Hired for Romano's Pleasure

by Shaw Chantelle

  He looked down at the top of Orla’s head. She was so small and slight, a fragile rose who had been crushed, mentally and physically, by her former husband’s cruelty. Her face was buried against his shirt and her body shook with the force of her sobs. He held her close, and with a huge effort of will he brought his anger with David Keegan under control.

  The last thing Orla needed was yet more violence. It might satisfy a primitive urge in him to smash his fist into her ex-husband’s face, but Torre knew that retribution was best served with ice-cold precision and he was determined to ruin Keegan’s career and reputation. The cricketer and celebrity had no idea of the wrath that was about to be unleashed on him, he thought grimly.

  There was a knock on the door and Orla pulled out of his arms. Her eyes were wide with fear that tugged on Torre all the more because he had never seen her vulnerability before, or, if he had, he’d chosen to ignore the possibility that she was anything other than coldly grasping like her mother, he acknowledged heavily. His conscience pricked when he remembered what Orla had told him about Kimberly’s damaged childhood and her recent, serious health problems.

  ‘Does Keegan know where you live?’ he asked as he crossed the room in a couple of strides.

  She nodded. ‘A few months ago I went on a date with a guy I knew at Mayall’s. It was nothing, we just met for a drink. But after Philip dropped me home I received a particularly offensive phone call from David, warning me to stay away from other men. His obsessive jealousy was one reason why I left him.’ She bit her lip. ‘He probably saw the picture in the newspapers of us at the ARC centenary party and it sent him into one of his rages.’

  Torre yanked the door open, every muscle in his body prepared for action, and stared at a woman with purple hair.

  ‘Oh! Hi. Is Orla around?’

  His breath whistled through his teeth. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Orla hastily wipe her eyes before she joined him at the door and introduced the woman. ‘This is my neighbour Mandy. Torre is my boss,’ she explained to her friend. ‘Do you mind if we postponed our pizza session to another time? I think I’m coming down with a cold.’

  Orla had clearly been crying and Mandy looked unconvinced by the lie, but she shrugged. ‘Sure. I thought you should know that your crazy ex-husband has been hanging around. I told him you were away, and he did that.’ She pointed to a hole in the landing wall where a chunk of plaster was missing. ‘He put his fist through the plaster.’

  Orla darted a quick look at Torre. ‘Mandy knows about David.’

  ‘I’m glad you weren’t here when he called,’ her friend said with concern in her voice. ‘He might have taken his temper out on you rather than the wall.’

  After Mandy had returned to her flat on the floor below, Torre eyed Orla’s white face. ‘Pack a bag with whatever you need and we’ll go to the hotel. Obviously you can’t stay here. I’ll call a lawyer friend of mine and ask him to apply to the court for a restraining order to keep Keegan away from you. But before any legal process can begin I imagine it will be necessary for you to report Keegan’s harassment to the police. Have you kept all the texts he sent you?’

  She hugged her arms around her. ‘I don’t want you to involve the police and I can’t afford to pay for a lawyer.’

  ‘You won’t have to. I will take care of legal expenses.’

  ‘No!’ A flash of her old spirit returned. ‘I’m not your responsibility. If there was a restraining order David might adhere to it for a while, but in a few weeks I won’t be your assistant and I’ll have to come back to live here. Meanwhile, you have your own life in Italy and you can’t protect me for ever. I’ve learned that the best way to manage David is to keep my head down and try not to make him angry.’

  The defeated look in her eyes evoked an emotion in Torre that was a complicated mix of sympathy, a need to protect her and a possessiveness he did not want to examine too deeply. ‘You can’t live the rest of your life in fear of Keegan,’ he said quietly, and felt a sensation like a hand was squeezing his heart when her mouth trembled.

  ‘David is powerful,’ she whispered.

  ‘Not as powerful as me, cara.’ There was deadly menace beneath the gentle tone he used to reassure her.

  In the car on the way to the hotel Torre leaned his head against the backrest while the chauffeur navigated the busy London streets. A plan was forming in his mind. He would buy an apartment in London for Orla, maybe a place overlooking the river Thames with a balcony so that she could sit outside in the summer, he mused. The building would have to have round-the-clock security so he could be sure she was safe when he wasn’t around.

  As Chairman and CEO of his family’s company he needed to be based in Italy but he could fly to London to spend weekends with her. His fascination with Orla showed no sign of fading but by providing her with a flat in London he would maintain control over their affair. If she wanted to work, as she had insisted many times that she did, he would arrange a job for her at ARC UK. Something to occupy her while he was away but that would allow her to be available whenever he wanted her.

  Even as the idea came into his head, Torre realised that Orla was capable of far more than a clerical job to pass the time between his visits. For the past ten days that she had been his assistant she’d demonstrated not only an excellent work ethic but an impressive knowledge of structural engineering, and he anticipated that if she resumed studying for her BSc she would have no problem passing her final exams and qualifying as a civil engineer. All she lacked was the self-confidence that her brutal ex-husband had taken from her.

