by Kate Hewitt
But it was important to remind her that this was an affair, two weeks of fantastic sex and absolutely no strings. Hell, Cristiano acknowledged moodily as he drained his glass, it seemed he needed the reminder as well.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LAUREL GAZED OUT of the window of her bedroom in the hotel suite of La Sirena, Paris as twilight settled softly over the City of Lights. They’d arrived several hours ago, and from the moment she’d stepped off the plane to now she’d been pampered, indulged and, yes, made love to.
They’d taken a limo from the airport to the hotel, and then the concierge had personally escorted them to the luxurious suite that Cristiano reserved for his personal use. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Cristiano had reached for her, kissing her hungrily as if it had been months rather than mere hours since they’d last been together.
And yet Laurel was hungry for him, ravenous, especially after the appetiser he’d teased her with on the plane. Just the memory of his knowing fingers climbing higher while people near them read newspapers or sipped champagne made Laurel blush and fidget. It had been utterly thrilling.
In the hotel suite he’d backed her towards the bedroom, tugging down the zip of her dress in one fluid movement and then helping her step out of it without missing a single stride. Laurel had walked backwards slowly, wearing only her bra and pants, her eyes glued to Cristiano as he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it.
She didn’t think she’d ever tire of looking at him: the ridged muscles of his abdomen; the bronzed, burnished skin; the flare of heat in those silvery eyes. She could hardly believe that a man like this, a man who radiated such a powerful sexual charisma, wanted her.
Yet as he’d stalked her towards the bedroom, a predator intent on his more than willing prey, she knew he did.
He’d caught her up as she crossed the threshold, her breath coming out in a whoosh as their bodies made exquisite contact, hard against soft. Cristiano had made short work of her bra and pants, and then neatly hooked his leg behind her knees, so she’d had no choice but to fall onto the bed with a tremulous laugh.
He’d fallen with her, his body covering hers, so hot and hard and muscular. Legs, lips, hands, hips—all tangling, pressing, invading, consuming.
Just the memory of it all made Laurel’s whole body tingle. If she’d known how fantastic sex could be, she’d have had it a whole lot sooner. Except, of course, she’d never met anyone she’d been remotely interested in taking that step with. She’d never met anyone like Cristiano.
A light knock sounded on the door. ‘Ready, bella?’ Cristiano called and Laurel turned to inspect her reflection in the mirror one last time.
She wore a royal-blue evening gown with off-the-shoulder straps and a diamanté belt encircling her waist, the gauzy material falling in a perfect column before pooling about her feet. A stylist had done her hair in an artful up-do, with a few curls resting provocatively on her shoulders, and another assistant had done her make-up, making her eyes look smoky, her lashes endless. She looked elegant but also sexy, and not, she hoped, like nothing more than Cristiano’s latest. Tonight she did not want to be dismissed as the eye candy on Cristiano’s arm. And she didn’t want him to treat her that way, either.
Yet...she couldn’t quite banish the memory of the rest of the afternoon—the way Cristiano had quickly rolled off the bed, pulling on his trousers and shirt while Laurel had lain there, dazed and naked, the last of her climax still thrumming through her.
‘Where are you going?’ she’d asked sleepily.
‘I told you, I have a meeting.’ Cristiano had reached for his neck tie without looking at her. ‘You can relax here. Feel free to order anything you want from room service.’ He’d shot her a glinting smile. ‘Too bad I’m not on the menu.’
And then he’d gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Laurel alone for the rest of the afternoon. There was no reason to feel lonely, she’d told herself as she’d strolled through the sumptuous suite and then indulged in a long, lovely bubble bath. No reason to feel as if Cristiano was fobbing her off, putting her in her place. This was what she’d signed up for, what she’d agreed to. She was his mistress. This was what mistresses did.
But for a little while, sitting in the suite alone, picking at the sandwich she’d ordered from room service, she’d longed to go back to Illinois—to her grandfather’s house, to her job, to a life that made sense and made her feel useful and important—admittedly, in a small way, instead of lounging about like some useless ornament, waiting on Cristiano’s pleasure.
