Hired for Romano's Pleasure

by Shaw Chantelle

  Instantly he stopped and drew back a little, his shoulder muscles bunched and his body tense. ‘Did I hurt you?’

  ‘No.’ Already her internal muscles were stretching to accommodate him. And it hadn’t hurt, she had just been overwhelmed by the feeling that this was where she belonged. In Torre’s arms, in his bed, their bodies connected in the most fundamental way. She felt him start to withdraw and wrapped her legs around his back. The movement tilted her hips and he swore softly as she drew him deeper inside her.

  ‘Piccola—are you sure you want me to carry on?’

  Instead of replying, she cupped his face in her hands and pulled his mouth down to hers to initiate a kiss that he quickly took command of, as he pushed his tongue between her lips and at the same time drove his shaft into her body. He set a fast rhythm, taking her higher with every stroke, every slick, hard thrust, while she clutched at the bed sheets and gloried in his devastating possession.

  It couldn’t last. The fluttering sensation deep in her pelvis grew stronger, sharper, her pleasure building as Torre took her higher, higher until she was shuddering on the brink. He paused, sweat beading his bronzed skin, and stared into her eyes.

  ‘I want to watch you come,’ he said thickly. And then he drove into her again and sent her hurtling over the edge. Her climax ripped through her, each exquisite spasm so intense that it seemed impossible she could withstand the pleasure of it. She heard him give a savage groan as he followed her into the ecstasy of release, and in the aftermath a sweet lassitude swept over and cocooned her from the harsh reality that she sensed was waiting to break her heart all over again.

  Too soon, Torre rolled off her and lay flat on his back. His silence was ominous and Orla did not dare look at him as she silently mourned the loss of his warm body pressing down on hers.

  ‘So much for self-control.’ His grim voice catapulted her from the lingering haze of sensual pleasure and sent tendrils of shame coiling through her. ‘I didn’t use a condom.’ He jerked upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed, keeping his back to her as if he could not bear to look at her. ‘Dio.’ He raked both his hands through his hair and swore savagely. ‘I have never failed to use protection when I’ve had casual sex with other women.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, I’m on the Pill,’ Orla said flatly. She did not know what hurt most; hearing Torre describe what they had just shared as casual sex or his reference to the other women he’d made love to. Except she would guess that love played no part in any of his sexual liaisons, including this one. ‘I’ve haven’t had a sexual relationship since my marriage ended more than two years ago,’ she told him in a cool voice that betrayed none of her raw emotions.

  He stood up and pulled on his sweatpants. His face when he finally turned towards her looked as if it had been carved from granite. ‘So why did you have sex with me?’ There was an indecipherable note in his voice—not anger, as Orla had expected, but something that she could almost believe was regret.

  She sat up and crossed her arms over her breasts, aware that it was ridiculous to feel shy of her nakedness mere moments after she had begged—yes, begged, mocked a silent voice of shame—him to make love to her. ‘I wanted you.’ The simple honesty of her reply appeared to surprise him and his eyes narrowed, hiding his expression.

  She sighed bitterly. ‘I was a fool when I was eighteen and I’m a worse fool now. But what happened was not only my fault. What is your excuse, Torre? Why did you have sex with me if you despise me as much as you make out that you do?’

  ‘I don’t despise you,’ he shocked her by saying. ‘I think I made it abundantly clear just now that I desire you more than I have ever desired any other woman.’

  She darted a glance at him, startled by his self-derisive tone. This was a Torre she did not know. Tension emanated from him and she sensed that he was not as in control of himself as he wanted her to believe.

  ‘Obviously I can’t work for you now,’ she muttered. ‘You will have to employ another assistant to go to Dubai with you and I’ll fly home as soon as possible and start looking for another job.’

  She expected him to agree that working closely together would be intolerable for both of them. But he said tersely, ‘Like hell you will. There’s not time for me to hire another assistant at short notice. The contract you signed included a financial penalty if you leave before the two-month period of your employment finishes, or if you take more than a reasonable amount of sick leave,’ he reminded her.

