Christmas in Da Conti's Bed

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘I’m confident I can, Mr Sarantos.’

  ‘No. Parakalo—you must call me Alekto,’ he said, a hint of impatience hardening his voice, before giving a swift smile. ‘I always like to hear a beautiful woman saying my name.’

  Beautiful? No woman ever thought she was beautiful and that certainly hadn’t been the effect Alannah had been striving for today. She’d aimed for a functional, rather than a decorative appearance—tying her hair back in a thick plait to stop it being whipped up by the fierce December wind. She had wanted to project style and taste as well as hoping her clothes would be like armour—protecting her from Niccolò’s heated gaze.

  Her Japanese-inspired grey dress bore the high neckline which had become her trademark and the fitted waist provided structure. A glittering scarab beetle brooch and funky ankle-boots added the unconventional twists which she knew were necessary to transform the ordinary into something different. It was the detail which counted. Everyone knew that.

  ‘If you insist,’ she said, with another polite smile. ‘Alekto.’

  Niccolò raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps you’d like to show Alekto what ideas you have in mind for his apartment, while he concentrates on your undoubted beauty,’ he suggested drily.

  Trying to ignore the sarcasm in his voice, Alannah spread out the mood-boards she’d been working on and watched as Alekto began to study them. Squares of contemporary brocade were pasted next to splashes of paint colour, and different swatches of velvet and silk added to the textural diversity she had in mind.

  ‘We could go either traditional or contemporary,’ she said. ‘But I definitely think you need something a little bolder in terms of colour. The walls would work well in greeny-greys and muted blues—which would provide a perfect backdrop for these fabrics and textiles and reflect your love of the sea.’

  ‘Did Niccolò tell you that I love the sea?’ questioned Alekto idly.

  ‘No. I searched your name on the Internet and had a look at your various homes around the world. You do seem rather fond of sea views and that gave me a few ideas.’

  ‘Enterprising,’ Alekto commented, flicking through each page, before lifting his head. ‘Neh. This is perfect. All of it. You have chosen well, Niccolò. This is a huge improvement. You have pleased me, Alannah—and a woman who pleases a man should always be rewarded. I think I shall take you out for dinner tonight, to thank you.’

  ‘I’m sure Alannah would love nothing more,’ interjected Niccolò smoothly, ‘but, unfortunately, she is already committed this evening.’

  ‘Really?’ Alekto raised dark and imperious brows. ‘I’m sure she could cancel whatever it is she is committed to.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Niccolò shrugged. ‘But only if you are prepared to wait for your apartment to be completed, my friend. Time is of the essence if you expect it to be ready for your new year party. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

  The gazes of the two men clashed and Alekto’s eyes suddenly hardened with comprehension.

  ‘Ah,’ he said softly as he rose to his feet. ‘Suddenly, I begin to understand. You have always been a great connoisseur of beauty, Niccolò. And since good friends do not poach, I shall leave you in peace.’ His blue eyes glittered. ‘Enjoy.’

  Alekto’s chauvinistic innuendo took Alannah by surprise but she reminded herself that she was simply working for him—she wasn’t planning on having him as her friend. Keeping her lips clamped into a tight smile, she stood up to let him shake her hand, before Niccolò led him into the outer office.

  She waited until the Sicilian had returned and closed the door behind him before she turned on him.

  ‘What was that all about?’ she questioned quietly.

  ‘What?’ He walked over to his desk, stabbing at a button on his telephone pad, so that a red light appeared. ‘The fact that your designs pleased him? Alekto is one of the wealthiest men I know. You should be delighted. The patronage of a man like that is more priceless than rubies.’ He looked at her, his eyes curiously flat and assessing. ‘Who knows what kind of opportunities could now come your way, Alannah. Especially since he clearly finds you so attractive.’

  ‘No, none of that!’ She shook her head—hating the way he was looking at her. Hating the way he was talking about her. ‘I don’t care that he’s rich—other than it means I will have a very generous budget to work with. And I don’t care whether or not he finds me attractive. I’d like it if for once we could keep my looks out of it, since I’m supposed to be here on merit.’ She stared at him. ‘What I’m talking about is you telling him I was busy and couldn’t have dinner with him tonight.’

