But it had not quite worked out that way. Parisa had taken one look at the tall dark man and, even at her tender age, had known he was not the sort to play tricks on. At first everything went fine. In fact, walking along the river-bank, with Luc's hand cupping her elbow, she had found they had no trouble talking. He'd told her he was twenty-six years old, single, and looking. She had responded by telling him she was eighteen and looking. He had made her laugh, and she did not have to pretend to like him—she did. He was stunningly attractive and rather mysterious. She had asked him what he did for a living and he had replied by saying he had, 'fingers in many pies'.
As they neared the boat-house Tina had given her a dig in the back to remind her of the plan. Parisa had smiled up into Luc's face and asked with a flutter of her long lashes if he would like to see the boat she rowed in the four-women sculls. He had teasingly said, 'I would love to see your stroke any time, Parisa'. She had fought to keep the blush from her cheeks, and, turning her back to him, opened the door. She intended standing aside to let him go first, but he had forestalled her, by taking her arm and urging her inside.
It was then that Tina had turned the key, locking them both in. Luc had glanced curiously at the boats in the dim light from the one small window and then, to her utter amazement, had turned and taken her in his arms. It was the first time a man had kissed her, and she had been stunned.
His mouth had been firm but gentle, and Parisa had relaxed against his hard frame and given herself up to the wonderful sensations he aroused.
Parisa moved uncomfortably in the bed. Ten years on she could still remember every word he had spoken, every touch, and her body flooded with heat as she replayed the scene in her mind.
'Diol But you're beautiful,' Luc had whispered, holding her slightly away from him. Parisa had thought Luc would be furious, but surprisingly he was not. In the gloom she'd seen the smile on his face as he'd murmured, 'I couldn't have planned it better myself,' and kissed her again.
She had not known what was happening. His tongue had pushed between her teeth; his hands had roamed caressingly up and down her spine. Then one hand had slipped up and over her high, pert breast, his fingers sliding down the front of her blouse. She was drowning in a million sensations. Her hands had fluttered to his shoulders and clung. Her heart had pounded, with fear mingled with an aching excitement.
His other hand had eased up the hem of her skirt, and when she felt the touch of his long fingers on her naked thigh she had begun to tremble. It was only when he'd murmured huskily against her ear, 'Let's lie down- it's much better that way,' that she finally came to her senses and began to struggle.
Even now she could still recall how frightened and humiliated she had felt, Parisa thought wryly. She had kissed a few men since then, but none had created the same devastating effect as her first kiss. She thought she had forgotten, but seeing Luc tonight had brought it all back.
She had cried, 'No!' and tried to push him away. But he had held her tightly to him and angrily told her exactly what he thought of her.
'No! You dare to say that, after the way you have behaved all afternoon—flirting, asking for it. Feel what you've done to me.' And for the first time in her life she had felt the force of a hard, aroused male body against her slender form. She had panicked and managed to break free, and, to her utter humiliation, burst into tears.
At that point the boat-house door had swung open, and to Parisa's horror the sports mistress had walked in. Miss Shipley had taken one look at the couple and demanded to know what was going on.
Luc Di Maggi, totally in control, had charmingly explained that he was Tina's cousin and visiting for the day. Parisa had offered to show him the boats and somehow the door had locked behind them. The reason for Parisa's tears was that she was frightened of the dark.
Miss Shipley had demanded of Parisa, 'Is this true, girl?' and she had quietly agreed. 'Well, no harm done, I suppose, and you are a foreigner,' she had added as if to say Luc knew no better. 'But a man of your age should have more sense than to wander around with a fourteen- year-old child. You should have asked your cousin Tina, instead of bothering Lady Parisa Hardcourt-Belmont.' The scorn in Miss Shipley's voice had been harsh and obvious.
Luc Di Maggi had exclaimed, 'Fourteen!' His handsome face had paled beneath his tan, his dark eyes flashing incredulously to the tall, shapely Parisa.
Even now, Parisa thought, turning restlessly in her bed, she was not sure if Miss Shipley had glossed over the matter to save a young girl embarrassment, or, more realistically, had not punished her because the following day was the start of inter-school rowing championship week, and Parisa was her star performer.