  He strode over to the door and pulled it open, but before he stepped into the corridor he paused and glanced back at her, and his face softened slightly as he watched her pull her chemise over her head. Orla looked down and cursed beneath her breath when she realised that in her haste to cover herself she had put the chemise on back to front.

  ‘We will be flying to Dubai on the company’s private jet,’ he said quietly. ‘You will need to be ready to leave at eight.’ He checked his watch. ‘That’s in six hours. I suggest you get some sleep.’

  He stepped into the corridor and closed her bedroom door behind him. Orla immediately ran across the room and turned the key in the lock. But of course it was too late and the damage had been done, she thought bleakly. She could smell Torre’s male scent on her skin, and the unmistakable scent of sex taunted her so that she hurried into the bathroom and stepped into the shower to try and scrub the shameful evidence of her stupidity from her body.

  * * *

  Qasr Jameel was the newest and most stunning jewel in Dubai’s crown and the tallest building in the world. The skyscraper incorporated a six-star luxury hotel, a vast shopping complex, restaurants and numerous leisure facilities, as well as glass observation decks that offered spectacular views of the city. The English translation of the tower’s name was Beautiful Palace and no expense had been spared on its construction or the internal décor and fitments. Several prominent members of Dubai’s royal family would be at the party this evening to celebrate the official opening of the building.

  From his viewpoint on the balcony of the Presidential Suite on the seventy-third floor Torre looked down at the stream of car headlights on the city’s highways, glittering like golden jewels. The tower had been designed by a renowned Swedish architect and the developers—made up of a consortium of sheikhs—had commissioned ARC to build it. Qasr Jameel was a feat of exceptional civil engineering and the construction project had been highly complex. Torre was proud that under his leadership it had been completed on time and within budget. Tonight should be his chance to celebrate and reflect that ARC had proved it was a world leader in the construction industry.

  But his pride in his professional achievements was not mirrored in his private life, and his thoughts were centred on the woman who had shattered his self-control again.

  How the hell could he have been such a fool? Eight years ago his uncontrollable desire for Orla had diminished him in his own eyes. He had vowed that he would never be so weak again, and in truth none of his mistresses since had tested his self-restraint and his affairs had always been on his terms.

  But the moment he had seen Orla at Villa Ravello everything had blown up in his face and he had been powerless to resist her. In his mind he pictured her lying beneath him, her slender limbs wrapped around him and her red-gold hair spread across the pillows. He recalled the flush of sexual heat on her pretty face and her pale breasts tipped with rose that hardened beneath his tongue.

  ‘Dio,’ he swore beneath his breath as his body clenched hard. He questioned again why he had brought her to Dubai. Despite what he’d told her, he could have found another assistant and released Orla from her contract. But it had occurred to him that a sure-fire way to end his fascination with her was to spend every day of the next two months working closely with her and have her in his bed every night. Boredom would replace his inconvenient desire for her, and then he would walk away and finally be able to forget about her. That was why he had insisted that she should occupy the second bedroom in
his hotel suite, giving the excuse that he required her to be on hand should he want to work late.

  He checked his watch. The party was due to begin at eight o’clock and they needed to be in the ballroom before the royal deputation arrived. Torre had not seen Orla all afternoon after he’d sent her to buy an evening gown and told her to charge it to his personal credit card. Puzzlingly, when he’d checked his account online the credit card had not been used.

  He wondered if he should knock on her bedroom door and remind her of the time. A voice from behind him made him turn away from the window.

  ‘I understand that there will be international press coverage of the tower’s official opening,’ Franco Belucci, the chief operations officer of the company, commented. ‘It will be excellent publicity for us, and will put ARC’s name in the record books because the height of the spire on top of Qasr Jameel makes the building a metre higher than the previous highest building in the world.’

