Redemption Of The Untamed Italian (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Clare Connelly

  She was quiet. His eyes ran over her face and a rush of excitement surrounded him. He’d thought of her frustratingly often—how come it hadn’t occurred to him that he could leverage her situation to give them what they both wanted?

  ‘Have you thought of me since that night?’ he asked, his body still, his eyes trained on her face so that he could catch any hint of response, the slightest reaction. He didn’t have to look too hard. Her hand lifted to her hair, pulling it over one shoulder, and her expression shifted to one of disbelief.

  ‘Why does it matter?’ And then, a second later, ‘Have you thought of me?’

  ‘Yes.’ He held her gaze when she might have looked away. ‘You weren’t what I expected.’

  Her throat shifted as she swallowed. ‘So I’m some kind of an enigma?’

  An enigma? Yes, that was it. How else could he explain the fact his mind had frequently wandered back to that night without his consent? ‘You could say that.’

  ‘So?’ Her eyelids fluttered as she lifted her gaze to his and an ache to possess her again—properly this time—soared in his chest. Yes, he wanted her, and not like last time. He wanted to savour every kiss, every movement, every feeling and sensation. He wanted to do this properly, at his leisure.

  ‘I have a proposition for you. A way to help Laurence and give you and me what I think we both want.’

  But one more night wouldn’t be enough. Instinctively he knew the fever she’d evoked would be harder to quell in his blood than a single night would allow for.

  ‘I will invest in the fund today, this afternoon—no more due diligence, no more delays—if you agree to my terms.’

  She crossed her slender arms over her chest, the gesture drawing his eyes to the gentle swell of her cleavage, so every fibre of his being tightened and shook with need. ‘What terms?’

  The certainty that he was close to success shot through him. He knew what victory sounded like and it was close at hand.

  ‘Two weeks.’ His eyes flared as he delivered the terms.

  Her lips parted as a small sound rushed out of her and colour peaked in her cheeks, pale pink, so that she was like a very soft rose petal. She knew exactly what he was offering, but he wasn’t a man who was prone to uncertainty, so he felt the need to spell out exactly what he was offering and exactly what he wanted.

  ‘In my bed.’

  And now, he stepped out from behind his desk, moving towards the door where she stood, his stride long, his manner intent.

  She stared at him as he approached and he relished this—the promise of what was to come. For, as sure as night followed day, she would agree to his terms.

  ‘But why?’ The words were whispered, hollow-sounding.

  He lifted a finger and pressed it to her lips, keeping her silent. ‘I am not interested in a relationship—not with you or any woman.’ The words were said coldly, but it was better that she understood, unequivocally, how he felt. As a young man Cesare had sworn he would make a success of himself and relationships didn’t factor into that. Sex, yes. Anything more serious? Hell, no. And never with a woman like Jemima, who was as to the manor born as it was possible to get.

  ‘What I’m offering is a very clearly defined arrangement.’ He felt her swallow this time, her lips pursing as she tried to relax her mouth. He fought an urge to slide his finger into the warm cavity, to feel her moistness wrap around him... Soon. He needed her to agree to this and then it would begin.

  ‘Explain it to me,’ she whispered, faint of breath.

  He took the question as a win. He was close to victory. ‘For two weeks you will be by my side. Morning, noon and night, in my bed any time I wish it, charming me, making love to me. You will be, in every way, mine.’

  She trembled a little and a husky gasp escaped her lips. ‘Why?’

  He laughed. ‘You really have to ask that?’ He pressed his body forward and, when his hard ridges connected to her soft curves, he didn’t relent, stepping forward again so she was shuffled back into the door. He pressed her to it, seeing the moment her eyes flared wide as she felt his arousal hard against her body.

  ‘I mean, why would I agree to this?’

  He bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile. ‘Putting aside the fact you have just told me how desperate your cousin is, and implied you would do anything to help him?’

