Parisa did not know how it happened, but within minutes she was divested of her coat and seated in the curve of Luc's arm on a comfortable sofa in a beautiful room, one wall of which was curved with elegant windows. Rich blue velvet drapes, braided and tasselled, shaded the bright sunlight from the soft cream furnishings. The obviously excellent paintings and objets d'art scattered around all screamed good taste and great wealth.
'We must have champagne... a toast... Yes…
Parisa shook her head in an effort to clear her thoughts, and tensed as Luc spoke softly, his breath warm against her ear.
'Remember why you are here. Upset my mother, and I will make you pay.'
Startled by the threat in his whispered words, she glared suspiciously at him. For a moment she had forgotten he was her enemy and had found comfort in his protective arm about her shoulders.
'What do you mean?' she asked, puzzled by his anger.
'I will not allow you to dismiss my mother with a toss of your elegant head. You will accept the champagne and smile,' he hissed with sibilant softness, so only she could hear.
He was wrong about her action. It had not been a refusal, but now was not the time to argue, and, turning, she smiled at the other woman, and in a calm voice said, 'Yes, I would love some champagne.'
A smart dark-suited young man appeared, carrying an ice-bucket with the plump gold-topped bottle nestling inside, and a tray bearing fine crystal glasses, which he placed on the table by the old lady. The young man picked up the bottle and with swift expertise opened it. The cork flew across the room and bounced off Parisa's thigh.
'That is good luck, Parisa,' Signora Di Maggi cried delightedly, but Parisa wasn't so sure, as she almost jumped out of her skin in surprise. But when Luc held out a brimming glass she took it, her fingers brushed his, and she flinched at the contact. She told herself it was with loathing.
'To Parisa, my betrothed. May we have a long and happy union,' Luc said, raising his glass, but the dark knowing look in his brilliant eyes told her he had noticed her reaction and was amused by it.
Bravely she raised her own glass and sipped the sparkling liquid. She accepted his mother's effusive congratulations in a mixture of Italian and English with as much grace as she could muster, blushing furiously when the old lady exclaimed over the beauty of the engagement ring, and conscious all the time of Luc's dark eyes watching her, waiting to pounce on her least mistake.
She heaved an inward sigh of relief when his mother suggested, 'You must be tired. So long you travel. Luc will show you your room. We will talk later tonight, before the mob arrive, yes?'
Out in the huge circular hall Parisa turned baleful eyes on Luc. 'Your poor, weak little mother,' she sneered. 'What a liar you are—the woman is built like an amazon and looks as fit as a fiddle.' She used anger to hide her fear: the old lady had quite openly mentioned the mob. Was that not another name for the Mafia?
'Shut up and follow me,' and, striding to a wide marble staircase, he ascended the stairs.
He was doing it again. Follow me! Parisa fumed, but had no real alternative but to do what he said. How in God's name she had got herself in this mess? She couldn't believe it. Perhaps she did have some of the wild Hardcourt genes after all, and the thought terrified her. She had spent years convincing herself she was safe from that particular hereditary fault, but now she was not so sure.
'This is your room. I trust you will be comfortable here. If you need anything, there is a bell-rope beside the bed. I am in the room next door.'
Her head shot back and she looked up at him, not at all happy at the thought of only a single wall separating her from Luc.
'I'm sure it will be fine, thank you,' she replied formally, successfully masking her apprehension. She glanced around the room. It was beautifully decorated in soft white and pale rose, entirely feminine, but exquisite. A queen-sized bed, the coverlet delicately embroidered white lace with a pink undercover. A small satin settee was at one side of a real fireplace, the surround of which was in a white and pink veined marble with a brass grate and antique fender. The dressing-table was built into one of the straight walls, along with mirrored wardrobes and a door.
A large hand curved around her shoulder and she tensed defensively; she had not realised Luc was so close. 'The bathroom is that door.' Luc gestured with his free hand.
'Thank you,' she said, wishing he would leave.
'So polite, when not five minutes ago you were calling me a liar. There is a penalty for that kind of talk, Parisa,' he informed her silkily.
She should have known he would not let her comment about his mother go unanswered.
