While she had been disarmed by his friendly chatter over coffee he had been one step ahead all the time. He must have locked the door and removed the key as soon as she had arrived and now he was poised like some jungle panther ready to spring.
Parisa flushed hotly as Luc's gaze, black and hard as jet, swept over her, his eyes resting on the package she held in her hand. 'So, still trying to steal and run,' he drawled, slipping the key in his trouser pocket as he moved towards her. 'The car in the back lane again, I presume.'
'Presume away,' she snapped, avoiding his eyes. His hand curled around her wrist, and with his other hand he removed the package from her trembling fingers.
'Mine, I believe.' His mouth twisted cynically as he carelessly flung the photos on the hall table, adding, 'Unless you feel like earning them, Parisa, hmm?' and, grasping her chin between his thumb and finger, he tilted her head back so that she was forced to look at him.
She was angry and frightened, but she fought not to show it, and would have succeeded except suddenly she was aware of the closeness of his large body, the clean scent of him fresh from the shower. She tried to pull away, but his hand tightened on her jaw and a fierce sexual tension shimmered in the air.
She saw red at the darkening sensual glitter that flickered in his hard gaze. 'You're disgusting. Moya told me your terms—cash or kind—but you don't scare me. You, you sex maniac, you,' she spluttered, more afraid than furious.
He raised one dark brow.
“In kind", is that right?' He watched her for a moment in silence, then, letting go of her wrist, but still holding her chin, he ran one long finger around the outline of her lips. 'Yes, it might almost be worth it. Though most women wait until they are asked,' he commented sardonically.
She flushed. 'Why, you conceited '
'Basta, Parisa, I will hear no more insults from you. Either you come to Italy with me on Monday as we agreed last night, or I send the photographs to the newspapers. The decision is yours, but I can assure you, you have nothing to fear on the sexual front from me. I prefer my women slightly smaller, slightly fuller, and a lot more willing.' His hand fell from her chin and he stepped back, his handsome face devoid of all expression. 'I am hungry. You can tell me your final decision over breakfast. Wait!' And, turning his back on her, he picked up the photographs and walked into the bedroom.
Parisa watched him go with an angry frown. She did not know whether to be insulted or pleased that he did not fancy her. He had had no such qualms about her voluptuous friend Moya. But at least she supposed it was reassuring.
'Ready to leave now?' he demanded curtly.
He was still angry, she recognised, considering him warily as he pulled on a coat. 'I thought you wanted breakfast,' she could not help saying.
'I do, and that is where we are going.'
'Can't you cook?'
'If that is an offer, thanks.' He smiled, and her heart jumped at the easy charm on his face. She was vividly reminded of the first time he had ever smiled at her so long ago. 'But there's no food in the apartment,' he added ruefully.
Half an hour later, sitting opposite Luc at an elegantly laid table in the dining-room of a top London hotel, she stared in amazement as he tucked into a full English breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes and toast. She sipped from a small china cup what was her fifth dose of coffee that morning, and thought again of his warm smile. He was an odd man.
One minute he had. been furious and the next he had been smiling at her as though they were friends.
'Have you decided?'
Parisa choked on her coffee, and glanced across the table. 'How could you possibly eat all that in the morning?' she asked, trying to change the subject.
'Easy. I'm a big man, in case you hadn't noticed. I have a big appetite...' A lazy smile curved his hard mouth. 'Now answer my question,' he drawled, his gaze resting on her flushed face.
She would go to Italy with him—she had already promised Moya—but, sitting in the hotel dining-room looking at Luc, an attractive, well-fed, relaxed male, she could not help trying to appeal to Ms better nature just once.
'Luc, I can't believe you need money so badly, or that you would break up Moya's engagement for the hell of it. She is very much in love with Simon; they dropped me off at your place today, on their way to buy the wedding rings. Why not give me the photographs and forget about it? Just this once.' She watched his handsome face, hoping to see some kind of acceptance. Instead his jaw tightened, and she noticed a muscle jerk in his cheek.
