She’d felt even sicker, because those were the negotiations she’d taunted him about that day in the penthouse, when they’d been stuck inside thanks to the paparazzi.
She heard movement beside her, and looked over to see Rico take a seat on the other side of the cabin. Treacherous flames of desire and illicit excitement feathered through Gypsy’s veins. He put his head back now and closed his eyes. Gypsy felt a lurch in her chest at seeing faint dark circles under his eyes. And when she recalled how gently he’d held Luis the day before at the christening she felt something even scarier.
Suddenly his head snapped back down. Those eyes opened and looked straight at her. Heat flooded her face when she recalled how she’d woken only that morning to find Rico on one arm, staring at her with a wicked gleam in his eye, his broad and powerful chest bare.
She’d watched, instantly awake and breathless, as he’d taken the pillow from the centre of the bed and thrown it to the other side of the room. Suddenly filled with nebulous emotions, acutely aware of how much she’d misjudged him, she’d entreated huskily, ‘No, Rico,’ terrified he’d see her vulnerability.
But he’d just come closer and closed the gap between them. His skin had been hot and silky as he’d trapped her under one arm, bicep bulging. ‘Yes, Rico. I find that my patience is running very thin.’
Every nerve-point in Gypsy’s body had come alive, treacherously telling of her inability to deny this desire. His head had lowered and his mouth had slanted over hers, stifling anything else she might say. After a futile moment of trying not to react to his kiss, to his proximity, Gypsy’s mouth had opened and Rico had plundered ruthlessly, tongue stabbing deep, making Gypsy’s back arch.
Her hands had instinctively clung to his arms, fingers digging into hard muscle. Before she’d known how he did it, the buttons of her pyjama top were undone and he was spreading the sides apart to bare her breasts to his gaze. The hardening rosy tips had tingled as he’d brushed a hand over one, and then the other.
Gypsy’s breath had come fast and shallow, and when he’d lowered his head and mouth to suck one tip deep she’d all but bucked off the bed, so sensitised it had hurt.
Just as his hand had been travelling down to the waistband of her pants, a mewl had come from Lola in the other room.
They’d both stopped, waiting, and it had come again—stronger. Louder. She’d woken up. With a veritable turmoil of tangled emotions and frustrated desires in her belly Gypsy had pushed Rico away and got up, hastily buttoning her top again. Reluctantly she’d looked back to the bed, to see Rico lying there, arms behind his head, the sheet just managing to hide the extent of his arousal, chest broad and awe inspiring, gleaming dark olive with a smattering of masculine hair.
He’d smiled wickedly and drawled, ‘Next time we won’t have a convenient interruption. I can promise you that…’
Gypsy had fled.
Now, as Rico’s far too assessing eyes looked at her, she burned all over. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but she thought she’d caught him looking at her periodically over the last couple of days with a speculative gleam. He just arched a brow now, and asked laconically, ‘So, did you find anything interesting on the internet?’
All the heat that had just warmed Gypsy’s cheeks leached out. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know exactly what I mean,’ he said easily. ‘Isobel told me you’d been on the internet, and it’s an easy thing to check the history. I think you possibly found out everything but my shoe size.’
No wonder he’d been looking at her; he knew she’d been snooping. The heat flooded back—and she hadn’t even found out anything about his personal life, his real father in Greece, or what had happened to him between the ages of sixteen and twenty, when he’d burst on the scene having become a dotcom millionaire overnight.
Gypsy’s arms tightened across the sleeping Lola, causing her to shift slightly. Stiffly she said, ‘I felt that perhaps I owed you the benefit of the doubt. I realised that I really didn’t have much basis for my…’ She faltered tellingly.
‘Prejudice I think is the word you’re looking for.’ And then he shocked her by saying, ‘Perhaps we’re both guilty of the same thing. After all…you’ve given me very little to go on…’
Gypsy quivered inwardly at the thought of one of his many minions checking her out. ‘There’s nothing much to tell.’