  ‘Did you want to have dinner with him?’

  ‘That’s beside the point.’

  He slanted her a look. ‘I’m not sure what your point is.’

  ‘That I don’t want you or anyone else answering for me because I like to make my own decisions. And…’ she hesitated ‘…you have no right to be territorial about me.’

  ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I realise that.’

  She narrowed her eyes warily. ‘You mean you’re agreeing with me?’

  He shrugged. ‘For a man to behave in a territorial way towards a woman implies that she is his. That she has given herself to him in some way. And you haven’t, have you, Alannah?’ The eyes which a moment ago had looked so flat now gleamed like polished jet. ‘Of course, that is something which could be changed in a heartbeat. We both know that.’

  Alannah stiffened as his gaze travelled over her and she could feel her throat growing dry. And wasn’t it crazy that, no matter how much her mind protested, she couldn’t seem to stop her body from responding to his lazy scrutiny. She found herself thinking how easy it would be to go along with his suggestion. To surrender to the ache deep inside her and have him take all her frustration away. All she had to do was smile—a quick, complicit smile—and that would be the only green light he needed.

  And then what?

  She swallowed. A mindless coupling with someone who’d made no secret of his contempt for her? An act which would inevitably leave him triumphant and her, what? Empty, that was what.

  A lifetime of turning down sexual invitations meant that she knew exactly how to produce the kind of brisk smile which would destabilise the situation without causing a scene. But for once, it took a real effort.

  ‘I think not,’ she said, scooping up her pashmina from the sofa. ‘I have a self-protective instinct which warns me off intimacy with a certain kind of man, and I’m afraid you’re one of them. The things I require from you are purely practical, Niccolò. I need a list of craftsmen—painters and decorators—who you use on your properties and who I assume will be available to work for me—and to work very quickly if we’re to get this job in on time.’

  The impatient wave of his hand told her that painters and decorators were of no interest to him. ‘Speak to Kirsty about it.’

  ‘I will.’ She hitched the strap of her bag further over her shoulder. ‘And if that’s everything—I’ll get going.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  ‘You have your own car?’

  Was he kidding? Didn’t he realise that car parking costs in London put motoring way beyond the reach of mere mortals? Alannah shook her head. ‘I always use public transport.’

  ‘Then I will take you. I insist.’ His eyes met hers with cool challenge. ‘Unless you’d prefer to travel by train on a freezing December night, rather than in the warm comfort of my car?’

  ‘You’re boxing me into a corner, Niccolò.’

  ‘I know I am. But you’ll find it’s a very comfortable box.’ He took his car keys from his jacket pocket. ‘Come.’

  In the elevator, she kept her distance. Just as she kept her gaze trained on the flashing arrow as it took them down to the underground car park, where his car was waiting.

  He punched her postcode into his satnav and didn’t say another word as they drove along the busy streets
of Knightsbridge, where Christmas shoppers were crowding the frosty pavements. Alannah peered out of the window. Everywhere was bright with coloured lights and gifts and people looking at the seasonal displays in Harrods’s windows.

  The car turned into Trafalgar Square and the famous Christmas tree loomed into view and suddenly Alannah felt the painful twist of her heart. It was funny how grief hit you when you least expected it—in a fierce wave which made your eyes grow all wet and salty. She remembered coming here with her mother, when they were waiting for the result of her biopsy. When standing looking up at a giant tree on an icy winter night had seemed like the perfect city outing. There’d been hardly any money in their purses, but they’d still had hope. Until a half-hour session with a man in a white coat had quashed that hope and they’d never been able to get it back again.

  She blinked away the tears as the car began to speed towards West London, hoping that Niccolò’s concentration on the traffic meant he hadn’t noticed. He reached out to put some music on—something Italian and passionate, which filled the air and made her heart clench again, but this time with a mixture of pleasure and pain.