‘Bella.’ Cristiano’s voice was lazy with a hint of laughter as he rapped on the door again, startling Laurel out of her reflections. ‘At this rate we’re going to miss dinner.’
Laurel took a deep breath and banished those memories. Two weeks. Two weeks and then she would go back to that life, small and important as it was. She just needed to enjoy what she had and not ask for more. Not expect it to be different. ‘I’m coming.’
Laurel opened the door, a purely feminine pride stealing through her at the look of blatant heat in Cristiano’s eyes. It still amazed her that she affected him this way, just as he affected her. As always, he looked devastating in a tuxedo, the perfect foil to his ink-black hair and olive complexion.
‘You look wonderful,’ he said, the thrum of sincerity audible in his voice, then he took her hand and led her to the lifts.
The charity gala was being held in the hotel’s opulent ballroom, a room with frescoed walls and giant crystal chandeliers, now filled with a crowd of the most elegant people Laurel had ever seen. For a second she hung back, overawed by it all, but Cristiano tugged on her fingers and brought her into the room.
‘Remember,’ he murmured. ‘You’re with me.’
He joined a group of business associates, wealthy men and women and their partners, everyone speaking in flawless French that Laurel couldn’t follow. She spoke a smattering of Italian, thanks to her three years living in Milan, and a bit of schoolgirl French, but that was it. Everyone here seemed as if they spoke several languages with ease.
A middle-aged man turned to her with a friendly smile. ‘Are you English?’ he asked in accented English and Laurel smiled, grateful for someone making a friendly overture.
‘American, actually. And I’m sorry, but I don’t speak much French.’
‘I speak English,’ the man replied with a very Gallic shrug. ‘So it is okay. You are with Monsieur Ferrero?’ His inquisitive gaze flicked to Cristiano, who was engaged in a discussion with another businessman, but Laurel had the sense that he was listening intently to their conversation, even though he didn’t so much as look at them.
‘Yes. But I’m interested in hospice care,’ she said, determined to be there on her own terms as much as she could. ‘Back in the US, I work as a nurse in palliative care.’
‘Do you?’ The man’s eyes sparked with interest. ‘I would love to hear your thoughts about rehabilitative palliative care. Do you practise that where you work?’
‘We are beginning to,’ Laurel said with real enthusiasm. It was invigorating to talk to someone about issues that mattered, to feel useful again, with more to contribute than simply being an accessory or a clothes horse. ‘It’s difficult, because of course you have to reach patients earlier, before they’re referred to hospice care.’
‘Exactly. We are pioneering a new method, of consultants giving us referrals of anyone with a non-curative diagnosis.’
‘But most people don’t want to hear they have a non-curative diagnosis,’ Laurel said quietly. ‘They want to believe they can get better.’
‘Yes.’ The man nodded and then extended his hand. ‘Michel Durand, consultant at the Institut Curie.’
‘Laurel Forrester. A nurse at Canton Heights General Hospital.’ She gave a self-conscious smile as she shook his hand.
They chatted for a few more minutes, with Laurel becoming increasingly animated as Michel asked her opinion on various new initiatives in
palliative care happening in America. Then he glanced at Cristiano, eyebrows raised.
‘Do you mind if I steal your lovely companion away for a few minutes? There are a few people here I’d like her to meet.’
Cristiano’s expression was suspiciously bland as he smiled and nodded. ‘Of course.’
With one quick, questioning look which Cristiano returned just as blandly, Laurel went.
* * *
Cristiano tracked Laurel’s progress across the crowded ballroom as he half-listened to one of his associates drone on about an investment opportunity in Bucharest.
‘It’s ripe for tourist venues, and there’s a lovely nineteenth-century building perfect for renovation, right in the heart of the Old Town...’
‘La Sirena Bucharest?’ Cristiano dragged his gaze away from Laurel to give the man a small smile. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Then he turned back with narrowed eyes to watch Laurel laugh and chat with several men who, improbably, were not staring at her cleavage but actually listening to what she was saying.
