How he had persuaded her mother to sell the house in Bournemouth—the house her mum had inherited from her parents—Sally had had no idea, but she had reluctantly agreed to go and see the new apartment, supposedly the new family home. It was a top-floor conversion of a large Georgian house, and she’d swiftly realised it was unsuitable for a wheelchair—which to her mind simply confirmed that her father had no intention of ever living with his wife again.
His excuse for selling the house was the cost of keeping his wife in the nursing home. As it was he who had put her there, it did not cut much ice with Sally, but she could not deny he did pay the fees.
Then, to her dismay, she had found herself the recipient of his studio apartment. Her mother had been delighted, and told her it was time she had a place of her own. When she’d tried to refuse her mother had insisted, and told her to listen to her father—he was the accountant, and the property was a good investment. Apparently, giving the studio to Sally was a great way of avoiding death duties in the future!
Sally had then realised how he had persuaded her mum to sell, and it had confirmed in her mind what a greedy low-life he really was…
She had reluctantly moved in ten months ago, when the lease on her old apartment ran out, mainly because her mother had kept asking her when she was going to move.
But to Sally this apartment didn’t feel like her home, and she knew it never could—because in her head she would always think of it as her dad’s sleazy love-nest. A fact that had been brought home to her the first week she’d moved in, when she’d fielded quite a few calls from present and previously discarded mistresses. She had changed the telephone number, but she could not change the fact that a string of women other than his wife had shared the king-size bed.
As a studio apartment it was a superior example, with natural wooden floors, and it was larger than most. The kitchen and bathroom were off the small entrance hall, separate from the main living area which was split-level, with a mini-staircase leading to the bedroom area. She had thrown out every piece of furniture her father had left, including his king-size bed and the mirror over it, and bought a queen-size bed for herself.
She had redecorated completely, in neutral tones, and bought the minimum of new furniture: a sofa, an occasional table, and a television for the living area. In the bedroom she had fitted interlocking beechwood units along one wall, which included drawers and shelves where she could house her books, plus a desktop that stretched the length of one unit. It held her computer and doubled as a dressing table. The other wall had a built-in wardrobe with mirrored doors. The bed had a beechwood headboard, and all her bedlinen was plain white—easily interchangeable. She didn’t need anything else, and she probably would not be there much longer.
She had mentioned to her mother a month ago that she was thinking of trying to sell the studio, telling her she would really prefer a separate bedroom. Her mum had said that would be nice, and the subject had not been mentioned again. But Sally had placed it with a local estate agent the next Monday. She had stipulated that she wanted no sign outside, as she was at work all day and away every weekend and a sign tended to encourage burglars.
She need not have bothered, as she no longer cared whether she sold it or not. Since hearing the doctor’s prognosis for her mother last week she’d recognised there were a lot worse things in life than living in an apartment one didn’t like.
She straightened up and headed for the kitchen, dropping her purse on the sofa on the way. A cup of coffee, a sandwich and a shower, in that order, and then bed.
Checking the water level in the kettle, she switched it on, and, opening a cupboard, reached for a jar of instant coffee just as the wall-mounted telephone rang.
Her heart leapt in panic. It must be the nursing home about her mother, was her first thought, and, lifting the receiver from the rest, she said quickly, ‘Sally here—what is it?’
‘Not what—who,’ a deep voice corrected her with a chuckle, before continuing, unnecessarily identifying himself. ‘Zac.’ And she nearly dropped the phone.
‘How did you get my number?’ she demanded.
‘Easy. Your father told me you lived in Kensington. I wasn’t so obvious as to ask him for your number, but you are in the telephone book.’
Of course she was. Hadn’t she changed the number and registered it under her own name? ‘You looked through all the Paxtons in the book? You must have had to ring dozens to find me.’ She couldn’t believe a man of his wealth and stature would go to so much trouble.
‘No. Surprisingly there are only a few, and yours was the first number I tried. I am just naturally lucky, Sally.’