  Guilt knotted in Torre’s gut when he remembered Orla’s accusation that he had been too ready to believe the stories in the tabloids speculating that she had married Keegan for his money. It had been convenient for him to think she was a fortune hunter because it had given him an excuse to keep away from her. But if that had been his reasoning, it had failed spectacularly.

  His mouth twisted with self-derision. The simple fact was that he couldn’t keep his hands off Orla. He glanced at her, huddled in the corner of the limousine. Her eyes looked too big in her pinched face and there wasn’t a scrap of colour on her cheeks. Her glorious hair streamed over her shoulders and he knew it would feel like silk against his skin when they were both naked and he lifted her over him so that her hair cascaded onto his chest. Desire stirred low in his gut. He seemed to have been in a permanent state of arousal since she had burst into his life again.

  But tonight she needed tenderness rather than passion, and once they had arrived at the hotel and he ushered her into their suite, he took her cold hand in his and led her into the opulent bathroom. It was a measure of how shattered she was by her ex-husband’s abusive phone calls that she simply stared at him when he switched on the shower.

  She blinked as if she had dragged her thoughts back from some grim place. ‘You’re going to take a shower? I’ll leave,’ she said huskily.

  Torre watched a soft stain of colour wing along her exquisite cheekbones as he caught hold of the hem of her sweater and pulled the garment over her head, baring her small, firm breasts. He wanted to take them in his hands and feel their softness, taste the cherry-red nipples that adorned the creamy mounds. But what he wanted wasn’t important. Tonight was all about Orla, and he set about his self-appointed task of dismissing the shadows from her eyes.

  ‘You are going to have a shower, piccola. And I am going to take care of you.’ It was odd how his words sounded like a solemn oath.

  * * *

  ‘I don’t want you to take care of me,’ Orla said to Torre, aware that it was the biggest lie she’d ever told. Her instincts warned her that if she allowed herself to succumb to the gentleness in his voice, which she had never heard from him before, she would be lost for ever. It truth, she was feeling lost now. David’s phone call had been a painful reminder that she dared not trust her own judgement. Her marriage had been a frightening experience, and in a strange way she’d felt relieved when Torre had said
he did not want a relationship with her. He only wanted sex, and the lack of emotional ties between them provided a safety net and allowed her to explore her sensuality.

  Taking care of her was something completely different but the concept was dangerously beguiling. She had been pretty much independent since she’d been ten years old when her father had died and shortly after that devastating event her mother had dumped her in a boarding school because Kimberly’s new lover had disliked children.

  ‘I certainly don’t need you to help me take a shower,’ she told Torre, clinging to her stubbornness because it was the only thing she had left of herself. Yet there was a part of her that longed to lower her guard and let go of her reservations, to be swept away to a world of sensation and primitive passion that focused entirely on assuaging the ache that filled her body and her heart. She wanted to forget her ex-husband’s vindictiveness and glory in the sweet surrender of making love with Torre. That was why, when he drew her into his arms, she stared at him with an unguarded expression in her eyes.

  He made a rough sound in his throat as he pulled her into his heat and strength, into heaven. Orla did not have the willpower to argue when he knelt to remove her trainers before he peeled her jeans down her legs so that she was left in just her knickers. Torre quickly dispensed with them before stripping off his own clothes. She blushed as she stared at his naked body. He was a work of art and she allowed her gaze to roam over the defined ridges of his abdominal muscles beneath his sleek, golden skin. She moved her eyes down to the hardened length of his arousal and heard him swear.

  ‘If you look at me like that, cara, I won’t be responsible for my actions,’ he warned her softly, and then he scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the shower. The warm spray felt like little needles hitting her skin and the invigorating power shower revived her and washed away the poison of her ex-husband’s vile insults.

  Torre would not allow her to do a thing, and she caught her breath as he soaped every inch of her body. His hands created havoc as he stroked his way down from her shoulders, paying careful attention to her breasts before sliding lower over her stomach and thighs.

  ‘I think I’m clean enough,’ she gasped, when he smoothed the bar of soap over her buttocks and then moved his hand round to the front and slipped it between her legs. Still he wasn’t done with her, and he reached for the bottle of shampoo and washed her hair, his skilful fingers massaging her scalp and easing her tension, so that by the time he switched off the shower and wrapped her in a towel she felt boneless.

  He used the hairdrier on her hair, smoothing the long, silken strands with a brush while Orla watched him in the mirror, the green flecks in her hazel eyes sparkling like emeralds when the towel he had knotted around his waist slipped dangerously low.

  She assumed he would take her to bed, and he laughed softly at her disappointed expression when he exchanged her towel for a robe and donned one of the hotel’s blue, monogrammed robes before he caught hold of her hand and led her to the dining area of the suite. ‘Food first,’ he said as he sat her on a chair in front of the table where an array of dishes had been delivered courtesy of room service.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ There was still a knot of tension in the pit of her stomach and she doubted she would sleep tonight after her latest run-in with David. It was two years since she had left him, and more than two months since the divorce had been granted, yet he was still hounding her. She despaired that she would ever be free from the fear he induced in her.

  ‘Try some omelette.’ Torre smiled as he offered her a forkful of fluffy cheese omelette.

  ‘You intend to feed me? I’m not a child.’