She yawned widely and pulled the blankets around her chin. The past was over and not worth worrying about, but she wasn't surprised Luc had ended up a crook. He had lingered in her mind as a ruthless man.
Then she heard it... The soft but unmistakable sound of Moya sobbing in the room next door. As she listened to the pitiful sound, she knew she had no choice. She would have to go with Luc to Italy. There was no way she could let herself be responsible for the destruction of Moya's happiness, when it was within her power to prevent it.
Would it really be so terrible? A couple of days in Italy with Luc Di Maggi? she asked herself. She was no longer a scared young girl, but a mature woman of twenty-four, with a responsible job. As for Di Maggi, he was hardly likely to leap on her in his mother's house, and why would he want to? He had a very beautiful mistress—Margot Mey.
* * *
Sitting at the kitchen table the next morning, cradling a cup of strong coffee in her slender hands, Parisa studied her friend's swollen face and red-rimmed eyes. 'OK, Moya. I'll do it. Give me the man's telephone number and I'll call him.' She was almost suffocated in a bear- hug as soon as she spoke.
'You darling. I knew I could count on you,' Moya proclaimed, a watery smile lighting her wan face.
Extracting herself from Moya's arms, Parisa stood up and demanded, 'Give me the number, hmm?'
'I don't have the number, but it doesn't matter. Simon will be here soon.' Her eyes lit with love. 'We are going to buy the wedding rings. It will be no trouble to drop you off at Mayfair. We can tell Simon you're calling on a girlfriend. Then you can speak to the man, in person.' Her expression deadly serious, she added, 'And thank you, Parisa, you've saved my life. I couldn't bear to lose Simon; I love him so much.'
Parisa hated the idea, but in the face of her friend's obvious relief she had not the heart to argue, and by nine-thirty a.m. was standing outside the entrance door of a familiar building.
With an unsteady hand she nervously jabbed at the bell marking the third-floor apartment, wishing she was anywhere in the world but here.
'Yes? Who is it?' a snarling voice demanded on the intercom.
Parisa zipped the jacket of her cream leather blouson tight to her throat, and, smoothing the soft hide of the matching, softly flared skirt with a shaking hand, she responded. 'Miss Belmont, Mr Di Maggi.'
'Parisa...' Her name was a bellow. 'Don't move... No. Come straight up.'
Tentatively she pushed the door and it swung open. She walked into the brightly lit hall and slowly began ascending the stairs. She had barely reached the first landing when Luc Di Maggi appeared. She stopped dead as the full force of his virile masculinity hit her like a punch in the stomach.
He looked as though he had just got out of bed: a dark stubble covered his square jaw, a soft cotton shirt flung across his broad shoulders was not yet fastened, revealing a broad, muscular chest liberally covered in black curling hair that narrowed to a single line over his stomach and down to where a pair of well-washed jeans hung low on narrow hips, the top snap unfastened. He was barely decent... She swallowed hard, and before she could speak he grabbed her arm in a grip of steel.
'What the hell did you think you were doing, Parisa? Are you completely crazy? Climbing out of a window and down a fire ladder in the middle of the night. You could have broken
your beautiful neck, you idiot...'
He was furiously angry; his black eyes bore down into her surprised blue ones with an intensity that made her shiver. He looked as if murder was not far from his mind. 'I'm perfectly all right. What's the matter, Luc, scared you might have been arrested for murder, instead of blackmail?' she sneered, determined he should know from the beginning just what kind of low-life she considered him.
Luc's arm tightened for a second and then she was free. His gaze narrowed on her beautiful but flushed face. 'No, Parisa, I'm not afraid of anything or anyone, but you would be wise to guard your tongue around me. There is only so much I will take from you, little lady. Last night you took ten years off my life in ten minutes.'
Her blue eyes widened in astonishment. For a second she could have sworn she saw genuine concern in the depths of his dark eyes before his hooded lids dropped, masking his expression.
'If you want to help your friend—and I imagine that is why you are here—follow me...' he commanded.
