Redemption Of The Untamed Italian (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Clare Connelly

  ‘So what? You intended for me, a man you barely know, to be your first lover? Why?’

  ‘It’s not like I had some elaborate plan,’ she snapped. ‘You asked me to come home with you and in that moment I couldn’t think of a single reason not to.’

  His eyes narrowed at the deceptive simplicity of her statement. ‘I can give you a reason,’ he said quietly. ‘I had no interest in being your first. I didn’t want the gift of your virginity. What we just did was a mistake.’

  She blinked and a single tear threatened to fall from her eyes. He made a noise and turned away from her, his breathing uneven as he went behind the island bar of the kitchen.

  He poured a scotch and when he looked up she was standing exactly where he’d left her, as though frozen in time.

  Something shifted inside him. He hated that they’d slept together. All the feelings of panic he’d felt almost two decades ago came screeching back to him, but it was more than that. Cesare didn’t like being surprised and she’d surprised him completely.

  He hated that he’d completely misread her. He hated that she hadn’t told him what he was getting into, and he hated looking at her now, knowing that the tear rolling lazily down her cheek was because of him. Most of all, he hated that he was awash with feelings because of her, when Cesare Durante was a man who prided himself on a robotic level of emotional detachment.

  This whole night had been a complete mistake. When he spoke, it was with a stony cool.

  ‘I’ll have my driver take you home.’

  Her eyes lifted to his face, a frown covering her lips. ‘What?’

  She looked completely lost. He swallowed past the unwelcome sense of compassion. ‘My driver. He will take you home.’

  She nodded then, and he felt as if she was going to say something. Then, she shook her head. ‘Don’t bother. I’ll grab a cab.’

  A thousand things ran through his mind. He should object. Tell her he wouldn’t feel right not seeing her home, or knowing that she got there safely, say something to erase the lines of disbelief that had etched themselves on her brow.

  It wasn’t a question of caring, it was basic civility. ‘Either my driver takes you home or I do. The choice is yours.’

  She blanched visibly. ‘Fine.’ Her lips were a gash in her face. ‘Call your driver, then. Frankly, I don’t want to see you ever again.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Four weeks later

  JEMIMA’S STOMACH ROLLED with a stormy kaleidoscope of butterflies. Anxiety burst through her, but even as the lift ascended to the top floor of Durante Incorporated’s offices here in Rome and she gnawed on her lower lip, wondering if there was any alternative to this, she knew there wasn’t.

  She had to do this.

  Her eyes, shielded by the over-sized sunglasses she often wore, flicked to the lift control panel. Buttons lit up as the lift crossed the floors until finally it arrived on the twenty-seventh. Jemima was pretty certain she’d left her stomach and every single one of her nerves down in the marbled lobby.

  She’d dressed carefully for this meeting. Where she usually liked to fly under the radar, she felt she needed all her Jemima Woodcroft armour at her disposal today. Conversely, she hadn’t wanted it to look as though she’d gone to any effort whatsoever. A pair of skinny jeans, a loose-fitting blouse a crisp white in colour, with a bright beaded necklace she’d bought at Camden Market and a pair of stilettos to give her a little extra height—and courage. Her clutch matched her necklace and she kept it tucked under her arm as she approached the central reception bay. Here, it was like another version of the lobby downstairs—all high ceilings, marble floor, bright and sun-filled, beautiful and extravagant. Everywhere she looked breathed ‘success’.

  ‘I’m here to see Cesare Durante.’ His name flew from her lips and sparked a deluge of memories, the same memories that had been tormenting her night after night since she’d stalked out of his London home and sworn she’d never think of him again.

  If only.

  She had thought of him without meaning to. It had been hardest of all to keep him at bay when she’d been showering. Naked, her hands had run over her body, touching her flesh as he had, stirring memories and wants so that desire had begun to simmer inside her all the time. Anger was there too, anger at the way he’d reacted and treated her, but the pleasure of what they’d shared refused to be dimmed, regardless of what had come afterwards.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No.’ Jemima removed her sunglasses. ‘But he’ll want to see me. We’re...old friends.’

