by Heidi Rice
He was still watching her with that inscrutable look on his face.
Too unnerved to meet his gaze, she stared at their surroundings.
Men in tuxedos and dinner suits and women in designer gowns milled around them, dipping into the trays of canapés, sipping from champagne flutes, like exotic birds in a luxury zoo, many of them watching her and Jared with undisguised curiosity.
“I think I’ve made enough of a scene, don’t you?” she asked, sipping more slowly. To think she’d once been a part of this world, briefly... She’d never felt more alien from it now.
“You didn’t make the scene, they did,” he said, the rough texture of his voice surprising her. He almost sounded sympathetic. Unfortunately it was a sympathy she knew she didn’t deserve.
“They’re just doing their job,” she said.
“Their job is to take photos, not harass people,” he said, the forbidding frown surprising her even more.
He clicked his fingers above her head and the well-built man who had spoken to them when they’d arrived appeared as if he were on a magic leash that Jared had just tugged.
“I want a photographer called Jess Barton escorted off the estate,” Caine said to the young man. “Tell him his press pass has been revoked, and if I see any of the photographs he took tonight in print or on the Internet he’ll be sued. Then inform the resort’s PR and marketing team he’s not to be readmitted under any circumstances. And tell Granger to draft a written warning to the others. I’ll sign off on it tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir, Signore Caine.” The security guard nodded and then sped off to do Jared’s bidding, as if such a request were perfectly normal.
Katie swallowed convulsively, the fruity bubbles of the champagne doing nothing to ease the emotion welling in her throat.
Why had Caine done that?
Surely he of all people believed the attention she got from the press was a justifiable penance for all the foolish things she’d done to attract their notice?
“You didn’t have to do that,” she managed at last, determined not to read too much into his actions.
“Yes, I did.”
“But won’t this jeopardize your contract with the resort’s management?” she asked, even more confused and concerned for him. However rich he might be, and however successful his company, she did not want to mess things up for him because she’d freaked out over a few photos. “This is an investor’s event—I’m sure they will want photos in the press.”
His lips quirked, as if he thought her concern was somehow endearing.
“As I’m one of the resort’s principle investors, the management works for me, not the other way around.”
“Oh.”
“But, anyway, that’s beside the point.”
“It is?”
“Yes. The purpose of this event is to gain investors, not to harass the guests. Barton stepped over the line.”
“I... Okay.” She drained the champagne, blinking back the foolish sting in her eyes.
She walked past him through the crowd, trying to get a grip on the foolish feeling of validation. Of support. She wasn’t a child anymore, looking for approval, and Jared Caine certainly wasn’t her father. It really didn’t matter what he thought of her.
She took a moment to calm herself by absorbing the splendor of her surroundings. The building’s starkly modern interior belied the eighteenth-century architecture. Polished marble floors added majesty to the domed atrium, where a winding staircase accessed a second level. The elaborate chandelier suspended from the ceiling several floors above was the décor’s only nod to the building’s history. Large double doors stood open, leading the guests onto a veranda that looked down over ornate terraced gardens.
A fountain dominated the main garden below them, the elegant geometric pattern of lawns and hedges edged with a profusion of rose bushes, climbing vines and a series of grottos and follies which must have been part of the original layout.
A band played at the far end of the gardens. A dance floor had been laid out next to tables covered in white cloths and laden with crystal and silverware that sparkled in the torch light. A gazebo festooned with fairy lights and flowers sheltered the couples who were already making the most of the entertainment, dancing to the bass beat of the music. She dismissed the thought of dancing with Jared Caine, something she’d dreamed about often as a confused nineteen-year-old when she’d been looking for any distraction.
She didn’t need distractions now.
But the whole scene looked foolishly romantic. And stupidly date-like.
Why hadn’t she thought this through? She should have refused to accompany Jared tonight. And why had he wanted her to escort him, anyway? They were stuck together here because of his work—and his loyalty to Dario. But something had shifted when he had ordered Barton off the premises. Something she didn’t know how to shift back.
She swung round as he came to stand beside her, his big body radiating tension. He lifted the empty champagne flute out of her hand and deposited the glass on the tray of a passing waiter. She felt the weird spell intensify, making them invisible to everyone.
“You don’t have to hang out with me,” she said. “I’ll be fine on my own, if you need to mingle.”
* * *
Why did she have to look so damned exquisite, and so vulnerable, while she was giving him the brush-off?
Jared watched Katherine’s gaze flicker away. The glittery powder on her lids shimmered. He could see the flutter of her pulse through the skin of her collarbone, her cleavage drawing his eye as the slopes of her breasts pressed against the bodice of the beaded gown.
The feeling of connection was only made more disturbing by the visceral blast of longing.
He’d tried to convince himself he’d only escorted her to this event, so he could keep an eye on her while dealing with the hundred-and-one details that still needed his attention before the full press launch tomorrow. The hundred-and-one details he should have dealt with this afternoon instead of constantly checking with the villa staff that the styling team was keeping his uninvited guest occupied.