He was naturally arrogant as well—and what was she doing, bothering to talk to him?
‘Now, about tonight,’ he continued. ‘I’ve booked a table for eight.’ He mentioned a famous Mayfair restaurant.
‘Wait a damn minute,’ Sally cut in angrily. ‘I never agreed to go out to dinner with you. So thanks, but no thanks, I am staying in to wash my hair,’ she ended sarcastically, and hung up.
Her heart pounded in her chest, and she pulled in some deep breaths to control the anger and—if she was honest—the excitement the sound of his deep-toned voice aroused so easily.
The kettle boiled, and she made a cup of coffee with a hand that was not quite steady. What was happening to her? Exhaustion—that was the problem. It had probably lowered her immune system and sent her emotions haywire. Satisfied with the explanation, she made a cheese sandwich with stale bread, but ate most of it anyway and drank her coffee.
She crossed to the bed area, slipping out of her skirt, and she hung it in the closet and headed for the bathroom. She stripped naked, and, dropping her blouse, bra and briefs into the wash basket, turned the shower on to warm. She picked up a bottle of shampoo from the vanity unit and stepped under the soothing spray.
She washed her hair and then, placing the shampoo on the chrome rack, she let her head fall back. She closed her eyes and let the water wash away the grime and hopefully the grimness of the weekend.
Her mother had been pleased to see her, and had declared she was perfectly content, but Sally knew different. No matter how good the nursing home, how great the staff were or how beautiful the gardens, it was still a nursing home. The patients were there out of necessity, because they needed constant care. She doubted anyone, given a choice, would choose it over their own home.
She shrugged off her morbid thoughts, and, switching off the shower, grabbed a large fluffy towel from the towel rail and rubbed her body dry. She towel-dried her hair, deciding not to bother with the hairdryer, and letting it hang down her back to dry naturally. She cleaned her teeth at the basin, and, taking her towelling robe off the hook on the back of the bathroom door, she slipped it on, tying the sash firmly around her waist.
The telephone rang as she walked back into the living room. Surely not Delucca again? Moving to the kitchen, she answered it with a curt, ‘Yes?’
‘My. Sally, who has rattled your cage?’ an old familiar voice demanded.
‘Al!’ She laughed. ‘I thought it was someone else.’
‘Not the guy you were having lunch with, I hope?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Sally, be careful. I mentioned I had met Delucca to my dad. According to him the man is not the type to get involved with. Apparently, he is an extremely powerful man, admired by a few, but feared by most. He is known as the takeover king and he’s a brilliantly astute businessman. Delucca Holdings is one of the few companies that the recession has barely affected—mainly because he is ruthless at closing down failing companies and selling off their assets. But he’s equally as clever at retaining and expanding the profitable ones. He owns mines in South America and Australia, a couple of oil companies, land and a lot more besides. As my dad pointed out, all tangible assets that, unlike stocks and shares, in the long term can’t fail. As for his private life, not much is known about him except that he has dated quite a few top models
.’
‘I know all that—and don’t worry. I refused his offer of dinner. The lunch was a one-off, never to be repeated.’
‘Great. So have dinner with me tomorrow night? I have a table booked for nine at the new in place, but the girl I had high hopes of turned me down.’
‘That is a back-handed invite if ever I heard one.’ She laughed, but agreed, and after ten minutes of talking to Al she felt revived and almost human again.
She switched on the television, and an hour later was curled up on the sofa, watching the ending of her favourite crime programme and contemplating going to bed, when the doorbell rang.
The building had a concierge, and the intercom had not rung to announce anyone’s arrival, so it had to be Miss Telford from across the hall, Sally guessed. She had met her the first week she had moved in, when the elderly spinster had locked herself out. Since then, at Miss Telford’s request, Sally had kept a spare set of keys for her apartment, just in case she did it again—which she did quite frequently…
Standing up and stretching, Sally switched off the television and padded barefoot across the floor to open the door.
‘Forgotten the key…? You!’ The surprised exclamation left her lips before she could prevent it.