  The receptionist lifted her head belatedly, swiping at her silky black hair, pushing it back from her face. As her eyes landed on Jemima, she showed obvious surprise, and Jemima tamped down on a familiar feeling—part resentment, part amusement. It was easy to tell the moment people recognised her.

  ‘Jemima Woodcroft?’

  Jemima’s smile was kind. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, wow. Okay, I’ll just let him know you’re here.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She dipped her head forward in acknowledgement. A few moments later, moments in which Jemima’s fingers fidgeted unstoppably, moments in which she began to imagine that perhaps he wasn’t going to see her after all, the receptionist appeared at Jemima’s side.

  ‘This way, ma’am.’

  Her feet made a clickety-clack noise as she crossed the reception area. When they approached two wide, glass doors, Jemima knew she was seconds away from seeing him again. Her insides were trembling; she employed every technique at her disposal, everything her professional training had taught her, to hide any outward appearance of nervousness. He couldn’t know how he affected her, nor what this visit was costing her pride!

  The receptionist opened the door and stood holding it. Jemima expelled a soft breath, dug her nails into her palms and pushed into his office.

  And immediately wished she hadn’t.

  It was so, so very him. Dark timber floors, sleek and elegant, unbelievably masculine in its decor, and there was a faint hint of fragrance, something like pine needles and orange peel, that made her tummy loop around and around in circles with the rush of her memories.

  Within seconds she’d taken in the details of the room, looking around on autopilot until her eyes landed on him with a heart-stopping thud and she had no scope left to notice anything else.

  Oh, God.

  A month. Four weeks. Thirty days. In that time she’d travelled to Istanbul for a magazine shoot, to Paris to film a video for an airline, but no matter where she’d fallen asleep, her dreams had been filled with Cesare, and her dreams were so torturously vivid that she’d woken up again and again and reached for him, as though her fingertips would connect with his warm, toned flesh.

  She stared at him now as a drowning man might a lifeline. He wore a suit, dark blue with a tinge of grey, that set off the depth of his tan beautifully, teamed with a white shirt and a pair of brown shoes which she’d bet were hand-stitched. At his wrist there was a gold watch, and his dark hair was brushed back from his brow. He looked strong, vital and unbelievably sexy. She stared at him, wishing she’d pushed her glasses back onto her face, wishing she had some kind of shield, some sort of protection against this.

  Images came to her unbidden. Memories of his mouth on her breasts, on her sex, of his tongue running over her body, tasting her, tormenting her, driving her completely wild. Her nerve endings began to tingle; she felt as though her feet had lifted up off the ground.

  ‘Miss Woodcroft.’ His use of her surname brought her to the present with a thud. She wasn’t here to walk down memory lane—all ten yards of it. She was here on business. She was here for Laurence—that was the only reason she had for weakening and seeing him again. Memories of how desperate her cousin had been when they’d spoken on the phone two nights earlier surged through her now, making it easier to push past her anxiety
and desire and focus almost exclusively on the purpose of her visit.

  ‘Mr Durante,’ she responded in kind, her eyes subconsciously icing over.

  ‘Thank you, Olivia.’

  The door clicked shut behind the receptionist, leaving them completely alone. Jemima was conscious of everything. Her breathing and his, the space between them, the rustle of his suit as he crossed the room to a kitchenette. He pressed a button on a machine and a thick, black liquid began to fill a white ceramic cup. ‘Coffee?’

  She shook her head, then cleared her throat. ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’

  His eyes lifted to her face, scanning it thoughtfully, then he removed the cup from the machine and cradled it in his hand. ‘Then perhaps you can explain what you’re doing here?’

  ‘Straight to it?’ she murmured, as much for her own sake as his.

  He sipped his coffee without speaking, his silence deeply unnerving.