'"Just this once"...' he drawled cynically. 'Am I supposed to be flattered that you considered appealing to me?' One dark brow arched enquiringly. 'What about all my other victims? Are they no less deserving of my sympathy?'
'I don't care about the rest, Luc. If you'll just forget about Moya, I promise no one will ever hear a word from me about your business,' she said earnestly.
'I'm relieved to hear it,' he told her, his mouth tightening in a thin line. 'But it is no deal. .All I want from you is a "Yes" or "No".'
Parisa looked up sharply, meeting his gaze with angry wide blue eyes… 'Yes, damn you! I will come to Italy with you, for two days. I will pretend to be your fiancée, and on Wednesday I want those photographs.' She stood up. She should have had more sense than to appeal to Luc's better nature. He didn't have one.
'Good. In that case we will follow your friends' example and go shopping for the ring.' Tugging her small hand firmly under his arm, he led her out of the restaurant and to her astonishment stopped at a large black limousine complete with chauffeur, parked outside the hotel.
'Good morning, Mr Di Maggi. Nice to see you again,' the uniformed driver greeted him, opening the rear door.
'Good morning, Johnson.' And as Parisa stood with her mouth hanging open, Luc urged her into the car. She could not understand it: they had taken a taxi to the hotel. 'The jeweler’s, please, Johnson,' he commanded and slid the glass partition between driver and passengers closed, before settling back against the soft leather upholstery.
'My God! Who said crime doesn't pay?' Parisa exclaimed involuntarily, her blue eyes huge as saucers in her beautiful face.
Luc shot her a quelling sidelong glance. I always hire a limousine when I am in London. The parking is so terrible that there is no point in keeping a car. But before we go any further, I want to get one point straight. For the next few days, you will refrain from calling me a criminal. To my friends and family I am a businessman,' he said curtly.
Some business, she thought, but one look at his face and she wisely kept her opinions to herself. Instead she asked, 'Is it really necessary to buy a ring? I don't really have time. I have to go home. I'll need to tell my...' She almost said housekeeper, but stopped in time. I have to pack...' She was babbling, but in the close confines of the car Luc's nearness was vaguely intimidating. No, not vaguely, but seriously intimidating, she thought, shooting him a nervous glance. Her leg burned through the soft hide of her skirt where his muscular thigh pressed against her. Was he doing it deliberately? No, of course not, she told herself, looking out of the window; the car was turning a corner.
'Yes, a ring is essential, and don't worry—I'll take you home. Then I'll know where to collect you on Monday morning,' he said smoothly, adding, 'Unfortunately I have business to attend to tonight and tomorrow or we could have spent the time practicing acting as lovers!' His dark eyes flashed a mocking message, but Parisa did not respond. A vivid image of Luc and Margot Mey in each other's arms flashed in her mind. A cynical smile twisted her full lips. She knew just what his business was this weekend.
If she needed any confirmation she got it at the jeweller's. The assistant greeted Luc with a broad smile. 'Back so soon, Mr Di Maggi? Was there something wrong with the bracelet you bought yesterday?'
Parisa almost laughed out loud. She was forced to go to Italy for the sake of her friend, but she obviously had nothing at all to fear from Luc Di Maggi, as, with a suave smile, he responded to the assistant.
'No, the bracelet is perfect and I'm sure the lady will appreciate it. But it is rings I wish to see today.'
The assistant gave Parisa an apologetic smile, and some imp of mischief, or maybe it was pure feminine pride, made her declare, 'I want to see your biggest, flashiest costume rings—something that looks like the Koh-i-noor.' She would act like one of his tarty mistresses, and see how he liked it.
The man looked at Luc, and after a brief exchange in Italian and a nod of Luc's dark head the man disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a tray of rings.
Parisa picked the biggest one. It was a huge slightly blue stone and couldn't possibly be real, but she slipped it on her finger and it fitted perfectly.
'I love this one, Luc, darling,' she drawled, turning a patently false smile on her companion.
'Are you sure, Parisa? There is a wide selection.' Luc's dark eyes, glittering with suppressed anger, captured hers.
