Her newfound career was important to her. At Imperial, she’d learned she was more than a pretty face. It surprised her that she really didn’t want to jeopardize that.
And she was scared by how totally her body had surrendered to him. Already she could feel a slight tightness between her legs. Almost—how ridiculous!—as though she wanted more.
“Nothing. We’re late for work,” Diana said. “They’ll be expecting us back in the office.”
He turned his back to her and shrugged off the towel, dressing. Diana swallowed hard. The lines from his shoulders to the small of his back were chiseled like some Renaissance statue in marble. His behind was flat and totally hard. He was huge. She looked at the fresh shirt he was pulling on and wondered if he’d had it specially made.
“You’re right,” he said easily. “We’ll get in a cab and get right back.”
She bit her lip, pouting. You’re right? Was that all he had to say? I don’t want it to get weird, Diana thought, but I do think he might have argued just a bit.
It wasn’t every day a man got to go to bed with a woman like her. Or was it? He was acting as if nothing special had happened.
Diana tossed her head. Well, two could play at that game.
“Good idea,” she agreed.
When the cab pulled up on West Fourth, Michael got out and held the door open for her. Diana nodded slightly; she could barely thank him. Lower Manhattan had slipped past them in complete silence. Michael seemed totally at his ease.
Diana had gazed out at the warehouses, inwardly seething. How the hell could he be so calm? Maybe things like that did happen to Cicero all the time. That was his reputation.
A horrible thought occurred to her. What if she was just another notch on the bedpost? Urgh. A lunchtime quickie, just another conquest?
What was I thinking? she asked herself. I didn’t play hard to get. I’m worse than a girl who gives it up on the first date. He didn’t even ask me on a date. And Michael is arrogant enough as it is.
It was no use pretending it had been nothing special for her. Diana turned aside from Michael, her back rigid with rejection. She blushed hotly, remembering herself leaping in his arms, gasping and crying out, scratching at him, drenched with sweat. But she couldn’t help it. The things he had done to her. The urgent, merciless thrusting of his cock, the sweet pressure of his tongue, his wandering hands.
She bit on her inner cheeks. Well, she couldn’t help the way she’d behaved then, but she could help how she behaved now.
I’m going to be the ultimate professional, Diana promised herself.
She leaned forward.
“Turn off the radio,” she snapped. “That music is driving me mad.”
The cabbie jumped to attention. Just as well, Diana thought. In this mood, nobody better mess with me.
She stepped out past Michael and marched into her office, closing the door behind her. There were a number of hot graphics designers on her Rolodex to call. She picked up the phone, determined to drive Michael Cicero and his body right out of her head.
*
“More champagne, sir?” the stewardess asked.
She was flirting shamelessly, but Felicity was lying there with a Gucci travelers’ blindfold wrapped around her eyes, and her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was asleep or pretending to be. The stewardesses could bat their eyelids as much as they liked. Ernie was pleased with her. She had thrown a terrific party for the Ities, schmoozing the old geezers like a seasoned pro, not even forgetting the wives. And she knew exactly when to turn a blind eye.
“I thought the bar closed an hour ago,” Ernie said, examining the stewardess’s breasts.
She thrust them forward a bit more. “Well yes, Mr. Foxton, that’s true as far as our regular first-class passengers go.” She dropped her voice. “For our most special guests, we always make exceptions.”
“You can get me another glass of rosé,” Ernie agreed. He didn’t really want it, but it tickled him to get what other people couldn’t. Really, the world was just his toy shop.
The Bertaloni deal would go through, and Blakely’s would have money to spare. Games and toys were big business, and he didn’t see why he should be stuck with just books. The more reach you had, the more respect you got. Airlines were just one example. They made their profits on big business, rich travelers like him who would happily pay outrageous prices for a seat that flipped down all the way. Idly, he wondered whether if he took the air hostess upstairs to the private bathroom she’d fuck him right there, or if she’d just slip him her hotel room number instead? Either way, it was too much bother. He could have Jung-Li any time he liked without having to lift a finger.
The girl was leaning over him, pouring out a thin stream of pink champagne that filled up his crystal glass, spitting and bubbling. Ernie reached out and picked up the stem in his thin fingers. Realizing she was dismissed, the woman melted away.