  Closing her eyes, she let the powerful notes wash over her and when she opened them again the landscape had altered dramatically. The houses in this part of the city were much closer together and as Niccolò turned off the main road a few stray traces of garbage fluttered like ghosts along the pavement.

  ‘Is this where you live?’ he questioned.

  She heard the faint incredulity in his voice and realised that this was exactly why she hadn’t wanted this lift. Because he will judge you. He will judge you and find you wanting, just as he’s always done. ‘That’s right,’ she said.

  He killed the engine and turned to look at her, his dark features brooding in the shadowed light.

  ‘It’s not what I expected.’

  Her question was light, almost coquettish. She wondered if he could tell she’d been practising saying it in her head. ‘And what did you expect?’

  For a moment Niccolò didn’t answer, because once again she had confounded his expectations. He had imagined a pricey location—a fortified mansion flat bought on the proceeds of the money she’d earned from Stacked magazine. Or a cute little mews cottage in Holland Park. Somewhere brimming with the kind of wealthy men who might enjoy dabbling with a woman as beautiful as her.

  But this…

  The unmistakable signs of poverty were all around them. The rubbish on the pavement. A battered car with its wing-mirror missing. The shadowy group of youths in their hoodies, who stood watching their car with silent menace.

  ‘What happened to all your money?’ he questioned suddenly. ‘You must have earned—’

  ‘Stacks?’ she questioned pointedly.

  His smile was brief as he acknowledged the pun. ‘A lot.’

  She stared down at her handbag. ‘It was a short-lived career—it didn’t exactly provide me with a gold-plated pension.’

  ‘So what did you do with it?’

  I paid for my mother’s medical bills. I chased a miracle which was never going to happen. I chased it until the pot was almost empty though the outcome hadn’t changed one bit. She shrugged, tempted to tell him that it was none of his business—but she sensed that here was a man who wouldn’t give up. Who would dig away until he had extracted everything he needed to know. She tried to keep her words light and flippant, but suddenly it wasn’t easy. ‘Oh, I frittered it all away. As you do.’

  Niccolò looked at the unexpected tremble of her lips and frowned, because that sudden streak of vulnerability she was trying so hard to disguise was completely unexpected. Was she regretting the money she had squandered? Did she lay awake at night and wonder how the hell she had ended up in a place like this? He tried and failed to imagine how she fitted in here. Despite all her attempts to subdue her innate sensuality and tame her voluptuous appearance, she must still stand out like a lily tossed carelessly into a muddy gutter.

  And suddenly he wanted to kiss her. The streetlight was casting an unworldly orange light over her creamy skin, so that she looked like a ripe peach just begging to be eaten. He felt temptation swelling up inside him, like a slow and insistent storm. Almost without thinking, he found himself reaching out to touch her cheek, wondering if it felt as velvety-soft as it appeared. And it did. Oh, God, it did. A whisper of longing licked over his skin.

  ‘What…what do you think you’re doing?’ she whispered.

  ‘You know damned well what I’m doing,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I’m giving into something which has always been there and which is refusing to die. Something which gets stronger each time we see each another. So why don’t we just give into it, Alannah—and see where it takes us?’

  She knew it was coming. Of course she did. She’d been kissed by enough men to recognise the sudden roughening of his voice and opaque smoulder of his black eyes. But no man had ever kissed her the way Niccolò did.

  Time slowed as he bent his face towards hers and she realised he was giving her enough time to stop him. But she didn’t. How could she when she wanted this so much? She just let him anchor her with the masterful slide of his hands as they captured the back of her head, before he crushed his lips down on hers.

  Instantly, she moaned. It was ten long years since he’d kissed her and already she was on fire. She felt consumed by it. Powered by it. Need washed over her as she splayed her palms against his chest as his tongue licked its way into her mouth—her lips opened greedily, as if urging him to go deeper. She heard his responding murmur, as if her eagerness pleased him, and something made her bunch her hands into fists and drum them against his torso—resenting and wanting him all at the same time.