Reluctantly Parisa followed him up the stairs, his broad back just asking for a knife between the shoulder- blades, she thought bitterly, but it did not stop her admiring the tight round curve of his buttocks, or the long, sinewy legs. What was happening to her? She had never been plagued with erotic thoughts about a man's physique before. She was so lost in thought that she walked straight into Luc's back, pushing him through his own door.
'Such haste. I'm flattered.' He turned and, grinning broadly, swept her into his arms and swung her around and into his apartment, adding, 'Or are you terrified in case someone sees you with me, a notorious villain?'
Parisa, with her feet once more on the floor, shot him a vitriolic look. She was a tall girl and was not used to being literally swept off her feet by any man, and she had a nasty suspicion he was laughing at her. Mustering all her self-control, she retorted, 'Being engaged to you even for only two days would certainly not enhance any woman's reputation.'
'Ah, now we come to the reason for your unexpected visit. You are regretting your hasty departure last night, and want to accept my proposition, is that not so?' he asked cynically.
'More or less,' she muttered, hating to admit defeat.
'I'm sorry, I drank the champagne. We can discuss it over a coffee instead,' he drawled smoothly, adding, 'Follow me.'
If the pig told her once more to follow him she was going to walk out, Parisa vowed, but she did follow him into a sparkling kitchen, all stainless steel and tiles, with every gadget known to man.
'Sit down, Parisa, while I make the coffee.'
'Hadn't you better finish dressing first?' she asked coldly, sitting down on a black and chrome chair. It was difficult enough having to speak to the man without being confronted by acres of male flesh all the time.
'My apologies,' he offered facetiously, 'but I overslept this morning, probably because I was up most of the night, worrying about a certain Lady Parisa..
Liar. In his line of work it must be the norm to sleep in the morning. She stared down at the table. She would not respond to his sarcasm, even if she choked to death in the effort to hold back the words. Instead, through clenched teeth, she grated, 'Parisa will do fine.' Remember Moya, the wedding, be civil to the man, she told herself. Two days was not a lifetime. Think positive: a free trip to Italy can't be bad! God knew she certainly could not afford a holiday abroad on her own, and as for David, her boyfriend, a teacher like herself, but with a mother to support, his idea of a holiday was camping with the scouts. She frowned; she had forgotten David.
Parisa jumped when a large tanned hand placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of her. She lifted her head. Luc was sitting opposite her, one strong hand curved around a large mug of coffee, the other rubbing idly at his rough jaw.
'Parisa is a peculiar name; how did you acquire it?' he asked conversationally, before raising the mug to his lips and taking a deep drink of the steaming brew.
Her eyes strayed to the long column of his throat, its muscles moving beneath the tanned flesh as he swallowed. Hastily she took a drink of her own coffee before answering. 'My parents once went on an archaeological dig in what was Persia, and fell in love with the name Parisa. Apparently it is Persian for angelic- looking.'
'Very appropriate; you are an exquisitely beautiful woman, but then you were a beautiful child.'
Parisa could feel the colour washing up her throat at his extravagant compliment and avoided looking at him. Instead she fixed her gaze somewhere over his left shoulder, willing the colour to subside.
'Blushing...you surprise me, Parisa.' His hand reached out, and he ran one long finger down her hot cheek. 'I remember you at eighteen. No, fourteen, wasn't it?' he prompted silkily.
His touch was like a burning brand on her cheek. She flinched, glancing warily at his handsome face. He was smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes. His dark gaze was hard on her flushed face. 'So, what of it?' she murmured stupidly.
'You may have been a liar, but you were also a passionate little thing. Some things never change.'
'That is unfair: it was your cousin Tina who talked me into it,' she responded angrily. She would not be called a liar by a crook. As for her passionate nature, she didn't have one. It was only around Luc that her emotions became explosive. Why? She had no idea.
'Maybe, but it wasn't Tina who flashed her big blue eyes at me, or rubbed suggestively against me. It was you, Parisa, which is why I am surprised you still blush. There must have been a lot of men in your life by now, judging by the passionate way you responded at such an early age.'
'Why, you insulting-- ' Her temper flared.