Rico turned to face her more. ‘And yet I find that’s really not the case at all. You’re quite the enigma. You patently didn’t come after me for the easiest gold-digging opportunity in history, but the ease with which you can navigate a high-end charity event tells me you know that world. And yet you were living in a hovel when I found you.’
For the first time Gypsy felt that perhaps she could tell Rico something of her life, but then that visceral fear surged up: despite what she knew about him now, she still couldn’t trust him. It held her back. There was too much at stake. He might play fair in business, but would he play fair in personal matters—especially those concerning his own daughter? He’d said he wouldn’t ever forgive Gypsy for what she’d done. It was only now that she knew a little of his personal history that she could see how it might have shaped his need not to be seen rejecting his own child.
She reiterated stiffly, ‘There’s really nothing to tell.’
After locking eyes with her for a long moment, until Gypsy felt breathless, Rico said, ‘Why don’t you take Lola and get some sleep in the bedroom? I still have work to do.’
And, as much to escape as anything else, Gypsy took his suggestion and left.
A few hours after doing some brain-numbing work which had more to do with blocking out the erotic memory of kissing Gypsy that morning, and how hard it had been to let her walk away, than any actual need to work Rico stretched and stood up.
He prowled silently to the back of the plane to look in on Gypsy and Lola, and stopped just inside the doorway with an ominous tightening in his chest. Gypsy lay on her side, her hair in a stream of curls around her head, knees up and her hand protectively on Lola’s chest, cocooning her. Lola lay in complete abandon, legs and arms splayed. Gypsy had put pillows on Lola’s other side to prevent her rolling off the bed.
A fierce sense of possessiveness rose up within him, and it encompassed the two people on the bed—not just the little one. The constriction in his chest not easing one bit, he walked in and pulled a blanket first of all over Gypsy, and then a smaller one over Lola. Neither one moved. He stood watching Gypsy and tried to battle the maelstrom of emotions she so effortlessly aroused.
He’d told her she was an enigma, and she was. Information on her background was starting to trickle through, and what he’d learnt so far had him reeling. He’d just given her a chance to tell him herself, but she hadn’t. And he wanted to know why she was so reluctant to tell him of her past.
It was becoming harder and harder for him to cling on to his sense of injustice that she’d kept Lola secret from him. It was also becoming harder for him to remember why he didn’t want to shackle her to him in marriage. The prospect, once so repugnant, now had a distinct appeal. He couldn’t lie to himself that he wasn’t a little envious of what Rafael and Isobel had together, and, while he didn’t imagine he’d ever experience that for himself, he certainly wasn’t averse to trying to create a home based around family…and mutual desire.
All Gypsy’s behaviour in the past few days had pointed to her sharing a very similar moral compass to Isobel’s, and he knew Isobel was not a woman who would choose to have a child and decide not to tell the father without good reason.
Gypsy’s presence by his side at the social functions had been a revelation. In the past he’d had to deal with sulks and moues of disappointment from mistresses or dates when he’d wanted to do his bit and then leave as soon as possible. But he’d got the distinct impression that Gypsy had as little time for those events as he did. She’d had no desire to ogle the A-list celebrities, or talk inanities with the sycophants wh
o all wanted a slice of him—or more accurately his fortune. In the space of two nights he’d found himself instinctively seeking her hand and relishing finding that she was right behind him without a murmur of dissent—if anything she’d shared his look of mild distaste.
And what was even more disconcerting was the ease with which he’d slipped into something that felt extremely domestic. Coming home to Lola each night, checking on her. Listening to Gypsy get up to soothe her if she woke during the night. Feeling the bed dip as she got back in and aching to just pull her close to him and make love to her until he could satisfy himself that what had happened between them had been a figment of his imagination.
He had a sinking feeling, as he watched her now and felt the familiar throb of desire, that it would prove to be anything but. He’d told her arrogantly that he’d wait for her to come to him, confident that she’d be mindless with desire for him, but he’d been the one to lose control that morning. Vulnerability clawed upwards again. He’d control this desire, wait until he knew more about the mother of his child. Make her want him as badly as he wanted her. Space. That was what he would have to impose—even if it killed him.