And she must have been saying something important, because she looked so passionate—eyes sparkling, mouth curving, her hands moving in graceful arcs as she described something. Cristiano had no idea what, but he couldn’t look away from her. And neither could any of her listeners.
What was the emotion churning like acid in his gut? Was it a simple matter of jealousy? His mistresses were his. They devoted their time and attention to him. It was so obvious that he’d never needed to articulate it in one of his arrangements. But his arrangement with Laurel was like no other.
‘Who is she?’
Cristiano turned to see the man who had suggested the Bucharest hotel—Niko Savakis—nodding towards Laurel. ‘Your latest amour,’ he clarified, making Cristiano inexplicably want to punch him. ‘Who is she?’
‘Her name is Laurel Forrester.’
‘She’s different from your usual blonde bombshells,’ Savakis remarked.
‘Oh?’ Cristiano’s voice was dangerously quiet. ‘How is that?’ He did not like Savakis looking at Laurel as if she was something one purchased in a shop. He didn’t, he realised, like Savakis thinking of Laurel as simply his mistress, here today, most likely gone tomorrow.
None of this made any sense.
‘She’s intelligent and articulate, for one,’ Savakis replied mildly. ‘She’s beautiful, but not in a showy, obvious, clearly fake way.’ He gave Cristiano an amused glance. ‘Not to disparage your previous mistresses, of course. But Miss Forrester certainly seems like a cut above. Perhaps you’ll hold onto her for a while.’
‘Perhaps I will.’
Savakis registered Cristiano’s even tone with a little amused smile. ‘And if you don’t... I’m sure there are plenty of men who would happily take your place.’ His considering gaze flicked back to Laurel; she was laughing, looking incandescent and so very happy. ‘Myself included.’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Cristiano warned him in a low growl. His fists bunched at his sides. Savakis looked surprised, and then he smiled.
‘So she is different,’ he murmured, and moved away.
Cristiano forced himself to relax. What was going on here? This was not how he conducted relationships. Affairs. Arrangements. He didn’t care about the women he was with. He barely thought about them beyond what they could provide in bed.
Laurel was different. And, even more alarmingly, he was different with Laurel.
Since she’d stumbled into his penthouse just three days ago she’d shaken him up. Reached him in a way no one else had, and certainly not a woman he’d slept with. He didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand himself. And he hated not feeling as if he was in control—of the situation and of himself.
But one thing he knew more than any other was that he was not happy with her across the room, chatting and laughing, looking as if she was having the time of her life. Without him.
With each step cementing his purpose, Cristiano strode across the room to join Laurel.
‘Ah, Ferrero.’ Michel Durand, the doctor who had spirited Laurel away, gave Cristiano what seemed a too-knowing smile. ‘Where did you find such a charming and intelligent woman? She is far from your usual date.’
Did everyone have to keep mentioning the attributes, or lack thereof, of his usual paramours? Cristiano smiled tightly. ‘She found me, as it happens.’
Laurel blushed and Durand glanced between them both, intrigued. ‘Is that so? It sounds as if there’s a story there.’
‘There is,’ Cristiano agreed smoothly, inserting himself into the little circle and sliding his arm around Laurel’s waist. ‘But it is not one I am going to tell you.’
‘Ah.’ Durand looked again between them, his gaze sliding speculatively from Laurel to Cristiano and then back again. ‘Very intriguing. We have been having a most illuminating conversation about rehabilitative care.’
‘A very important topic, I am sure.’ And one he knew nothing about. After a tiny pause the conversation started up again, swirling around him. He could hardly contribute, save for the generous cheque he would write for the hospice—that was something he was good for, at any rate.
But after a few moments of battling his own petty irritation Cristiano started to listen. He listened to Laurel’s impassioned plea for dignity in end-of-life care, and was amazed—although he acknowledged there was no real reason to be so surprised—at how articulate she was. How determined and passionate. And he felt something stir inside him, something that had been long and purposefully dormant.