After she’d agree to accompany him, he’d left the villa this afternoon determined to keep things strictly impersonal this evening.
But the memory of her slender body wearing nothing but a bathrobe had continued to torment him throughout the day.
And then she’d stepped out onto the terrace this evening and the sight of her—her subtle curves accentuated by the glimmer of silk, her sultry eyes bright with bravado and provocation—had made the pulsing ache plunge straight back into his abdomen.
And he’d known the real reason he’d asked her to tonight’s event—because every thought bar one had been incinerated by the firestorm of lust.
I want her, no matter what the consequences.
His groin had been keeping the faith ever since, the longing to rip off the silk gown and lick every inch of what lay beneath taking this afternoon’s torment to a whole new layer of agony.
But he’d managed to yank himself back from the edge by repeating the same tired mantra to himself during the drive here.
Katherine Whittaker was a spoiled gold digger who didn’t deserve a moment of his time. His irrational hunger now was simply a hangover from the unrequited need that the first taste of her had triggered five years ago.
He enjoyed sex. He was an accomplished lover. Not the boy he’d once been with desires he couldn’t control.
He had destroyed that wild, feral kid years ago—buried him deep, while building a multinational business.
But he’d seen the blind panic flash in her eyes when that jackal had stuck a camera in her face. And the first tenet of his mantra—that Katherine was a spoiled gold digger—had collapsed.
She’d looked terrified. But instead of defending herself she’d blamed herself.
The next tenet of his mantra had soon followed suit.
Why did it matter if his hunger was triggered by what had happened—or almost
happened—five years ago, if it was still as real and vivid today?
And now the third tenet was close to becoming toast too, because the driving need to touch, taste and torment her was telling him that while he might find it easy to control his need with other women it had never been easy with her.
“I don’t need to mingle,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You can trust me not to run off. I doubt I could run anywhere in these heels.”
“Can you dance in them?” he asked.
Her gaze lifted to his. “Yes, why?”
“If you recall, I paid a small fortune for that dress,” he said, letting his gaze drift over the shimmering silk. “Which gives me certain privileges.”
Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss to the thin skin at her wrist. Need bolted through him when she jolted.
Threading his fingers through hers, he turned and headed down the marble steps toward the gardens.
To his surprise, she didn’t resist.
“Where are we going?” she asked breathlessly.
He didn’t reply, because he didn’t want an argument.
But he measured his steps and kept his grip firm as he weaved in and out of the other guests, then took one of the covered paths toward the dance floor in case she tried to bolt. The tiny lights embedded in the vines made it feel as if they were walking through a tunnel of starlight toward the low, pounding bass beat.
He quashed the romantic thought.
At last they reached the dance floor. He stepped onto the wooden boards and swung her into his arms. She grasped his shoulder to steady herself, allowing him to clasp her waist and tug her securely into his body.
Her soft curves yielded and the hunger that had been driving him since yesterday lunged. He moved easily to the music and she followed instinctively, for once allowing him to lead without an argument.
The pulsing beat in his abdomen became more insistent.
Damn, but he had always wanted to tame this woman. To hear that soft sob of need again which had come out of her mouth five years ago when he had lost himself in her kiss.
He knew he should fight the urge. She was Dario’s sister-in-law—he was supposed to be protecting her until he could return her to the bosom of her family. Protecting her from men exactly like him, who only had the ability to take, never to give.
But with her body moving sinuously against his—the strands of her hair touching her neck where he wanted to feast on her skin, her deep, emerald eyes wary but the pupils dilated with arousal, the fairy lights flickering off the shiny gloss on those far too kissable lips—he was losing the will to care about anything but the persistence ache in his crotch.
Her hips brushed tantalizingly against the thickening ridge in his pants. And he absorbed the kick of adrenaline when her brows shot up her forehead.
“Caine?” she gasped.
“Perhaps you should call me Jared, in the circumstances,” he murmured, amused despite himself by the shock on her face. “Don’t look so surprised,” he added. “You’re a beautiful woman, Katherine. And I’m not a monk.”
“I know,” she said. “I can feel the evidence.”
The bold statement, delivered with a refreshing lack of vanity or subterfuge, made a strange thing happen. He felt it bubbling inside his chest, like a volcano about to blow, and before he could contain it the laugh burst out of his mouth.
A smile split her face and suddenly her light, effervescent laugh was matching the deep chuckles reverberating through his chest, drawing the gazes of the other dancers.
The adrenaline surged.
When was the last time he had laughed at anything? Probably the last time he’d sparred with this woman. Back then she’d been volatile and reckless, reminding him far too much of himself at that age.
But tonight he couldn’t seem to resist the urge to play with her. To provoke her the way she’d once provoked him. And take the vulnerability out of her eyes.
As their laughter died, her tongue flicked out to add moisture to the glossy sheen on her lips and the arousal which had subsided for a few precious seconds shot straight back to his crotch.