  ‘Humour me,’ he said quietly. His eyes were as soft as woodsmoke, and with a little hmmf sound of frustration at his bossiness she opened her mouth and ate the piece of omelette. He fed her four more forkfuls and when she indicated that she’d eaten enough, he held a glass of sparkling rosé wine to her lips while she took a couple of sips. It was pathetic how her heart responded to his kindness, Orla thought. She could become addicted to the feeling of being cherished.

  It wasn’t real, she reminded herself. In a few weeks her role as Torre’s assistant—and their personal relationship that he insisted wasn’t one—would end. But just for a little while it was nice to believe in the tender promise of his kiss when he carried her into the bedroom, removed her robe and placed her between the crisp white sheets.

  He slid into bed beside her and pulled her into his arms, but when she moved her hand between their bodies, he stopped her and caught hold of her wrists, lifting her hands behind her head.

  ‘Believe me, your ex-husband will never hurt you, physically or verbally, again, piccola,’ he told her in a grimly determined voice that caused her to release her breath on a shaky sigh. ‘I made a number of phone calls while you ran down to give your neighbour a spare key to your flat. David Keegan is under no illusions that if he attempts to contact you, the police and the tabloids will be tipped off about an illegal betting syndicate that he has been involved in.’

  He bent his head and brushed away a tear from her cheek with his lips. ‘It’s over,’ he said gently. ‘Keegan is in your past and you can look to the future without fear.’

  Relief poured through her. It was hard to accept that the nightmare was truly over, but she did believe Torre. His determination to protect her made it impossible for her to fight the truth any longer. She loved him. She always had, and she could not imagine a time when he would not fill her heart.

  Dared she believe that the tender, caring side to him that he had shown her tonight meant he felt something for her? The past was behind her and the future was no more than a tantalising hope that she would be a fool to put all her faith in. Only the present was certain. Now she was in a very big bed with Torre, and the gleam of molten silver in his eyes sent a shiver of anticipation through her as he held her wrists above her head and bent his head to her breast.

  He used his tongue to caress her body with the same attention to detail that he had used his hands and a bar of soap in the shower. The lash of his tongue across her nipples soon had her writhing, and when he drew each turgid peak in turn into his mouth and sucked, she moaned and arched her hips as sweet sensation poured like liquid honey through her veins. She heard his husky laughter when he freed her wrists and she gripped his shoulders, digging her fingernails into his skin as he shifted down her body and nudged her thighs apart.

  The feel of his mouth there at the heart of her femininity almost sent her over the edge and she sank her fingers into his hair and tugged, hard, until he lifted his head.

  ‘Don’t you like what I’m doing to you, gattina?’ There was still that deep, sexy laughter in his voice, a suggestion of his glorious arrogance because he knew full well that she loved it when he pleasured her with his wickedly inventive tongue.

  ‘I like it too much,’ she panted. ‘But I want you inside me. I need you, Torre.’ Too late she realised how the word need betrayed her. An indefinable expression flashed in his eyes, but then he lifted himself over her and possessed her with one hard thrust, followed by another and another so that she forgot everything but the beauty of their two bodies moving in perfect accord. It couldn’t last, and they reached the highest peak together, hovered there for timeless seconds before freefalling over the edge of the precipice into the shuddering ecstasy of their simultaneous release.

  * * *

  Torre waited until the sound of Orla’s even breaths told him she had fallen asleep before he eased his arm from around her so that her head slipped off his chest onto the pillow. She stirred, and her gold eyelashes fluttered before fanning out on her cheeks. In the lamplight the thin red scar above her eyebrow was noticeable on her pale skin. He guessed that she usually disguised it with make-up.

  His jaw clenched. A few days ago he had already begun to investigate her ex-husband before Orla had admitted the extent of David Keegan’s brutality. By calling in a few favours, it had been
remarkably easy to dig up dirt on Keegan, and if the story of his betting scam operation was leaked to the press the famous cricketer would be exposed as the scumbag he really was. Torre would have preferred Orla to have received justice for Keegan’s bad treatment of her, but at least this way she was spared the trauma of facing her ex-husband in a courtroom.

  She rolled over in the bed and the sheet slipped down, exposing one white breast tipped with a dusky-pink nipple. Predictably he felt himself harden but he resisted the urge to slide back beneath the sheets and take the slow and sensual route to nirvana this time. He could not comprehend what was wrong with him. Sure, he had a healthy sex drive but this obsession with Orla had to stop. He did not want to want her so much that she was on his mind all the time. Hell, he wanted his life back—his comfortable life that he had been in control of before she had arrived with the destructive force of a tornado and blown him apart.

  All that rubbish she’d spouted in the car earlier, suggesting he feared forming close relationships because his mother had died when he was a young boy. Dio, he had not been affected by his mother’s death, he’d just blocked out his thoughts of her and he hadn’t ever talked about her because what was the point? Talking wouldn’t have brought her back.

  What he had learned when he was six years old was that no one could control events such as death. It was only possible to control how you dealt with painful emotions like sadness and grief. As a young boy his logical brain had worked out that if you did not love anyone then you would not run the risk of being hurt. But Orla’s suggestion that he feared love was ridiculous.