  Her cheeks fired pink and her eyes cut through him with something approaching disdain. It was useful—an excellent reminder of who and what this woman was. Aristocratic. Entitled. Spoiled. All the things he’d come to loathe, all of the attitudes and bigotries of which he’d been on the receiving end time and again, before he’d made his fortune and become the kind of man with whom everyone—regardless of their title and wealth—felt a need to flatter and ingratiate themselves. Her disdain was nothing new, and it fired him up now, reminding him why he kept himself well away from women like this.

  This was just sex. Sex, business, pleasure, but each separated from the other by the lines he was drawing now.

  ‘I am the only man you have ever slept with,’ he said with a lift of his brow and a twist of his lips that was sheer arrogant machismo. ‘And there is much you have to learn.’

  Her eyes narrowed and she regarded him with an even greater level of disdain and even a glimmer of dislike. ‘How do you know you’re the only man I’ve ever slept with?’ she prompted.

  ‘I was there the other night,’ he reminded her, no dint to his confidence. ‘Remember?’

  Her voice was soft when she spoke, mellow and husky. ‘You were my first lover. It doesn’t necessarily follow that you remain my only.’

  Cesare—who prided himself on being quick on the uptake—took several seconds to comprehend exactly what she meant. But, when he did, he felt an almighty surge of adrenalin and a burst of male egotism that had him acting without thinking.

  ‘You’re lying.’ The words ripped from him even as his head swooped down and his lips claimed hers. ‘You are lying.’ He threw the words into her mouth as his hands curled at her hips, lifting her up and bracing her back against the door.

  The idea of another man doing this—touching her, kissing her—flicked something inside him and he was waging a war against a primal instinct of possession, an instinct that went beyond sense and logic, an instinct he couldn’t fathom, didn’t welcome, yet couldn’t deny.

  He swore into her mouth and kissed her harder, or perhaps it wasn’t a kiss so much as a complete subjugation, a need to show her that he could command her desire and please her more than anyone else on earth.

  ‘What does it matter?’ she threw at him, breaking free of his kiss before her lips sought his of their own accord.

  What did it matter? Hell, he couldn’t say, only he knew it did matter, and it fired his determination anew—he would wipe any other man from her mind, he would remove them from her body, he would make her his. For the sheer sake of it. For pride.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SHE WAS DROWNING and she didn’t care. Water filled her lungs, her eyes, her cells, her heart. She was drowning and there was no point trying not to—she would choose this drowning death a thousand times over. His hands on her body were strong and possessive, his lips unrelenting, his arousal persistent against her so she felt her own need explode in a way that was more fierce than any stick of dynamite, any firework, any flame.

  She’d lied to him. Pride had driven her to remove that smug, arrogant look from his face. He might have been right—he was the only man she’d ever slept with, and he had filled her dreams for days and nights on end—but he had no right to look at her and expect her to jump when he snapped his fingers.

  He deserved to have his arrogance shaken, his confidence taken down a peg. Beautiful, sexy, smug bastard...

  His hands pushed at her blouse, and in his haste he tore the buttons, so one popped clear across the room. She barely noticed;
she was just so glad the moment his fingers pushed aside the lace of her bra and cupped her naked breast, his touch instantly familiar and desperately perfect. She rolled her hips, her legs wrapped around his waist, her jeans an unbelievable barrier to what she wanted, what she needed.

  And he understood, pushing his cock harder against her, so that even through all the fabric that came between them he found the sweet spot of her nerves and moved himself there, inflating her pleasure, pushing her higher and higher into the heavens. His tongue tormented her mouth, his hands controlled her breasts; she was lost to him and this.

  She needed him. After four weeks of being made love to by the phantom memories of Cesare Durante, being held, touched and kissed by the real thing was a heavenly balm.

  Pleasure rose, a wave upon which she was travelling, her breath torn from her, need insatiable and fierce. She ached for him—nothing else mattered. In that moment, she wasn’t thinking of Laurence, the hedge fund or the deal Cesare had proposed, she was simply a being born of sensation and need.