  ‘I doubt it will hold the title for long,’ Torre said drily. ‘There are already plans to build a taller tower in Bahrain. The CEO of the development company behind the new venture will be at tonight’s party, and it will be a good opportunity to make an informal sales pitch ahead of our formal bid to win the commission to build the structure.’

  Torre sensed that Orla had entered the sitting room, although her footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet. He looked over at her and was surprised that the sound of his heart colliding violently with his rib cage was not audible to the man standing beside him.

  She was wearing a long, midnight-blue gown that showed off her slender waist and flared gently over her hips. The dress’s bodice was overlaid with delicate lace, as were the three-quarter-length sleeves. Her hair was swept up in a simple chignon with a few long tendrils framing her face and her only jewellery was a pair of plain gold studs in her ears and the gold chain with the four-leaf clover pendant that had been her father’s last gift to her. She looked stunningly beautiful and Torre was aware that Franco stood straighter when Orla walked across the room to join them.

  ‘Orla is my temporary assistant to replace Renzo while he is recovering from his accident,’ he explained to the COO after he had made introductions.

  ‘I must say that you are much prettier than Renzo,’ Franco murmured as he shook Orla’s hand. ‘Your name is very beautiful, Orla.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s Irish in origin.’ She smiled at Franco, who gave her a rather stunned smile in return. Torre felt an unreasonable urge to rearrange his executive’s good-looking features with his fist. His phone rang and he strode into a smaller sitting room in the vast suite to take the call from his operations manager in the Philippines.

  When he returned to the main lounge five minutes later he found Orla and Franco sitting on the sofa, chatting. Orla’s lovely face was animated and the sound of her soft laughter irked Torre even more when he realised that she had never laughed with him, which then begged the question, why did he give a damn?

  ‘It’s ten to eight, and you had better get down to the ballroom,’ he told Franco curtly. ‘Orla and I will follow you shortly.’

  Franco departed via the suite’s private elevator and Torre walked over to the bar and poured whisky into a glass. He took a long sip of his drink and watched Orla gather up her evening purse and shawl. ‘He’s married,’ he said grimly, before taking another sip of whisky. The single malt felt warm at the back of his throat and sent fire down to his belly. ‘I doubt it matters to you that Franco has a wife, but he has a couple of young children, too.’

  ‘Yes, he showed me some photos on his phone of his twin girls. They’re little sweethearts.’ She frowned. ‘Am I missing something here? Why are you at pains to tell me that he’s married?’

  ‘In case you had any ideas,’ he drawled.

  She stared at him. ‘What sort of ideas?’

  ‘Oh, come on. Drop the innocent act. You have deliberately worn a dress that will capture the attention of every man at the party. Franco’s eyes were practically falling out of their sockets. I’m merely warning you to leave him alone and turn your sorcery on some other poor fool who will be so bewitched by you that he won’t realise until it’s too late that your pretty smile hides your gold-digger tendencies.’

  As he uttered the words, Torre realised that he did not believe them and his accusations were unfounded. He walked over to Orla and guilt stabbed him when he saw her mouth tremble before she quickly firmed her lips. The urge to be close to her consumed and infuriated him.

  Lovely though she was, he had known other beautiful women, but none had ever threatened his self-control the way Orla did. He did not understand why she had such a hold over him. The knowledge that he was enslaved by his desire for her, just like his father had been enslaved by her trollop of a mother, filled him with self-contempt.

  ‘My dress is perfectly respectable,’ she snapped. ‘I am sensitive to Dubai’s culture and chose a dress that is not too revealing or risqué. And by the way I paid for it with my own money. I don’t expect you or any man to pay for my clothes.’ The green flecks in her hazel eyes flashed with fury. ‘The truth is I can’t do anything right in your opinion, can I, Torre? I could have covered myself from head to toe in sackcloth and you would still accuse me of trying to attract attention.’

