Exotic Nights: The Virgin’s SecretThe Devil’s HeartPleasured in the Playboy’s Penthouse

by Abby Green

  She shook her head, so scared and so uncertain—and so hopeful. “You’ll regret it. You’ll resent me later—”

  “No, I won’t. I cannot resent you when you are my heart, my soul. You make me whole again. I need you. Armando needs you.”

  “Armando?”

  “He’s had quite an upheaval, but he needs a stable life. We can give that to him. I want us to be the ones who give it to him.”

  “But I thought you had found him a family.”

  “He already has a family. Us, Ingrid and Isabelle. The bodega and everyone there.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s not fair to try and bribe me this way.”

  “I don’t care about fair, mi amor. I care about you. I want to spend every day with you, talking, arguing, making love, going for walks, taking care of Armando. I want to wake up each day knowing you will be there. And I want you to know that I love you, and that I’ve never said those words to anyone other than my mother. Not anyone, Francesca. Not ever.”

  Her heart was expanding with all she felt. With every word he said, she believed him. She touched his face, traced the scar at his mouth. He turned his head, and kissed her palm.

  “Please, Francesca,” he said urgently. “I can’t do this without you. Say you will come home with me, that you will love me—”

  “I already do love you. So much it scares me.”

  “Then say you will marry me and be my wife forever.”

  “Luckily, we’re already married,” she said with a watery smile.

  He answered her with a sexy grin. “Then we can start immediately on the honeymoon. My favorite part.”

  “Mine too.”

  “Bueno,” he said, tugging her sweater up. “Because I have much I wish to do to you before this night is through …”

  It was a very wonderful night, Francesca thought. But not until much, much later …

  EPILOGUE

  HE TRULY WAS THE luckiest man in the world. Marcos sat on the veranda of the Bodega Navarre, gazing out at the vineyards and the laughing little boy playing with Francesca. Little Armando was a dynamo at three years old. He was quick, smart, and as adorable as ever.

  Marcos loved him with all his heart. Though it saddened him to think of how the boy had come into their lives, he was very happy they were the ones who’d adopted the child once his mother had died so tragically. Armando would have a good life as a Navarre. And, when he was old enough, he would know about his mother. Both Marcos and Francesca agreed that was important.

  Ingrid came to take Armando for his bath, and Francesca collapsed into a chair.

  “Wore you out, did he?”

  “Lord yes,” she said, taking a sip of the cool lemon ice water one of the girls had brought out. He watched her, felt a well of emotion as she set the glass down and gave him a funny little look. “What?”

  “I love you, Francesca. You are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “You don’t have to keep telling me I’m beautiful. We’ve been married for almost two years now. I’m not worried you’ll let another woman turn your head.”

  “But you are beautiful. Extraordinarily so. I tell you this because I mean it.” He leaned over and kissed her. “If you would like to retire for a siesta, I could show you how beautiful you are to me. I am aching to do so.”

  Her smile turned wicked. “Marcos Navarre, are you trying to corrupt me?”

  “Every chance I get,” he vowed. He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. She made a little sound of pleasure in her throat when she discovered he was already hard for her.

  “Oh my,” she said. “I’m looking forward to that siesta.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  “Do you two ever stop?”

  Francesca jumped up and went to hug the old man who’d hobbled onto the veranda. “Jacques, how are you feeling? Did you sleep well?”

  “I’m fine, sweetheart,” he said.

  She helped him into a chair and poured a glass of wine for him. “And your sleep?”

  He took an appreciative sip. “I slept like an old man of seventy-seven should sleep. Stop fussing, Francesca. Now you two go on and do whatever you were going to do, don’t mind me. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the view.”

  “Then we will enjoy it with you,” Marcos said without hesitation. Francesca smiled at him, and he thought once more what a lucky man he was. Tonight, he would show her just how he felt. And every night for the rest of their lives.