'Positive, dearest,' she simpered, thoroughly enjoying herself. But ten minutes later, back in the car with a darkly brooding stranger at her side, she wished she had not tried to bait him.
The car drew to a halt. The chauffeur got out and opened Parisa's door. She looked across at Luc.
'Here, Monday, ten a.m., and don't forget your ring.'
'Certainly,' she murmured.
CHAPTER THREE
Parisa let herself into the apartment with the key Moya had given her. It was a ground-floor flat in a block of four converted from an old terrace house in Kensington. She went straight to the telephone and ordered a taxi to the railway station.
It had been a stroke of genius, allowing Luc Di Maggi to think she shared Moya's apartment in London. This way, when their brief sojourn on the Continent was over there was no danger of him ever finding her again. Moya was leaving next weekend for her father's house in Norfolk and after the wedding would take up residence in Sussex. If Parisa could just get through the next few days and retrieve the photographs, everything would be fine. It took a matter of minute to pack her clothes. She wrote a note to Moya, assuring her everything was under control and telling her to expect her back on Sunday evening. Then once again she left the apartment.
She breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction some three hours later as the local taxi stopped outside the massive entrance door to Hardcourt Manor. She paid the driver and swiftly ran up the stone steps and into the house. She flung her bag on the battered table in the large oak-paneled hall and shouted, 'Didi, darling, I'm back.'
A small, stooped grey-haired lady appeared from the back of the house. 'You don't need to shout. I am not deaf, my girl.'
Parisa laughed out loud and put her arms around the frail lady, giving her a brief hug. 'I'm sorry, Didi, but I'm so glad to be home.'
'You have only been gone one night. It's not right, a lovely young woman burying herself in the country. You should have stayed in London, enjoyed yourself. Joe and I are quite all right on our own.'
'I know, Didi, and spare me the lecture. I have a dinner date with David tonight.' Parisa grinned. 'And I'm going back to London tomorrow for a few more days' holiday. Your wish is answered. Satisfied?'
'Certainly, but what's this?' and, grasping Parisa's hand, she eyed the huge ring.
Parisa flushed and pulled her hand free. 'Nothing— I bought it for fun,' she mumbled.
'Hmmph. Some fun. You should get a man to buy you jewels, a lovely girl like you. I can't see David Brown exactly sweeping you off your feet.'
'Please, Didi, don't start.' David was not her housekeeper's idea of a matrimonial prospect. She considered the man far too tame. 'Be a dear, I'm gasping for tea.' Parisa, blue eyes shining, watched the little old lady disappear through the door at the back of the stairs. She knew what Didi meant, though. David was thirty years old. He lived with his mother in Battle, and Parisa had been dating him for about a year. They shared a meal together or visited the theatre in Brighton about once a month, and they both looked after the scout troop. He was tall and fair—quite handsome in fact. Parisa liked him because he was a good conversationalist and a fine friend. He was not a demonstrative man, and the goodnight kisses they shared were warm and comforting, but not in the least threatening. Nothing like Luc Di Maggi's passionate embrace... The errant thought flashed in her mind, but she quickly squashed it.
Parisa ran lightly up the stairs. God knew what Didi would say if she knew the truth! Parisa thought wryly. She was going off to Italy with a man, and a villain to boot... But hopefully Didi would never find out, and, pulling the ring from her finger, she dropped it in her bag.
Didi was the housekeeper, but more like a mother to Parisa. When her own parents died, her guardians were the family solicitor and her grandmother. After the death of her grandmother, only months after that of her parents, the solicitor had quite happily left the young girl in Didi's care. Parisa loved her dearly and would never do anything to hurt her.
Parisa's smooth brow creased in a worried frown as she reached the top of the staircase and automatically avoided the tattered part of the stair carpet. If her solicitor did not come up with a solution soon, the house was liable to fall down around her head, she mused, and what would become of Didi and Joe? Parisa loved being a sports teacher, but the salary was nowhere near enough to support the crumbling manor and its inhabitants. Mr Jarvis was a kindly old man, but she sometimes wished he hadn't waited until she was twenty-one and had finished college before explaining fully the desperate state of her finances. It was a huge responsibility, being the last living Hardcourt and custodian of the old manor house and the old couple...