'I warned you before, but obviously you need a few more lessons in how to behave as my fiancée.'
His strong arms locked around her. She tried to push him away. 'Really, Luc, aren't you being rather childish?' she admonished. But the hard intent in his black eyes barely wavered at her ineffectual attempt to break free. 'Let go...' was as far as she got.
His dark head lowered. She turned her head to the side, determined to avoid him. But when his teeth bit lightly on her exposed neck, she shuddered. If anything it was worse than a kiss. His lips trailed up and over her jaw, while all the time his arms kept her pressed tightly against his hard body. She could feel the steady pounding of his heart, the deep, appreciative growl, as his mouth finally found hers, and within seconds she was lost in the expertise of his kiss.
It didn't matter what or who he was, she thought wildly. He just had to touch her and a million nerve- ends caught fire. What was happening to her? David never had this startling effect on her, and she liked him. Whereas Luc, a man she despised, with one kiss could turn her bones to jelly. A soft moan escaped her as Luc's lips left hers. Was it regret?
'Interesting, Parisa, wouldn't you say?' he asked throatily. 'An unexpected bonus, my little cat burglar.' She stared, her blue eyes wide and wary. He tipped back her head so he could look down into her flushed face. 'You want me.'
'No...' she husked, fighting for control. She could feel the heavy pressure of his muscular thighs against her long legs, and, more, the hard pulse of his arousal. He might have declared she was not his type, but his body obviously wasn't aware of the fact, she thought, swallowing hard and trying to wriggle away, but to her horror it appeared to arouse him more.
'Hmm. Nice, Parisa, very nice.' He moved his thighs against her.
'No, no, you're mad!' she cried, and with an almighty shove at his chest she tried again to break free.
'Stop fighting, cara. You know you want it as much as I do,' he growled, his arm around her waist, lifting her so her feet left the ground and she was helpless in his hold.
His lips nuzzled at her neck and she felt the blood rush through her veins. Her slender hands wrapped around his neck and when she felt his large hand cover her breast through the fine wool of her sweater, her nipple tightened in a sudden aching want. Dear heaven! What was happening to her? She had never felt this way before, but, some imp inside reminded her, she had once—as a young girl, and with the same man.
'We are two consenting adults, Parisa. Don't fight it.' He whispered the words against her mouth before once again his mouth covered hers, his tongue pressed and gained entry, and hot warmth flooded from her mouth to her breast to her loins in a single arrow of delight.
It was only when she felt the softness of the bed at her back that she finally realised what she was inviting and with whom. She panicked, and, striking out wildly, she shot across the bed and off the other side, to stand trembling a couple of feet away.
'You—you animal! Don't touch me!' she cried. Luc sprawled on his back on the bed, his dark eyes searching her flushed face intently. He looked so out of place: huge and dark in his black trousers and cream and black sweater on the white, feminine bed, but the look in his eyes was definitely come to bed, Parisa thought, her heart pounding. 'You said I wasn't your type—you promised,' she bit out, stunned by her own response.
'So I've changed my m
ind, and why not? You enjoy it; as I remember you always did. Before you were too young, but now,' he drawled throatily, 'there is nothing to stop us, hmm?'
She stared at him in amazement. He wasn't angry or joking—he meant it! It was natural for him to have sex with any woman he fancied without a qualm.
'Come back here, Parisa.' He stretched out a large tanned hand coaxingly. 'I promise I will make it good for you.' And he had the gall to smile, a slow twist of his shockingly sensuous lips.
Parisa saw red, and a few other colours besides. The arrogance—the bloody conceit—of the man was unbelievable.
'I wouldn't go to bed with you for all the tea in China,' she fumed. 'You're a blackmailer, a crook, and probably a member of the Mafia. What with your company airplane, your Ferrari, this place…'
To her amazement Luc burst out laughing. 'The Mafia,' he howled, rolling around on the bed. 'Parisa, you are a delight...' he spluttered.
Parisa did not think it the least funny. 'Even your own mother mentioned "the mob". Do you think I'm altogether stupid?'