  Pleasured in the Playboy’s Penthouse

  Natalie Anderson

  About the Author

  NATALIE ANDERSON adores a happy ending, which is why she always reads the back of a book first. Just to be sure. So you can be sure you’ve got a happy ending in your hands right now—because she promises nothing less. Along with happy endings, she loves peppermint-filled dark chocolate, pineapple juice and extremely long showers. Not to mention spending hours teasing her imaginary friends with dating dilemmas. She tends to torment them before eventually relenting and offering—you guessed it—a happy ending. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, with her gorgeous husband and four fabulous children.

  If, like her, you love a happy ending, be sure to come and say hi on facebook/authornataliea and on Twitter @authornataliea, or her website/blog: www.natalie-anderson.com.

  For Soraya—you are so generous and supportive, always dropping everything to read in a rush and then getting back to me so quickly and so helpfully … and this one was some rush, wasn’t it? I am really looking forward to repaying you in kind so very soon.

  CHAPTER ONE

  DID she want a ‘sex machine’ or a ‘slow comfortable screw’? Choices, choices … and tonight Bella was struggling with decisions. The names were all such appalling puns, she didn’t know if she’d be able to ask for one without blushing. Especially as she was sitting all alone in this bar—on a Friday night. The bartender would probably panic and think she was coming on to him. But as she looked at the gleaming glasses lined up behind the counter and the rows of bottles holding varying amounts of brightly coloured liquid, her taste buds were tickled. It had been a while since she’d had anything more indulgent than whatever was the cheapest red wine at the supermarket. Surely she was justified in having something fabulous to celebrate her day? And as this weekend had already burned one huge hole in her savings, she might as well make it a crater.

  She looked back at the cocktail list, but barely read on. She’d waited all day for someone to say it. Someone. Anyone. It wasn’t as if she expected a party—a cake, candles or even a card. It was a frantic time getting everything organised for Vita’s wedding, Bella understood that. But surely even one of them could have remembered? Her father perhaps?

  But no. She was just there, as usual, in the background, like the family cat. Present, accounted for, but blending in as if part of the furniture. It was only if she had some sort of catastrophe that they remembered her. And she was determined to avoid any catastrophes this weekend. This was Vita’s special time. As uncomfortable as Bella felt, she was determined to help make the weekend as wonderful as it could be for her sister.

  Volunteering to oversee the decorating had been her best idea. It had meant she’d been able to avoid most of the others. And honestly, she’d felt more at home with the waitresses and staff of the exclusive resort than with her own family and their friends.

  When she’d paused at lunchtime she’d looked up and seen them out walking along the beach. The island of Waiheke looked as if it had been taken over by an accountancy convention. In truth it basically had. They were like clones. All wearing corporate casual. The men in fawn trousers and open-collared pale blue shirts. Tomorrow they’d be in fawn again only with white shirts for the wedding. Afterwards, they’d saunter on the sand in three-quarter ‘casual’ trousers, overly colourful Hawaiian shirts, with their pale feet sliding in leather ‘mandals’. They all had crisp cut hair, and expensive sunglasses plastered across their faces. The women were using their e
ven more expensive sunglasses to pin back their long, sleek hair. Her tall, glamorous cousins, her sister. They were all the same. All so incredibly successful—if you equated money, highflying jobs and incredibly suitable partners with success.

  She’d tried it once—to play it their way. She’d dated a guy who was more approved of by her own family than she was herself. What a disaster that had been. They still didn’t believe that she’d been the one to end it. Of course, there were reasons for that. But none Bella felt like dwelling on now. Tomorrow was going to be bad enough.

  After she’d finally hung all the ribbons on the white-shrouded chairs, she’d headed straight for the bar inside the main building of the hotel. She’d celebrate herself. Toast in another year. Raise a glass to the success of the last. Even if no one else was going to. Even if there wasn’t that much success to toast.