Sally was struck dumb, her incredulous gaze sweeping over the man before her. Zac Delucca was standing in the doorway, with what looked like a large cooler box in one hand and a bunch of roses in the other.
‘An honest woman—you actually were washing your hair,’ he drawled, eyeing the damp tousled curls falling around her shoulders. ‘But washing your hair or not, Sally, I figured you still need to eat. These are for you.’ He held out the roses and she took them, too shocked to refuse, and then, brushing past her, he strolled into her apartment. ‘Nice place,’ he opined, and set the box on the occasional table before turning round to look at her.
Still speechless, Sally let her eyes roam in helpless admiration over his impressive form. Gone was the designer suit. In its place he was wearing a white cotton shirt, and denim jeans that hung low on his lean hips and faithfully moulded his strong thighs and long legs. The designer label was a discreet signature on a side pocket.
Involuntarily her gaze was drawn back to his broad muscular chest, outlined by the obviously tailor-made shirt, the first few buttons of which were unfastened, revealing the strong column of his throat and a tantalising glimpse of black chest hair. Sally gulped, and for a moment had an overwhelming urge to run her fingers through the curling body hair. She took a step forward, the basic animal magnetism of the man, drawing her like a moth to a flame…
But the door slamming shut behind her brought her to her senses, and she ruthlessly squashed the impulse and found her voice.
‘The doorman never called, so how the hell did you get in?’ she demanded, and lifted her eyes to his face; now he was grinning broadly, and looked even more devastatingly attractive, Sally thought helplessly.
‘I told him you were my lover and it was our one month anniversary. I said I wanted to surprise you with champagne and roses and an intimate dinner for two. The man is clearly a romantic at heart—he could not refuse. Plus the tip helped,’ he added cynically.
There it was again. No one ever refused Zac Delucca. And Sally had a sinking sensation that if she was not very careful she might fall into that category too.
She went on the attack. ‘Then the man is going to lose his job, because I did not invite you here. I want you to leave now—get out or I will throw you out…’ She raised angry blue eyes to his and caught a golden flame of desire in the dark depths so fierce she imagined she felt the heat—before his attention was diverted from her face…
Chapter Five
LOOKING at Zac, towering over her Sally had the wild desire to laugh at her own audacity in threatening to eject him. But as the silence lengthened a desire of a different kind whipped any thought of laughter from her mind. She saw he was scrutinising her slender body with an intensity that made her feel as if he was stripping her naked.
Suddenly, tension thickened the air between them, and it became hard for Sally to breathe. She felt a ripple of heat run through her, and it had nothing to do with the heat of the day.
Zac seemed to fill the small studio with his presence, and however unwillingly she was being drawn towards him despite all her best efforts to deny the fact. His dark eyes lingered on the open lapels of her robe, and jerkily she pulled the belt tighter, remembering she actually was naked underneath…
Embarrassment and the hot flush of arousal combined to make a tide of pink stain her pale face.
He stared at her for a long moment, and she wished she had done something with her hair instead of leaving it to dry in a mess of curls—ridiculous, she knew, but he had that effect on her.
‘You would not cost the man his job. I know you are not that mean-spirited, Sally,’ he said with certainty. He was right, damn him. ‘As for throwing me out—you haven’t a chance. But you are welcome to try.’ And he walked towards her, throwing his arms wide. ‘This should be interesting,’ he prompted and grinned at her. Her heart missed a beat at the devilish charm of his expression. ‘Give it your best shot.’
He was looming over her like some great monolith, legs slightly splayed, arms outstretched. She knew he was laughing at her, but still she had an incredible urge to walk into his arms.
‘Very funny,’ she snapped, and looked away. She knew when she was beaten. But as she stepped to one side an imp of mischief made her smack his forearm with the bunch of roses she still held in her hand. As a tension reliever it worked…
‘That hurt!’ she heard him yelp, and this time she did laugh as she dashed to the kitchen to put the somewhat battered roses in water.