It was strange and unsettling, this awakening inside him, parts of his soul stirring to life, his atrophied heart stretching and seeking. It was strange and deeply alarming, because he didn’t want to start caring about Laurel. Yet since she’d catapulted back into his life he’d been battling against just that.
If he was smart, he would let her go. Tell her to have a nice life and send her back to Illinois. But Cristiano knew he couldn’t do that. First, because she might be pregnant, and second, because he didn’t want to.
The second reason trumped the first by a long shot.
During a lull in the conversation, Laurel caught him looking at her and she smiled uncertainly. ‘Why are you scowling at me?’
‘Am I?’ He reached for her hand, twining her fingers with his and tugging her gently towards him. He craved the contact even now, felt his heartbeat start to slow as her hip brushed against his leg. ‘I suppose it’s because I’m thinking how I’d rather be alone with you upstairs than in this stuffy room listening to people witter on.’
Laurel smiled slightly but he saw a flash of something close to hurt in her clear, aquamarine eyes. ‘I rather enjoy the wittering, actually.’
Of course she did. And Cristiano felt a pang of shame for dismissing what he knew was an incredibly important topic. Too much of tonight was putting him off balance, out of sorts. And the only way he knew to rectify it was to put things back the way he was used to having them. Laurel in his bed. End of story.
‘How about this?’ he suggested in a lazy murmur. ‘Fifteen more minutes of wittering, we say our goodbyes and then we head upstairs?’
Laurel was eyeing him thoughtfully, in a way Cristiano didn’t particularly like. As if she saw through his suggestion to something underneath that he tried to hide, and hell if he even knew what it was.
‘We’ll miss dinner.’
‘I don’t care.’
There was a pause as she looked at him, seeming to see far too much. ‘All right,’ she said softly. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is.’ It had to be. And yet, as he watched Laurel begin to make her farewells to the people she’d been talking to, he also felt that it wasn’t.
Somehow he wasn’t getting what he wanted out of this deal, yet at the same time he was getting far more than he’d ever expected or asked for.
Ten minutes later they were leaving the ballroom. Laurel was silent and pensive as they stepped into the lift
and soared up to their private suite, and although he wanted to Cristiano couldn’t quite make himself take her in his arms. Turn this into the simple physical exchange he’d told himself he wanted it to be.
What was keeping him from it, damn it? Every nerve felt scraped raw, every sense on high alert as the lifts opened into the suite.
Laurel walked into the suite ahead of him, looking so elegant and lovely, and something in Cristiano broke, the fragments hardening into crystalline points. He took a step towards her and she stilled, perhaps sensing the danger in him. The emotion he couldn’t express or suppress, the emotion he couldn’t afford to feel.
‘Cristiano...?’ She turned to him, eyebrows raised in uncertain query.
‘Turn around,’ Cristiano said, his voice low and hard, a demand that brooked no opposition.
Laurel stared at him for a moment, a faint frown drawing her eyebrows together, and then wordlessly she turned around.
Cristiano stepped towards her and with one swift tug he unzipped her dress.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LAUREL FELT THE cool air brush her back and drew in a sharp breath. Cristiano pushed the gown off her shoulders and then slid it down so it pooled about her waist. He didn’t speak, and she felt the tension and something inexplicably like anger rolling off him in powerful waves. Felt a tremble of both fear and excitement in herself because, no matter how he treated her, it seemed she couldn’t get enough of his touch. But what was going on?
‘Cristiano, what—?’
‘Don’t talk.’ He spoke flatly, and Laurel fell silent, even more apprehensive now.
Cristiano stepped behind her, so she felt his powerful frame practically pulsing into hers. He reached up and covered her breasts with his palms, the touch possessive and sure, making her ache. She sagged a little against him as his thumb teased the aching peaks of her breasts and he dropped a kiss onto the curve of her shoulder. And, even though she didn’t want to, even though something about this felt completely off, Laurel responded.