Lola squealed happily as Rico threw her in the air again, only to catch her in safe hands just before she touched the glittering azure water of the pool, which was half-indoors, half-outdoors. Rico had explained that this was the winter pool and was heated. Gypsy had seen another idyllic outdoor pool from the terrace where they’d had breakfast that morning.
‘Again!’ Lola screeched ecstatically, her favourite new word, which she’d picked up from Beatriz. Gypsy stifled a wry smile to see that Rico was fast discovering the perils of an indefatigable toddler who’d just discovered an exciting game and the power of language.
Her heart clenched to see Lola so happy in this environment—especially when she thought of their less than salubrious home in London and felt the familiar guilt. There, Lola had been lucky to get a go on the one nonmangled swing in the bleak park. Here…Gypsy sighed as she looked around from the seat she sat on. Here was paradise.
They’d landed in Athens late last night and transferred straight onto a smaller plane, which had borne them across southern Greece to the island of Zakynthos. In the surprisingly cool night air Rico had ushered them into a Jeep and had driven them himself to his villa, which was near the private airfield.
Gypsy had been too exhausted to take much notice of their surroundings last night, and had been barely aware of the friendly housekeeper Rico had introduced as Agneta. But she had been disturbingly aware of a new coolness from Rico. Gone were the hot and intent looks, but she was determined not to let it bother her. Rico was undoubtedly trying to unsettle her again.
This morning, when she’d carried Lola down to breakfast, she’d been in awe at the beauty of the simple yet expansive villa unfolding around her. Everything was bright and airy, with huge glass windows showcasing the fabulous views of the Mediterranean.
Agneta had met them with a wide smile and led them to where Rico was reading a paper and eating breakfast on a shaded terrace. Gypsy had been surprised, once again, that he was there and hadn’t already left to go to work. She’d also been more than bemused to see a state-of-the-art highchair waiting for Lola, and she’d noticed the discreet child-proofing that had been done throughout the villa.
Rico had stood when they’d arrived, and enquired, ‘I trust you slept well?’
Gypsy had just nodded and garbled, ‘Yes, thank you. Our rooms are most comfortable.’ Which was a huge understatement. She didn’t want to admit that she’d actually missed Rico’s presence in the room last night—in the bed. Even though she’d told herself staunchly that she’d been relieved to be shown to a suite of rooms of her own.
There was a dressing room, bathroom and sitting room. Not to mention the huge bedroom, with a fourposter bed complete with diaphanous muslin curtains drawn back. And Agneta had shown her into an equally generous ante-room which had been set up as a nursery for Lola. Gypsy had had to swallow an emotional lump, and had put it down to tiredness.
But that same lump was threatening again now, as she watched Rico and Lola frolic in the water, both sets of identical grey eyes smiling. So she knew it had nothing to do with tiredness. With each day that passed Lola was getting more and more attached to Rico. She went into his arms with no hesitation, and was already using him as someone to go to when she didn’t want to do something Gypsy wanted her to do.
With that revelation making her feel uncomfortable and crabby, not to mention the far too provocative sight of a half-naked Rico, she approached the side of the pool with a towel, indicating that Lola should get out.
‘She’ll be impossible to put down for a nap after lunch if she gets too excited now.’
Those two sets of grey eyes turned to her, and Gypsy felt inordinately petty. But even though Rico’s eyes flashed he waded to the edge of the pool and handed Lola over. Predictably, she began to protest at having her game cut short.
He drew himself out in one fluid motion which made Gypsy’s breath hitch. She avoided looking at where the water sluiced off his body. She could only be thankful that he wore board shorts and not something more insubstantial.
‘I should go into Athens for a few hours to tend to business. Go ahead and have dinner without me. I’ll probably be late.’