She took a vase from the cupboard where she kept her glass-wear, and, filling it with water, put the roses in one at a time. They were magnificent blooms—or had been, she amended, before they had met the strength of Zac’s arm. And suddenly she felt a little guilty as she placed the vase on the windowsill.
‘Truce?’ He came up behind her, and she turned. He was too close, his big body crowding her. She caught the elusive scent of his aftershave—or was it simply him?—and her pulse began to race. She had difficulty holding his gaze.
‘You have already drawn my blood.’ He held up his arm.
Sally looked down, and to her horror realised she had. His bronzed, hair-dusted forearm bore a small scratch, and she saw the thin line of blood and felt even guiltier. ‘I’m so sorry—let me put a plaster—’
‘Not necessary.’ He cut her off. ‘But in recompense the least you can do is let me feed you.’
Warily, she looked up into his darkly attractive face. She didn’t trust him, and worse she did not trust herself around him.
‘I do mean only to feed you.’
He seemed to possess the ability to read her mind. ‘Okay,’ she finally said—mainly because she was thoroughly ashamed of herself. She wasn’t by nature a violent person, but Zac Delucca brought out a host of violent sensations in her she had never realised she possessed. And, given that she had ripped his arm open with the roses he had bought her, it seemed the least she could do…
‘Good.’ And, reaching into the cupboard she had left open, he withdrew two glasses. ‘I will deal with the wine and let you get the cutlery we need. Everything else is provided.’
‘Fine. Do you want to eat here?’ she asked, glancing at the fold-down table and two stools against one wall of the kitchen, where she usually ate, and then back to Zac. She grimaced. If he stretched his arms out again he could reach from wall to wall.
‘It is a bit cramped, but it is either here or the living room.’
‘The living room,’ he decided, and, swinging on his heels, walked out of the kitchen.
Sally opened a drawer and withdrew knives, forks and spoons, wondering what she had let herself in for. She had let her guilt at lashing out at Zac override her common sense and agreed to him staying. Now she was not so sure
. He disturbed her on so many levels. He had barged his way into her home uninvited, and yet the memory of the steamy kiss they had shared in the car still lingered. And if she was honest she would not mind repeating the experience. Anyway, what harm could it do to share a meal with him?
An hour later, licking her lips after finishing off dessert—a perfect Tiramisu—Sally was confident there had been no harm at all…
Actually, it had been a great meal. When she’d exited the kitchen with the plates and cutlery, Zac had already filled the occasional table with an assortment of dishes: delicious pasta, fresh crusty bread and Veal Milanese, as well as salad and the dessert.
He had got the food from his favourite Italian restaurant, owned by a friend of his, he’d told her, and had made her laugh with stories of the proprietor and his family. Then he’d opened a bottle of wine and filled her glass and his, and made a toast to friendship.
Zac had been charming—a perfect gentleman. He had taken care not to so much as touch her, and there was still a foot of space between them on the sofa. Nothing like the arrogant man she had met last Friday, who had hardly kept his hands off her.
In fact, apart from Al, she could not remember ever feeling so relaxed in a man’s company. But then maybe seeing her with no make-up, wet hair and wearing a tired old robe had dampened Zac’s ardour, she thought with a wry grin, and told herself she was glad. But a little voice in her head whispered that it would be nice to feel his arms around her once more…
‘That was wonderful,’ she said, casting a sidelong glance at Zac. He was lounging back on the sofa beside her, his long legs stretched out before him, a glass of wine in his hand. His big body was at ease, and she had the fanciful notion that he looked like some great half-slumbering jungle predator.
‘An apple and a stale cheese sandwich are no substitute for a good meal,’ she went on, telling herself she was being ridiculous, fantasising about Zac. Picking up her glass of wine, she drained it and replaced it on the table. She raised a hand to her mouth as a yawn overtook her. Too much wine and not enough sleep, she thought, and murmured a polite, ‘Thank you.’
Untamed Italian, Blackmailed Innocent Page 5