  Lights danced behind her eyelids, bright and persistent, flickering until they became one big inferno, making sight impossible. But who needed sight when there were feelings such as this?

  ‘Please.’ She rolled her hips again, her release so close, so tantalisingly close.

  ‘No.’ He lifted his head, the word whipping her as though he’d sliced her with a blade.

  Her breath was still coming in pants, her eyes awash with desire as she stared up at him in utter disbelief. He eased her feet to the floor, his eyes hard in his handsome, symmetrical face. If it weren’t for the dark slashes of colour across his cheekbones, she would have said he had been completely unmoved by what had just happened. But she’d felt his response; she knew his desire to be as fierce as her own.

  Except now he was looking at her with a clinical detachment, a sense of complete unconcern, as if nothing had even happened between them. He was all business, ruthless, concentrated, intense.

  ‘You will become my mistress. For two weeks.’ He held his hand up, two fingers raised. ‘In exchange,’ he added darkly, ‘I will show you a kind of pleasure you can only imagine.’

  Jemima swallowed, her traitorous body refusing to listen to sense, refusing to care that he was using her desire to blackmail her.

  ‘I’m not for sale.’

  His expression showed mocking amusement. ‘Everyone is for sale, for the right price.’ He skimmed his eyes over her body. ‘You want me to save your cousin? Done. You want me to please make love to you?’ He mimicked her tone and she winced. ‘You want me to touch you all night until you can barely think straight? Done. Choose which of these prices is more palatable to you and we will go with that.’

  Her fingers tingled with a desire to slap him, but damn it, he was right. She needed this; needed him. Her eyes showed frustration as they locked with his. She couldn’t easily choose why she would agree. For Laurence? She would do anything for him. Her future was tied closely to his, but more than that, he was like a brother to her. Yet her love for Laurence had no bearing on her decision.

  The temptation she felt to agree to Cesare’s proposal had one root only—she needed him and she’d do anything, agree to anything, for that pleasure. Even sacrifice her pride? Apparently.

  ‘And at the end of the two weeks?’ she whispered, closing her eyes so as not to see his triumphant expression.

  ‘You disappear from my life—sexually illuminated and your cousin financially secure.’

  She swallowed, his words pulling her to pieces. ‘And it’s that easy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What if it’s not?’ She blinked her eyes open now, a frown puckering her brow. ‘What if two weeks come and go and you don’t want me to leave? Or what if I want to stay?’

  His expression was as relentless as a vise. ‘Not possible. I offer this and no more. It is a deal, an agreement, no less binding than any of the contracts I enter into on a daily basis.’

  She nodded, but her heart did something strange in her chest, lurching from side to side. ‘I need to think about it.’

  His laugh was like the Niagara Falls emptying on her head.

  ‘What? Why is that funny?’

  ‘It is obvious you intend to say yes. Do not lie to me, now.’ He lifted a finger to her lips, tracing their outline before pressing the tip into her mouth. She bit down on it with her teeth, not hard, but in a silent warning that had him laughing once more.

  ‘You are unbelievably arrogant,’ she muttered.

  ‘Yes.’

  God, he was—why the heck hadn’t she been able to put him out of her mind? Why had he somehow got under her skin and into her blood like this? ‘I don’t even like you.’

  His look was one of wry amusement. ‘Then it’s just as well I’m not asking you to like me.’ He moved his head closer towards hers, so when he whispered she could hear every syllable of his words. ‘Liking one another has nothing to do with what we are. I am asking you to be my mistress, not my girlfriend. It is a simple yes or no question.’

  She swallowed. It wasn’t simple, it was complex, but only because she wished she felt more strongly opposed to this. She wished she were outraged or violently offended. She was neither.

  In point of fact, she was intrigued and excited. Yes, excited. A month ago, Cesare had woken a part of her that she hadn’t even realised was dormant. He’d stirred her to life and, no matter what she might think of him personally, she had no doubt he was just the man with whom to explore this sensual side of herself.