  He raised his head, dark eyes burning into her like fire. But there were no subtle nuances to his voice now—just a mocking question in an accent which suddenly sounded harsh and very Sicilian. ‘Are you trying to hurt me, bella?’

  ‘I—yes! Yes!’ She wanted to hurt him first—before he had the chance to do it to her.

  He gave a soft laugh—as if recognising his own power and exulting in it. ‘But I am not going to let you,’ he said softly. ‘We are going to give each other pleasure, not pain.’

  Alannah’s head tipped back as he reached down to cup her breast through the heavy silk of her dress. And she let him. Actually, she did more than let him. Her breathless sighs encouraged him to go even further, and he did.

  He kissed her neck as his hand crept down to alight on one stockinged knee. And wasn’t it shameful that she had parted her knees—praying he would move his hand higher to where the ache was growing unbearable? But he didn’t—at least, not at first. For a while he seemed content to tease her. To bring her to such a pitch of excitement that she squirmed with impatience—wriggling restlessly until at last he moved his hand to skate it lightly over her thigh. She heard him suck in a breath of approval as he encountered the bare skin above her stocking top and she shivered as she felt his fingers curl possessively over the goose-pimpled flesh.

  ‘I am pleased to see that despite the rather staid outfits you seem to favour, you still dress to tantalise underneath,’ he said. ‘And I need to undress you very quickly, before I go out of my mind with longing. I need to see that beautiful body for myself.’

  His words killed it. Just like that. They shattered the spell he’d woven and wiped out all the desire—replacing it with a dawning horror of what she’d almost allowed to happen.

  Allowed?

  Who was she kidding? She might as well have presented herself to him in glittery paper all tied up with a gift ribbon. He’d given her a lift home and just assumed…assumed…

  He’d assumed he could start treating her like a pin-up instead of a person. Somewhere along the way she had stopped being Alannah and had become a body he simply wanted to ogle. Why had she thought he was different from every other man?

  ‘What am I doing?’ she demanded, jerking away from him and lifting her fingertips to her lips in
horror. ‘What am I thinking of?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Alannah.’ He began to tap his finger impatiently against the steering wheel. ‘We’re both a little too seasoned to play this kind of game, surely? You might just have got away with the outraged virgin scenario a decade ago, but not any more. I’m pretty sure your track record must be almost as extensive as mine. So why the sudden shutdown at exactly the wrong moment, when we both know we want it?’

  It took everything she had for Alannah not to fly at him until she remembered that, in spite of everything, he was still her boss. She realised she couldn’t keep blaming him for leaping to such unflattering conclusions, because why wouldn’t he think she’d been around the block several times? Nice girls didn’t take off their clothes for the camera, did they? And nice girls didn’t part their legs for a man who didn’t respect them.

  ‘You might have a reputation as one of the world’s greatest lovers, Niccolò,’ she said, ‘but right now, it’s difficult to see why.’

  She saw his brows knit together as he glowered at her. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Grabbing the handle, she pushed open the car door and a blast of cold air came rushing inside, mercifully cooling her heated face. ‘Making out in the front of cars is what teenagers do,’ she bit out. ‘I thought you had a little bit more finesse than that. Most men at least offer dinner.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  EVERY TIME NICCOLÒ closed his eyes he could imagine those lips lingering on a certain part of his anatomy. He could picture it with a clarity which was like a prolonged and exquisite torture. He gave a groan of frustration and slammed his fist into the pillow. Was Alannah Collins aware that she was driving him crazy with need?

  Turning onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling. Of course she was. Her profession—if you could call it that—had been pandering to male fantasy. She must have learnt that men were turned on by stockings—and socks. By tousled hair and little-girl pouts. By big blue eyes and beautiful breasts.

  Had she subsequently learnt as she’d grown older that teasing and concealment could be almost as much of a turn-on? That to a man used to having everything he wanted, even the idea of a woman refusing sex was enough to make his body burn with a hunger which was pretty close to unbearable. Did she often let men caress the bare and silky skin of her thigh and then push them away just when they were in tantalising reach of far more intimate contact?