  There had been talk of a family dinner, but the preparations had run too late—drinks maybe. She was glad. She didn’t want to face the all too inevitable questions about her career and her love-life, the looks of unwanted sympathy from her aunts. There’d be time enough for that the next day, when there was no way she could avoid them as much as she had today. For today was her day and she could spend the last of it however she wanted to.

  Now, as she sat and waited to be served, she avoided looking around, pretending she was happy to be there alone. She pushed back the inadequacy with some mind games—she’d play a role and fake the confidence. She would do cosmopolitan woman—the woman who took on the world and played it her way. Who took no prisoners, had what she wanted and lived it to the max. It would be good practice for tomorrow when she’d be confronted by Rex and Celia. One of the fun things about being an actress—even a minor-league, bit-part player—was the pretending.

  She read through the list again, muttering as she narrowed her choices. ‘Do I want “sex on the beach” or a “screaming orgasm”?’

  ‘Why do you have to choose?’

  She turned her head sharply. There was a guy standing right beside her. One incredibly hot guy whom she knew she’d never seen before because she’d damn well remember if she had. Tall and dark and with the bluest of eyes capturing hers. While she was staring, he was talking some more.

  ‘I would have thought a woman like you would always have both.’

  Sex on the beach and a screaming orgasm? Looking up at him, she took a firmer grip on both the menu card and the sensation suddenly beating through her—the tantalising tempo of temptation.

  He must be just about the only person here who wasn’t involved in the wedding. Or maybe he was. He was probably one of her cousins’ dates. For a split second disappointment washed through her. But then she looked him over again—he wasn’t wearing an Armani suit and if he was one of their dates he’d definitely be in Armani. And he’d be hanging on his date’s arm, not alone and possibly on the prowl in a bar. This guy was in jeans—the roughest fabric she’d seen in the place to date. They were wet around the ankles as if he’d been splashing in the water, and on his feet were a pair of ancient-looking boat shoes. A light grey long-sleeved tee shirt covered his top half. It had a slight vee at the neck, exposing the base of the tanned column that was his neck. It was such a relief to see someone doing truly casual—someone not flaunting evidence of their superb bank balance.

  Those bright blue eyes smiled at her. Very brightly. And then they looked her up and down.

  Suddenly she felt totally uncomfortable as she thought about her own appearance. Not for the first time she wished for the cool, glamorous gene that the rest of her family had inherited. Instead she was hot, mosquito bitten, with a stripe of cooked-lobster-red sunburn across one half of her chest where she’d missed with her 110 SPF sunscreen. Her white cotton blouse was more off-white than bright and the fire-engine-red ribbon of her floral skirt was starting to come loose—but that was what you got for wearing second-hand.

  It was one of her more sedate outfits, an attempt to dress up a little, in deference to the ‘family’ and their expectations. She’d even used the hotel iron—a real concession given she usually got at least one burn when she went anywhere near the things. Today had been no different. There was a small, very red, very sore patch just below her elbow. And now, thanks to a day spent on her knees dressing chairs in white robes and yellow ribbons, she knew she looked a sight.

  As she took in his beautifully chiselled jaw, she really wished she’d bothered to go to her room and check her face or something on the way. There’d been some mascara on her eyelashes this morning, a rub of lip balm. Both were undoubtedly long gone. She was hardly in a state to be drawing single guys to her across a bar. She darted a glance around. She was the only female in the room. And there were only a couple of other customers. Then she looked at her watch. It was early. He was just making small talk with the only woman about. He was probably a travelling salesman. Only he definitely didn’t look the salesman type. And despite the suggestion in his talk he didn’t come across as sleazy. There was a bit of a glint in those blue eyes—she’d like to think it was appreciation, but it was more of a dare. And there was more humour than anything. She could do with some humour.

  The bartender came back down to where they were standing. And Bella took up the challenge. Cosmopolitan woman she would be. Summoning all her courage and telling her cheeks to remain free of excess colour, she ordered. ‘A “sex on the beach” and a “screaming orgasm” please.’