  She swallowed past her nerves, trying not to think of anything except her cousin. Nothing else mattered—he’d made that perfectly clear when he’d dismissed her from his house. ‘I came to find out what’s going on with the hedge fund.’

  Cesare didn’t visibly react, and the longer he stayed silent, the more anxious she became. The directness of his stare was completely unsettling. ‘Laurence says you’ve had the contract a fortnight but you haven’t been answering his calls.’

  Cesare lifted his brows. ‘And?’

  Her stomach flipped and flopped. ‘It’s not fair to keep him in suspense like this.’ Her voice was crackly. She cleared her throat. ‘If you’re going to buy into the fund, you should do it. Otherwise tell him definitively so he can explore other options.’

  Cesare’s smile was wolf-like. ‘Such as bankruptcy?’

  Jemima felt the warmth fall from her face. It was a cruel thing to say and it showed in her features, hurt emanating from her as she spun away from him, moving towards the large boardroom that was framed by enormous glass windows.

  ‘Either you’re interested or not. Jerking him around like this...’

  ‘He is asking for a large sum of money. You don’t think some due diligence is required?’

  Jemima placed her bag down on top of the table and focussed her gaze on the stunning vista of this ancient city. ‘How long is that going to take?’

  Silence. She was glad then that she wasn’t looking at him. She felt his disapproval from a distance and she hated it.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said finally. ‘Laurence doesn’t like how long I’m spending on this and so he sends you, knowing our history, in an attempt to motivate me?’ He made a snorting noise of contempt. ‘And you didn’t think you’d try to guilt-trip me into anything?’

  She sucked in a harsh breath, on the brink of denying his charge, but he continued before she could speak.

  ‘I can see why he’d think I’d be persuaded, given what happened between us, but surely you’ve learned your lesson, Jemima? If you play with fire, you get burned, and I am definitely fire where you are concerned.’

  She winced and spun around to find him closer now, only a few feet away, watching her with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. ‘He doesn’t know I’m here,’ she contradicted. ‘And he doesn’t know anything about that night. About what happened between us.’

  She caught a flash of surprise in the depths of Cesare’s eyes, but only briefly, and then he was cynical and detached once more.

  ‘Then why are you here?’ He prowled towards her, his eyes morphing from steel-grey to the colour of the ocean on a stormy day. Before she could realise his intention, he was right before her, his body so close they were brushing, his face intently watchful.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and for a second she found it almost impossible to think, certainly to find any words to offer.

  ‘I just think you should move faster.’ She furrowed her brow. ‘I’m asking you to make up your mind, one way or another. He deserves to know where he stands.’

  Cesare’s expression didn’t shift. ‘And you thought that if you came here to ask me to snap my fingers and invest in his fund I would simply agree?’

  She shook her head. This was a mistake. Why had she thought he’d listen to her? Or that he’d have any motivation to help her?

  ‘No. I guess I’m asking you as a decent human to put him out of his misery.’ She swallowed. ‘I know it’s probably not good business sense to tell you how desperate he is but Cesare, truly, I’m worried about him.’ She lowered her eyes so he wouldn’t see how close she was to tears. ‘He’s at his wits’ end. And he’s worked too hard to lose everything now. He can’t lose everything. Too much depends on it. Please.’

  She’d said too much. This was a gamble she was going to lose and the consequences would be disastrous. ‘But you don’t care, do you?’ she whispered, wondering at the deep sense of surprise that permeated her.

  ‘I barely know your cousin. If you’re asking if I’m personally moved by your worries for him, then no. I told you that night, I do not mix business with pleasure. If you think that the fact we slept together somehow predisposes me to want to help Laurence, then you completely misunderstand the kind of man I am. He made his bed, and he may very well now have to lie in it.’

  Panic scorched her, but she tried not to lose sight of the man Cesare was. No way would he have come to London to meet with Laurence if he hadn’t been motivated to move. ‘But you are interested in investing, right?’

  He dipped his head forward in silent agreement.