She had no idea how beautiful she looked. The silk scarf had fallen from her hair, so the platinum mass tumbled around her shoulders in disarray as she stood quivering with anger and the residue of passion, her full breasts taut against the wool of her sweater, her lips swollen from Luc's kisses, and her blue eyes glittering like sapphires in their panic and rage.
Luc's laughter stopped. His dark eyes narrowed, a dull flush swept up his handsome face, and he seemed to catch his breath. Then, very slowly, he sat up, his intent gaze sweeping over the trembling Parisa from head to toe, as though he had never seen her before. He ran his hands through his thick hair, brushing it off his brow, and once more glanced at Parisa.
'What if I said I was not a blackmailer?' he asked softly.
Parisa snorted. 'I wouldn't be here if you weren't.' And she caught a fleeting expression of surprise on Luc's face.
'True,' he admitted, and, rising from the bed, he walked towards the door. He turned with his hand on the handle. 'My mistake, Parisa. I did promise I would not touch you. We dine at eight-thirty. And, by the way, my mother used the word "mob" because her English is not good, no other reason.' And he left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Parisa stared at the door for a long time, not sure what to make of Luc's behaviour. He was a complete enigma to her, one moment making passionate love to her, then a minute later declaring it was a mistake, and in a lightning change of mood he was a polite, sophisticated host. How she wished she had the ability to switch off her emotions so casually.
For some reason she had absolutely no resistance to Luc Di Maggi's particular brand of loving. He was thirty- seven years old, a man of the world, and she could only guess at the kind of world he inhabited. Maybe his mother had made a mistake with her English. But Luc had not actually denied being a member of the Mafia. She shivered. This whole episode was light years outside her experience.
She led a quite country life in East Sussex, with an occasional trip to London to the theatre or a show. Apart from being always short of money, she was reasonably content. After the death of her parents and grandmother she had been left pretty much on her own, perhaps because she was considered locally to be a minor aristocrat, and was expected to mix with the hunting and shooting brigade. Although she was a sportswoman, blood sports had never interested her. She found them barbaric, and consequently her social contacts were limited. But the friends she did have, like Moya, and Didi, and a few others, she was intensely loyal to. As for male companionship, she had David. His kisses did not stir her, and she was not serious about him, but he suited her. Nice, uncomplicated David... If only she were with him now.
Luc was not the sort of man anyone would describe as uncomplicated. There was something about him, an aura of strength and power that had nothing to do with his size, but the personality of the man. She should never have come to Italy... It was a bad mistake. She should have talked Moya into calling the police, and let them deal with Luca Di Maggi. For some inexplicable reason, just one glance from Luc's black eyes, one touch of his hand, and she reacted like a giddy teenager. She knew he was a blackmailer. She recalled the tearful, terrified face of her friend. There was no possible doubt that the man was outside the law. So why did she suffer from this intense physical attraction to him? It was crazy. Her common sense told her he was despicable, but her traitorous body blazed at his touch.
She sighed. God, how she wished she were back in England with David. At least with him she was in control. The woman was not born who could control Luca Di Maggi.
CHAPTER FOUR
Parisa told herself to think of the business on hand, to remember Moya. But it wasn't easy. She cupped her breasts to ease the heavy fullness Luc's touch had aroused, and willed the ache in her stomach to subside.
She collapsed on the bed, her head in her hands. Nothing made sense. Moya had called the man a slime ball and opportunist. Yet Luc Di Maggi did not fit that description. A woman would have to be blind or senile not to be aware of the raw masculine appeal of the man. Parisa had kissed a few boys over the years, but none had ever affected her as instantly or as erotically as Luc. Certainly not David.
She felt a twinge of guilt. Poor David. She wasn't serious about him, but she knew he was hoping eventually they would marry, and up until now she had not bothered to disillusion him, being quite happy to have an escort who was safe and reliable. She had not mentioned her trip to Italy on Saturday night, and she realised she had been less than fair to him.
She stood up and walked to the bathroom. Perhaps a cold shower would help clear her brain. If she could get the last three days into focus, maybe she could find the clue to Luc's character, or lack of it...