  She refused to look at him but she could sense his smile of approval—could hear it in his voice as he ordered too.

  ‘I’ll have two “screaming orgasms” and “sex on the beach”.’

  Bella studiously watched the bartender line up the five shot glasses. She didn’t want to turn and look in his eyes again, not entirely sure she wouldn’t be mesmerised completely. But peripheral vision was very handy. She was motionless, seemingly fixated on the bartender as he carefully poured in each ingredient, but in reality she was wholly focused on the guy next to her as he pulled out the bar stool next to hers and sat on it. His leg brushed against hers as he did. It was a very long leg, and it looked fine clad in the faded denim. She could feel the strength just from that one accidental touch.

  Silently, shaking inside, she went to lift the first glass in the line-up. But then his hand covered hers, lightly pressing it down to the wood. Did he feel her fingers jerk beneath his? She snatched a moment to recover her self-possession before attempting to look at him with what she hoped was sophisticated query.

  His bright blues were twinkling. ‘Have the orgasm first.’

  She could feel the heat as her blood beat its way to her cheeks.

  The twinkles in his eyes burned brighter. ‘After all, you can always have another one later.’

  She stared at him as he released her. He’d turned on the widest, laziest, most sensual smile she’d ever seen. Spellbound wasn’t the word. Almost without thinking, she moved her fingers, encircling the second shot.

  ‘What about you?’ Why had her voice suddenly gone whispery?

  ‘A gentleman always lets the lady go first.’

  So she picked up the orgasm, kind of amazed her hand wasn’t visibly trembling. In a swift motion she knocked the contents back into her mouth and swallowed the lot. She took a moment before breathing—then it was a short, sharp breath as she absorbed the burning hit. Slowly she put the glass back down on the bar.

  His smile was wicked now. He’d picked up the sex shot, pausing pointedly with it slightly raised, until she did the same. She met his eyes and lifted the glass to her lips. Simultaneously they tipped back and swallowed.

  Slamming his on the bench, he picked up the next shot. Then he paused again, inclined his head towards the remaining orgasm.

  ‘You know it’s for you.’ That smile twisted his mouth as he spoke and its teasing warmth reached out to her.

  There was no way she could refuse. She couldn’t actually speak for the fire in her throat. So she picked up the shot and again, eyes
trained on him, drank. And he mirrored her, barely half a beat behind.

  It was a long, deep breath she drew that time. And her recovery was much slower. She stared for a while at the five empty glasses in front of them. And then she looked back at him.

  He wasn’t smiling any more. At least, his mouth wasn’t turned up. But his eyes searched hers while sending a message at the same time. And the warmth was all pervasive. The burning sensation rippled through her body, showing no sign of cooling. Instead her temperature was still rising. And she wasn’t at all sure if it was from the alcohol or the fire in his gaze.

  Wow. She tried to take another deep breath. But the cool of the air made her tingling lips sizzle more. His gaze dropped to her mouth as if he knew of her sensitivity. The sizzle didn’t cease.

  She blinked, pressed her lips together to try to stop the whisper of temptation they were screaming to her, resumed visual contemplation of the empty shot glasses. She should never have looked at him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed, studying him peripherally again.

  He shrugged, mouth twitching, lightening the atmosphere and making her wonder if she’d overemphasised that supercharged moment. Of course there was no way he would be hitting on her. Now his eyes said it was all just a joke. As if he knew that if she thought he was really after her, she’d be running a mile. City slicker vixen-in-a-bar was so not her style. But she’d decided anything could be possible tonight. Anything she wanted could be hers. She was pretending, remember?

  ‘So are we celebrating, or drowning sorrows?’ He flashed that easy smile again. And it gave her the confidence that up until now she’d been faking.

  ‘Celebrating.’ She turned to face him.

  His brows raised. She could understand his surprise. People didn’t usually celebrate in a bar drinking all by themselves. So she elaborated.