  ‘So why delay?’

  Cesare’s eyes sparked in his face. ‘I’m not sure that’s any business of yours.’

  She bit down on her lip. He had a point.

  This wasn’t going to work. He was immovable. She should have known as much. All she’d succeeded in doing today was destroying her pride and possibly weakening Laurence’s bargaining position in a way that may well prove fatal.

  ‘You’re right.’ She shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t have come here. I really thought you might understand. I don’t know why I should have expected anything of you, really. It was pretty obvious that night exactly what kind of man you are. I was stupid to expect a shred of compassion from you...’

  ‘Compassion?’ He looked at her as though she were mad. ‘This is business, black and white, commercially sensible business. Nothing else. If I invested half a billion pounds into failing hedge funds just because a woman I’d slept with asked me to, I would have nothing left to invest.’

  The sting of his words whipped her to the core of her soul. It wasn’t as though she was under any illusion when it came to his sexual experience but a reminder of the number of women he’d slept with sat like a boulder in her throat. She stared at him for several seconds and then nodded jerkily. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you forgot I came, Mr Durante.’ She used his surname meaningfully, side-stepping him and moving towards the table where her clutch bag sat discarded.

  He watched her stride towards the door with a frown on his face and, though he’d been frustrated by her sudden intrusion, and even more so at the reason for it, he didn’t relish the prospect of her disappearing once more.

  His lawyers had quarantined the funds for this investment earlier that same day—as chance would have it, he’d been planning to call Laurence that afternoon to finalise the details.

  Instead, Jemima had arrived with her fluffy blonde hair and the fringe that hung across one eye making him itch to reach over and push it away so he could regard her properly. Jemima with her defiant eyes and trembling mouth, her vanilla fragrance and tantalising curves. The four weeks he’d spent telling himself how bitterly he regretted falling for her many charms had evaporated into thin air.

  He was glad to see her. He wanted to see more of her. The realisations were instantaneous, brought to life by her imminent departure.

 
‘Wait.’

  Her hand had curved around the door. He stayed exactly where he was, a desire to appear in control innate to him, even as there was a rival instinct to stalk across the room and drag her into his arms.

  ‘What?’ She barked the word with disbelief. ‘What do you want?’

  It was an excellent question and, if he’d been a different man, perhaps he would have obfuscated, sought cover in a lie. But Cesare was not a man to lie. ‘You, uccellina. Just you.’

  Her eyes flew wide and her lips parted, colour invaded her cheeks and beneath the fine cotton of her shirt her breasts puckered so he could see the definition of her nipples against the fabric. His groin tightened, desire rushing over him.

  All his adult life, he’d been in charge. Not once had he slept with a woman and had it morph into something else, and this wouldn’t, either. This was just sex, desire plain and simple, but one night hadn’t been enough. Perhaps it was the way they’d come together, the surprise of her innocence or the abrupt way he’d put an end to what they were doing. He hadn’t been able to think of her without regret and now, here she was in his office, a second chance with her tantalising and impossible to ignore.

  He held up a hand, forestalling anything she might say in response. ‘Hear me out.’ He paced towards his desk, a frown on his face as he thought through what he wanted and how to get it. ‘You are worried about your cousin. Fine. You wish me to alleviate those worries by investing in his business right now, today?’

  She bit down on her lower lip and nodded, angst so obvious in her eyes.

  He ignored it. This wasn’t about sympathy. It wasn’t about compassion—she’d been wrong to expect either of those qualities in him. This was business, pure and simple. She was an acquisition, just like a company he might wish to buy. True, the terms were vastly different, but if mutually agreeable the professionalism of the deal would be the same.

  He spoke slowly, placing his palms on the edge of his desk as he eyed her across the room. ‘In business it is normal to offer something in exchange. If I were to buy into his hedge fund, which may very well prove to be a complete waste of my money,’ he said, knowing full well the fund was likely to double in value in the next six months, ‘then I would expect something in exchange.’