The bathroom knocked every thought out of her head. It was like stepping into a gigantic mirror. She felt herself cringing at the million reflections of herself. A huge circular Jacuzzi followed part way the shape of the outside wall, surrounded by what to Parisa's stunned gaze looked like a platform of jungle plants. There was no way she was climbing in that, she thought, and instead, trying not to look at the walls, stripped off her clothes, and stepped warily into an equally large double shower. She did not linger under the spray: the gold-plated fixtures, and, even worse, the naked couple engraved in the glass shower door, had her face crimson.
Hastily she grabbed a large, fluffy towel from a gold towel rail fixed to the wall by naked gold cherubs, and shot back into the bedroom, wrapping the towel firmly around her. The delicacy of the bedroom seemed at odds with the eroticism of the bathroom. And then she realised she had used the bathroom on the opposite side to the one Luc had indicated. Fast on that thought came the realisation that the bathroom must lead directly to Luc's room, and the knowledge did nothing to calm her overwrought nerves.
Someone had already unpacked her suitcase, she noted, no longer surprised by anything that happened in this house. She opened the wardrobe door, and found her few clothes neatly hanging in a row. She had only brought two dresses. In fact she only owned two decent formal dresses. She pulled a dark blue velvet dress, the least fancy of the two, from the hanger, and, trying the drawers, she found her underclothes.
Briskly rubbing herself dry, she stepped into a blue lace teddy, with the suspenders attached. She sat down on the bed and carefully pulled silk stockings up her long legs; then, straightening, she slipped the velvet dress over her head. She crossed over to the mirror and smoothed the fabric down over her slim hips.
Not bad, she thought, eyeing her reflection. The dress was a simple fitted sheath with slightly padded shoulders, and long, narrow sleeves ending in a point over her wrists. The skirt was straight and clung to her slender thighs, ending just on her knees.
She sat down at the dressing-table and proceeded to apply the minimum of make-up to her pale face: a light moisturizer, a touch of blue eye shadow, a sweep of her long lashes with a dark mascara wand, and, to finish, a gentle brush of her cheeks with blusher to add a little
colour. She brushed her long hair until it shone like white gold, and deftly swept it up into a chignon on top of her proud head. Lastly she applied a pink lip-gloss to her full lips and sprayed her neck and wrist with her favourite perfume: Dior's Dune—a Christmas present from Moya.
Parisa sighed, a feeling of helplessness enveloping her. She had never felt so alone in her life, and she wasn't sure she could handle the situation. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her lips were full and slightly swollen, and was it her imagination, or were her eyes a deeper blue? She wasn't sure she knew this woman who stared back at her.
Parisa was used to being in control of her life. She liked to think caution was her middle name, but what if there was some truth in her deep-rooted fear that maybe she had inherited the reckless nature of so many of her ancestors? She didn't want to believe it, but the fact was that she was in a foreign country, pretending to be engaged to a man she hardly knew and didn't trust. Was that the action of a sensible woman? she asked herself soberly.
Squaring her shoulders, she stood up. The answer was simple. Yes, because the alternative was the ruination of her best friend's future happiness, and Parisa was not prepared to let that happen. Moya was her reason for being here, and if she had any hope of getting through the rest of her stay in Italy she must keep that fact firmly in her mind. It was worth putting up with Luc if it meant her friend could marry Simon with an easy mind.
She turned once more to the wardrobe. She found the matching soft French navy leather high-heeled shoes and slipped them on her feet. She was ready for anything, she told herself sternly, glancing once again at her reflection as she headed for the bedroom door. She decided to go downstairs and explore a little. Anything rather than take the chance that Luc would come back to the bedroom for her.
She stepped into the hall and turned, her blue eyes widening at the sight of Luc walking towards her. He looked magnificent in a black formal dinner suit, the white silk of his shirt contrasting sharply with the suntanned bronze of his skin. She felt her heart leap and the colour heightening on her cheeks as his gaze flicked from the pale silver gold of her hair to the blue velvet encasing her shapely form. She instinctively lowered her lashes, hoping to mask the devastating effect he had on her senses from his worldly eyes. Ready for anything, she thought ruefully. Anything, except the potent appeal of Luc Di Maggi...
Master of Passion Page 6