of her tongue, the need radiating out from her like a beacon. He pulled his mouth away long enough to wrench off her top and fill his hands with her breasts, shoving aside her bra in the process. She gasped in his mouth before her teeth found his lip, and he tasted the sharp metallic taste of blood—his blood—while her hands raked through his hair, anchoring him to her.
Her scent was everywhere, her taste filling his senses. He dragged in a breath and drank her in, but it wasn’t enough. He dropped his hands to her skirt, sliding down to cup her through the fabric, making her strain against him, and still it was nowhere near close enough.
Need, urgent and unstoppable, filled his very being, powering his actions. Her skirt was no barrier, his hands burrowing beneath, pulling down the scrap of fabric that guarded his ultimate destination, while her hands worked similarly desperately to free him.
He felt himself released, her long fingers greedily circling him, and he gritted his teeth. It was all he could do to hang on. He found her core, slick and sweet and ready, her muscles beckoning, calling to hi
m like a siren’s song. And then he lifted her, bracing himself against the wall, curling her legs around him, and gave himself up to his fate.
She gasped as he entered her, her head thrown back, her spine arching as he filled her.
‘You like that?’ he squeezed out, hanging on himself but watching her, determined to show her denial for what it was.
She uttered something, an indecipherable sound as he eased out of her only to slam into her once again. She shuddered against him, her muscles coming down tight to claim him, to hold him, to keep him.
‘Tell me,’ he urged. ‘Tell me now you don’t enjoy this.’
She shook her head, her emerald eyes wild and unseeing. ‘No,’ she whispered.
He drove into her again and then again. ‘Tell me this is something to be endured.’ She clung to him, her eyelids fluttering closed. He let his body set the rhythm, taking him closer to the end, closer to where he needed to be.
‘Tell me!’ he demanded, knowing he wouldn’t last much longer, wanting to punish her for her denials, wanting to exact retribution for making him wait.
Her head lolled back against the wall, damp with perspiration, her breathing coming in gasps as she rode him. ‘I can’t,’ she admitted as her breath hitched on that last word.
He felt the explosion inside her. He felt it tightening all around him, drawing him further inside, until he remembered what it was that had made him want her again and until there was nowhere for him to go. There was nothing that he could do but give into the siren’s song and let himself be smashed against the rocks.
It seemed like forever they stayed together like that, pressed hard against the wall, their bodies recovering, no sound but the slowing thump of their heartbeats and the corresponding slowing in their breathing. He lowered her legs and felt her knees buckle as she hit the floor, but he still had her, and a moment later she steadied and he pulled fractionally away—and he saw.
He touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek, blotting the unexpected and baffling moisture. ‘You’re crying?’