  She was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed with anger, but he heard the hurt in her voice and he felt an odd sensation as if a hand had squeezed his heart. ‘I suppose I’m wearing too much make-up and look like a slut,’ she choked, lifting her hand to her brow. ‘You have already made the vile suggestion that I was flirting with your work colleague whose name I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Franco,’ he reminded her. His eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you always touch the scar on your head when we argue? How were you injured, incidentally? The scar is only noticeable when I am standing as close to you as I am now, but it must have been a deep wound.’

  Orla had stiffened at his mention of the scar above her eyebrow and her tension was almost tangible. ‘I’ve told you I won’t discuss my marriage.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you about your marriage,’ he said mildly, deliberately playing down his curiosity as a shocking suspicion slid into his mind. Something cold and hard settled in the pit of his stomach. A haunted expression had crossed Orla’s face at the mention of her marriage, and she looked heartbreakingly fragile. The idea that her famously charming ex-husband could have somehow been responsible for the three-inch scar that ran from the edge of her eyebrow out to her hairline was frankly hard to believe. But the flash of fear in her eyes had been real and had stirred Torre’s protective instincts.

  ‘We should go, or we’ll be late for the party,’ she said flatly. Her outburst of temper had died and her eyes were dull. Torre wanted to ask her more about her marriage to David Keegan, and with a sense of shock he realised that he did not give a damn about the party to celebrate the company’s and his own professional triumph.

  He would much rather call room service and have a private dinner served to them in the opulent hotel suite. And he would like to talk to Orla. It was troubling, to say the least, to discover that he wanted more from a woman than merely sex. He wanted more from this woman, he amended. He could not recall ever having a meaningful conversation with any of his mistresses. Oh, he’d made small talk as a preliminary to taking them to bed. But none of his previous lovers had fascinated him the way Orla did, so that even the idea of making love to her in the suite’s master bedroom where there was a huge mirror on the ceiling above the bed was not his main priority.

  Torre shook his head, at a loss to understand what was happening to him. He followed Orla into the elevator and his jaw clenched when she moved as far away as possible from him in the confined space. She eyed him warily and touched the gold-plated chain around her neck, turning the pendant that was supposedly a good luck charm between her fingers.

  ‘I read through the notes you gave me listing the names of the potential new clients who will be at the party,
’ she said, still in that flat tone, as if she was keeping her emotions under tight control. ‘I don’t know what you expect me to do as your assistant. If I speak to anyone who happens to be male, I stand to be accused by you of trying to seduce them.’ A bitter note crept into her voice. ‘Perhaps you want me to walk two steps behind you and keep my eyes fixed on the floor so that I don’t attract attention.’

  ‘What I would like you to do if at all possible is try and forget that I behaved like a jerk,’ he muttered. ‘You look beautiful, and your dress is perfect for the occasion.’

  Her eyes flew to his face. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Torre found himself wishing that he could dismiss the shadows from her eyes, and guilt knotted in his gut as he acknowledged that he was responsible for them. ‘I’m trying to apologise,’ he said roughly. Orla looked so shocked that he almost laughed. Almost.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE PARTY WAS a lavish event held in Qasr Jameel’s sumptuous ballroom. Designed in the style of an Arabian palace, the vast space was a sea of pink marble, gleaming gold leaf and an exquisite mosaic-tiled floor. Women wearing extravagant evening gowns and men in dinner suits mingled with sheikhs in traditional robes and keffiyeh. White-jacketed waiters threaded through the groups of guests to serve champagne cocktails, soft drinks and exquisite canapés that looked far too pretty to eat.

  During her brief marriage to David, Orla had accompanied him to a few high-class social functions. His father was a peer and the family seat in Gloucestershire was an imposing mansion where Lady Keegan hosted elegant soirées. Orla had felt out of place at those events and her confidence had been further undermined by David’s constant criticism of her. He had invariably found fault with her clothes, and if she dared to wear make-up he’d told her she looked like a tart.