He groaned. Turning her in his arms, he pressed his hands to her shoulders and whispered against the soft hairs nestled under her ear, “I think we better get off the dance floor before I’m unable to walk.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice barely audible above the grinding pulse of the music.
He spread his fingers to press his hand to the bare flesh exposed by the dress’s plunging back. His smile died as they made their way to the tables laden with a variety delicacies sweet enough to tempt even the most discerning palate.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
She glanced at him and nodded. And somehow he knew neither of them was talking about food.
He handed her a plate then proceeded to pile it high with a selection of the delicate pastries, tarts and local cheeses on offer while struggling to quell the desire to taste those lips—to lick across the seam and demand entry.
He found them a seat on one of the vacant tables by the fountains, the music from the band complemented by the tinkle of running water.
The night was warm, so he took off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, then rolled up his sleeves, the white linen shirt suddenly feeling like a straitjacket.
She picked at the food, watching him as he sat down. She licked at a drop of olive oil and he forced himself to concentrate on his own food. But, as he swallowed a mouthful of Dolcelatte, the sharp, creamy taste did nothing to ease the hunger deep inside.
“I’ve never heard you laugh before,” she said, breaking the silence and trapping him in the bold, green depths of her eyes. “You should do it more often.”
Whether or not she meant the forthright statement to be beguiling, it was, especially when her teeth dug into that full bottom lip.
“I don’t usually have a reason to,” he said, which was the truth—he very rarely let down his guard, because he’d been taught at an early age not to.
“Or maybe you just take yourself too seriously?” she teased.
“Being me is a serious business,” he countered, the urge to flirt back a novel one.
He didn’t generally find much to amuse him in his relationships with women. Sex was a serious business. He didn’t take it lightly, for the precise reason that he knew he must always hold a part of himself back.
“Why is that?” she asked.
He frowned, not sure what she was asking him.
But before he could think up an adequate reply—one which would deflect anymore too-personal questions—she leaned forward and touched the scars on his forearm.
“Is it something to do with these?” she asked. “How did you get them?”
The citrus scent of her shampoo filled his lungs, the smooth silk of her skin stretching taut over her lush breasts, and his usual caution when it came to conversations with women deserted him.
“My stepfather couldn’t find an ashtray.”
He heard her gasp of distress, her fingertips trembling on the old burn marks, and he wanted to drag the words back. Why had he told her that?
Why give her ammunition against him? And why bring up something that he had forgotten about a lifetime ago?
“That’s horrifying, Jared, I’m so sorry.” Her eyes became liquid pools of anguish and the emotion he thought he had conquered as a boy recoiled in his gut.
“Don’t be,” he said, the sharp bite of his tone making her blink. “I’m all grown up now.”
Twisting his forearm, he caught her wrist and tugged her closer. He didn’t want her sympathy. And he certainly didn’t need it. What he wanted was much more basic than that.
“And so are you.”
Pheromones fired through his brain, obliterating all thoughts of Dario and the promises he’d made, until all that remained was the driving need to taste her again.
He raised his hand slowly, giving her every chance to resist, and settle
d his palm against the soft skin of her cheek. The jog in her breathing was enough to make the heat slice through the last of his reservations.
His palm slid across the downy skin and his thumb located the well under her ear lobe. He rubbed back and forth, feeling her pulse flutter.
He waited a few beats then threaded his fingers into her hair. A tremble wracked her body and desire surged. He nudged her closer until their mouths were only a fraction of an inch apart.
He waited a beat, then captured her lips. She hummed deep in her throat and his resolve to be gentle got blurred by the surging need to conquer.
He licked, demanding entry, and tasted the tart hint of lemon zabaglione.
She opened for him on a sharp intake of breath and he cradled her face, anchoring her head to delve deep. Her hands dropped to clutch his waist, her fingers fisting in the linen of his shirt.
His tongue thrust and retreated, establishing a primal rhythm in a dangerous dance. Blood pooled in his abdomen and stiffened the erection which had been plaguing him all day. He heard the dull thud as the plate she’d had perched on her lap hit the grass. He focused on her taste, her texture, deafened by the throbbing pulse rushing past his eardrums as the blood charged into his crotch.
When he finally came up for air, she was panting. Her eyes fluttered open. As the haze of desire cleared, she jolted back, tearing her head out of his hands.
She touched shaking fingertips to her mouth, her delicate skin abraded by the light rub of his freshly shaven cheeks. She stood and scrambled back.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” she said.
He stood too, knowing he should agree with her but finding it hard to think past the hunger clawing at his gut. Because there was nothing more he wanted to do right now than take her back to the villa and carry her to his bed.
She picked up her purse, and pressed it to her belly, her head downcast as she chewed on her bottom lip. “I’d like to return to the villa alone,” she said, her voice so full of confusion and anxiety, it sparked his temper.
She couldn’t be innocent—he knew that. She was twenty-four years old and had spent the last five years busy collecting boyfriends as well as citations.