Later, after sharing an evening meal with David at a small hotel in Hailsham, and with the lingering taste of his goodnight kiss on her lips, Parisa, feeling warm and reasonably content, stripped off her clothes in her bedroom. Pulling a wool nightshirt over her head, she scrambled quickly into the huge four-poster bed, and snuggled down under the layers of blankets. Experience had taught her that warmth was something to be conserved in a house where the ancient central heating went out with the fire and the blustery February winds whistled through every nook and cranny of the old building.
She closed her eyes, and for a moment an image of a dark-haired black-eyed man lingered in her mind. She touched a finger to her lips, but it wasn't David's kiss she recalled, but the fierce passion of Luc Di Maggi's lips. She shivered, but not with the cold. She wondered what Luc was doing now, and remembered Margot Mey. She knew exactly what Luc was doing, and told herself she was glad. It would make the next few days much easier for her...
She stood on the pavement: a tall, slender girl, her long blonde hair swept back and tied with a bright blue silk scarf at her nape, to fall down past her shoulder-blades in a swathe of silver gilt. The colour of the scarf matched the brilliant blue of her eyes and the crew-necked sweater that peeped from the lapels of a soft camel overcoat. The coat was wrapped firmly around her narrow waist and held with a matching belt. On her feet she wore cream leather flat-heeled boots, and over her shoulder was slung a matching handbag. On the ground at her side stood a battered but obviously good leather suitcase.
Parisa stamped her feet against the cold and also to ease the tension. She had suggested last night that Moya might like to make one last appeal to Luc Di Maggi, but her friend had flatly refused even to see the man, and after her friend's crying bout Parisa had given up pursuing the idea. Which was why she was waiting on the pavement instead of in the apartment: Moya was frantic at the thought of Luc even reaching the door.
She glanced at the slender gold watch circling her wrist. Five past ten—he was late. Her eye caught the flashing ring on her finger; it was too large for her one decent pair of kid gloves to fit over, and her hand was freezing. Served her right, she thought, smiling wryly.
'Admiring your ring, Parisa?' The deep, melodious voice made her jump with fear. She swirled around, her eyes widening as she looked up into the handsome face of Luc Di Maggi. He caught her arm, as she would have stepped back into
the road. 'Careful, Parisa,' he said curtly, pulling her back against him so that she landed flat against his broad chest. 'I don't want to see you run over; at least, not before you fulfill your part of our bargain.'
'You're late,' she said angrily, staring up at him in frustration. Why did she always seem to end up in his arms? She hadn't even noticed the car pull up a few yards away...
A brief smile curled his lips. 'Did you miss me?' He raised one eyebrow mockingly and, turning her in his arms, he caught her bare hand in his, and with fluid ease picked up her suitcase with his free hand.
She had finally run out of time and choices. With her small, cold hand quickly warming beneath the pressure of his long fingers, she meekly followed him. She cast a surreptitious glance at the man by her side. He was looking straight ahead. His handsome profile looked as though it were hewn out of granite. A dark navy overcoat fitted snugly across his wide shoulders, the collar turned up at his neck against the chill of the morning, the heavy wool falling in a smooth flow to mid calf. His black hair, his dark eyes, the tanned complexion, his smooth, arrogant stride, even his clothes all cried macho Italian male. Uneasily she recalled the rumours at school about Tina, the girl with the Mafia connections!
It was just stupid schoolgirl gossip, she told herself reassuringly, but, as she stood by the long black limousine while the chauffeur packed her case in the boot she wasn't so sure.
'Get in the car,' Luc said curtly, and she did.
An hour later, as she walked up the steps to the waiting Lear Jet, her suspicions had grown to gigantic proportions. Luc had whisked her through Gatwick airport, the Customs, and out to the plane without speaking a word, and as she entered the cabin of the aircraft and looked around her she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Master of Passion Page 4