Gypsy barely looked up, too afraid of what she might see. She had an awful prickling feeling that she’d hurt him.
As Rico sat in his car in the bumper-to-bumper traffic in central Athens his suit chafed, and he longed to rip off his tie and open his shirt. He cursed himself. He’d always loved coming back to Athens, and the anticipation of work, of seeing his mistress or the prospect of taking a new one. But that didn’t appeal any more. All he could think about was the reproach in Gypsy’s eyes as she’d taken Lola from him at the pool and the feeling that he’d done something wrong. And also how much he’d prefer to be there, and not here.
He cursed himself again for his weakness. The child was making him soft, and frustrated desire was clouding his brain—that was all. He cursed his vow to exercise restraint and let a new sense of anticipation fire through him as he thought of grilling his employees to see what else they’d found out about Gypsy.
By the end of their first week living at the villa Gypsy knew her nerves were wrought tight. Rico was there every morning, to greet them and have breakfast. He’d play with Lola for a while, and then disappear in a helicopter to go to Athens and work. Most evenings he’d make it back for dinner and they’d have stilted conversation—stilted because every time Rico tried to navigate into more personal waters Gypsy clammed up.
She’d heard the helicopter some time ago, and now waited with her heart thumping unevenly for Rico to appear for dinner.
When he did, striding into the room as silently as a panther, he took her breath away—as always. He’d obviously just showered and changed. His hair was still damp, slicked back from his high forehead. The dark shirt and faded jeans made her think of that night she’d seen him in the club for the first time.
She gulped and looked away, thankful for Agneta’s presence as she came in with the first course. Rico asked after Lola, and Gypsy told him that they’d taken a drive to a nearby beach and had a picnic. On their first day he’d given her the keys to a Jeep, telling her it was hers to use.
He finished his starter before her and sat back, appraising her with those unreadable silver eyes.
Gypsy felt more and more hot, wishing she’d put on something lighter than a cotton jumper and a pair of jeans. ‘What is it?’ she finally asked. ‘Have I got something on my face?’
Rico shook his head, and then smiled, causing Gypsy to feel momentarily winded. He reached out a long arm and his fingers took a strand of her hair, letting it slip between them. His eyes met hers. ‘Who made you believe you should straighten your hair?’
His touch was affecting her far too much. Gypsy pulled her head away and Rico finally let go. She pushed
her unfinished starter away, her appetite gone.
Rico leant forward. ‘Gypsy, either you tell me something about yourself or fifteen months of living together is going to get very tired, very quickly. And if that’s your plan then give it up—because it won’t work. You owe me.’
She bit her lip and played with her napkin, feeling as though she was about to walk into a chasm with no bottom in sight. ‘My father…He never liked my hair left curly.’ She was trembling now. She’d never spoken of her father to anyone.
‘He was a fool,’ Rico growled softly.
Gypsy flicked him a glance and looked away again, somehow heartened by the glint in his eye. It reminded her of an expression he had sometimes when looking at Lola. ‘He used to tell me I looked like the gypsies that lived at the side of the road…so if we ever went out in public he’d insist I had it straightened.’
‘Even as a child?’
Gypsy nodded.
‘What about your mother? What did she think?’
Gypsy tensed perceptibly, but even Agneta coming in to take away the starters and deliver their main course didn’t divert Rico’s attention. He merely repeated the question when they were alone again.
Gypsy looked at him. ‘My mother got ill when I was six, and I went to live with my father.’ She didn’t think it worth mentioning that the least of her mother’s worries at that time had been the state of Gypsy’s hair.
Rico put down his fork. ‘They weren’t married?’
Gypsy shook her head.
‘Tell me about her.’
Gypsy thought back and let a small smile play around her mouth, unaware of how Rico’s gaze dropped there for a moment. ‘She was Irish…and poor. Very naïve—too naïve. My father was her boss; he seduced her, and promised her all sorts of things, but when she fell pregnant he didn’t want to know.’
Desert Jewels & Rising Stars Page 337