Luc, to her astonishment, grinned wickedly. 'Come on, Parisa, I was only teasing, and you do rise to the bait so beautifully.'
'Yes, well, enough about the past.' She had to get the conversation back to Moya.
'I like recalling old times,' Luc cut in. 'Especially unique events. A twenty-six-year-old man caught by the teacher kissing a schoolgirl! The most embarrassing moment of my life. I have always been curious to know what happened to you. The teacher must have punished you.'
'No. No, she didn't.' Parisa drained her cup, finding it was not so painful to look back down the years. In fact, her lips twitched in the semblance of a smile. It was quite funny, really...
'A young girl, in her charge. Come on, she must have said something. I was furious at being fooled by a child, but I always felt a little guilty imagining you confined to the classroom for the rest of the term, or deprived privileges.'
'Quite the opposite.' Parisa grinned. That he had felt guilty about the incident was pleasing and she did not question why. 'You see, I was Miss Shipley's star oars- woman, and the inter-school championships started that week. She was taking no chances on reporting me to the head and having her best performer grounded.'
'I didn't realise you actually could row. I thought that was just a ruse.'
'Row? I made the Olympic team when I was at university,' she said proudly, quite forgetting to whom she was talking. 'I was UK champion in the single sculls when I was nineteen.'
'Did you win anything at the Olympics?'
'No.' She sighed: it was her one regret in life. 'I didn't actually get to row,' she said honestly, a far-away look hazing her lovely eyes.
'Let me guess: you sneaked out of the Olympic village after curfew, and were grounded.'
Luc smiled encouragingly across the table, and she found herself telling him the truth. 'Not exactly. I made friends with Jan, a Dutchman, who was a pole vaulter. It was something I had always fancied having a go at. Anyway, he let me try his pole. Unfortunately I fell badly and broke my leg.'
To her astonishment he threw his dark head back and howled with laughter. What was so funny? she thought belligerently, the friendly atmosphere of the past few minutes vanishing as she felt her anger rise. She had been devastated at the time, and this oaf was laughing at her. 'It wasn't funny. I was absolutely gutted.'
'No, no, of course not,' Luc spl
uttered, fighting to contain his amusement. 'And your friend, did he win anything?'
'No. I'd cracked his favourite pole,' she said bluntly. Let him make a joke out of that and she would throw her coffee in his face. She should have known better.
How could a villain like Luc Di Maggi appreciate the work and effort that went into just getting to the Olympics? Whatever Di Maggi wanted he got by any crooked means he could.
'It could only happen to you, Parisa.' He shook his dark head. 'You cracked h...' Jumping to his feet, rubbing a large tanned hand over his mouth, he muttered, 'I need to shave,' and shot out of the room...
The man was obviously not quite sane, Parisa thought, as the sound of his laughter reached her from the bathroom. The temptation to get up and walk out was almost overwhelming. She actually got to her feet and walked into the hall. Only the thought of Moya's cries of the night before echoing in her head stayed her footsteps. No. She had promised; she had to go through with it. But had she?
The sitting-room door was invitingly open. She listened. The sound of running wafer told her Luc was still busy. Quietly she entered the room, crossed to the sideboard, and slowly opened the drawer. Her blue eyes gleamed triumphantly at the sight of the incriminating package. Carefully she picked it up and, spinning on her heel, ran swiftly back out of the room into the hall, and was soon at the front door, a smug smile of satisfaction tilting her full hips as her hand turned the brass doorknob. It had been so easy. She couldn't believe her luck... Damn! she cursed under her breath, twisting the knob the opposite way.
'I think you will find you need this...'
Slowly she turned. Luc was leaning against the wall about two feet away, his arm outstretched, a key dangling from his long fingers. She looked at him, and in that moment the full force of her actions over the past dozen hours hit her like a ton of bricks. A shiver of fear snaked down her spine. Too late she remembered that this man was a criminal, and would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. With wary eyes she studied his still body, the firm, well-muscled contours of it now dressed casually in hip-hugging jeans and a black crew-neck cashmere sweater. She was forcibly made aware of the threatening, predatory character of the man.
Master of Passion Page 3