  Perhaps she could approach this exactly as he suggested: as a business arrangement. Oh, not in the sense that he was bankrolling Laurence. That had to be removed from her mind. This was a decision about whether she wanted to sleep with Cesare, whether she wanted to become his mistress—for a short period of time. It was about what she stood to gain from this—not financially, so much as physically.

  Her eyes clashed with his and something locked in place inside her, something vital. She could make her peace with this situation because deep down she knew that it was her choice. He was providing an option, but she was only accepting because she wanted to.

  ‘I have the Feranti e Caro fashion show next week,’ she murmured, hearing herself and knowing there was acquiescence in the words.

  ‘Cancel it.’

  Angry heat fired in her belly. ‘No way. I can’t. This is my career and I won’t let them down. I don’t ever cancel a show once I’ve agreed to it.’

  His lips compressed, his expression impossible to interpret, until finally he nodded. ‘Fine. One night.’ His eyes flared. ‘Otherwise, you are mine.’

  She wanted to tell him that people couldn’t belong to people, that the idea of ownership was ridiculous and patriarchal, that it offended every level of her feminist heart. But she knew, even as those words flew through her, that a part of her had belonged to him the moment they’d met, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever get it back.

  Excitement buzzed through her; pleasure and anticipation, as well. It would have been easy to forget why she’d come to him, easy to forget her cousin and what she owed him.

  Cesare made that impossible, though. ‘I will advise my lawyers to contact Laurence. It will take a few days for the funds to transfer.’ His eyes locked to hers, then he spun away, stalking towards his desk. He scrawled something on the back of a business card then crossed to her once more, his manner strictly business.

  ‘Friday—meet me here.’

  She dropped her eyes to the card, reading his confident scrawl.

  Hotel Sable d’Or, Cannes.

  He pressed a finger to her chin, lifting her face towards his, something in his eyes that spoke of promises and needs. ‘Don’t disappoint me.’

  Her lips parted on a sigh—a sigh that was part promise and all hope. ‘I won’t.’

  And then he dropp
ed his head to hers, this kiss slower, more enquiring, as though he were tasting her, teasing her. It still had the same effect: her knees threatened to buckle beneath her and her mind went blank. It was all too brief, though.

  ‘Dream of me.’

  She nodded, because she knew she would, just as she had been, and his laugh was soft. ‘I will make you forget whoever it was you slept with after me. I will ruin you for any other man, uccellina.’

  Thud. Thud. Thud. One foot after the other. Faster. Better. His eyes flicked to his watch, checking his pace and then his heart rate, but only for a second. Don’t take your eyes off the goal. He dipped his head forward, keeping his frame in its most aerodynamic state, and continued to run. Rome passed him in a blur, as it did every night, his body at one with this ancient city, her secrets breathing into his soul, ancient wisdom soothing him in a way he hadn’t known he needed until he’d found his way back here.

  He liked to run to the outskirts of the city, to the borderline slum in which he’d spent the first five years of his life. To stare at the building—it was still there—with the peeling paint and the boarded-up windows, the wall with faded graffiti as though even vandals preferred not to come into this part of the city. He liked to listen to the sounds, to breathe in the smells and to remember—this was where he had started in life.

  And always at the back of his mind, no matter how hard he ran, no matter how much he achieved, no matter what his bank balance was, Cesare carried with him a latent fear, a certainty that if he didn’t keep running, keep working, keep amassing his fortune, he would end up right back where he’d begun—broke, alone, sad and so hungry he could feel the walls of his stomach squeezing in on themselves.

  He was thirty-five years old: that time in his life was decades ago, yet the memories were trapped inside him in a way that showed they’d never fade. Despite all that he’d earned, Cesare could never forget the little boy he’d been then—oftentimes grubby, weary, a boy people would cross the street to avoid. How ironic that he could now command the attention of world leaders, of kings and queens and, most importantly, of women like Jemima Woodcroft...