He sipped, allowing the chill wine to fizzle on his tongue. Once, a long time ago, champagne had been a treat luxurious beyond imagining. Back when he was a teenager, Asti Spumante was about all he could manage. Now it was routine, almost boring. Ernie had educated himself on the better houses, even memorizing a list of the superlative years. Truth was, it all tasted the same to him. But now he knew to bitch if the stuff was non-vintage, he could say he wouldn’t clean his oven with Lanson. Ernie hated being laughed at with a passion.
The plane was banking and turning over Canada, very close to New York. He’d called Jack Fineman with instructions. First, there was the press conference to announce his latest triumph. But after that, Fineman was going to update him. Apparently, there was news on Cicero, and it included a report on his ex-wife. Ernie didn’t much care what Diana did; she was out of his hair, and she was never coming back into the social scene. Felicity would see to that. Besides, Diana had no serious cash, and in America, if you didn’t have money, you weren’t worth a thing. Diana would never embarrass him anymore. He didn’t think Michael would, either.
But he wasn’t going to underestimate the little prick. Once I crush people, Ernie thought, they better stay crushed. Fineman would help him see that they did.
*
The sun dipped behind the long row of brownstones, flooding rich golden light through the trees outside their windows. Diana tidied up her papers and stacked them neatly on her desk. She had managed to bury herself in her work all day long, calling programmers, supervising the marketing division, writing out copy for the latest batch of games, and running to the water cooler whenever Michael emerged into her area. It hadn’t been as hard as she had feared. The company was blowing up, and every day her phone lines and fax machine buzzed off the hook. There was no time to think about what he’d done to her this afternoon, no time to obsess over his flat stomach, his brawny arms, the way his hands pressed and squeezed every inch of her butt. But those thoughts were returning now. As soon as the hubbub of the day died down, Diana felt her body start to betray her.
That’s OK, she told herself. I’ll get out of here right away. Maybe go down to Bliss and get a massage, or pop up to Bergdorf’s for my eyebrows. Anything to get away from him. Hurriedly she packed her papers into her briefcase and turned to leave. Michael was blocking the doorway.
“Can I help you with something?” Diana asked. She was rather proud of herself. She sounded brisk and impersonally friendly. Why let him know he had upset her equilibrium?
“Yes, you can.”
“Of course. Just a second, I’ll boot the computer up again.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He smiled at her confidently. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Well, I’m—I’m—”
Diana stammered and cursed herself. Why couldn’t she think of something? Her mind had gone blank.
“Would you like to have dinner? I know a great place on Bleecker Street,” he said. Diana blushed.
“Look, Michael. I think you should know that I don’t normally do this kind of thing.” T
he instant she said it she felt more awkward than ever. I don’t normally do this kind of thing. I’m not that kind of girl. How many women had said that after panting in his arms?
His brows lifted. “You don’t normally eat dinner? You should. You’ve been looking a little skinny lately.”
“You know what I mean. I think we should lay down some ground rules.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you do.” He gave her a wink. A wink! “We’ll do that, OK? At dinner.”
“I can’t.” Be firm, Diana told herself. “I need to go home and have a shower and change. I’m so sticky.”
“Mmm, I know you are,” Michael said, his gaze lingering on her skin. “So I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Diana flushed scarlet. “I don’t know … I think…”
“You think too much,” he said, and walked out.
TWENTY-NINE
“Michael, I have a suggestion to make,” Diana said.
She brushed her long, dark hair behind her shoulders and regarded him over the edge of her bone-china cup of English tea. Since they’d started dating, Diana had felt confident enough to go back to her natural color. At first it was a shock, sitting in Oribe’s gilt decorated salon, and watching the bright platinum soften and cool through red right down to a rich chestnut.
“You hate eet, no?” her colorist asked, dismayed.
“No.” Diana could hardly take her eyes from her reflection. “It’s natural, it suits my skin. I look five years younger.”
“Well, eef you are happy.” The woman sniffed. In her opinion everybody should be blond. But Mrs. Foxton had refused to be swayed. Didn’t she read the gossip columns? Conchita wasn’t discreet, but even she shrank from pointing out that Felicity Metson, the new lady in Ernest Foxton’s life, was standard-issue New York: younger, blonder and skinnier than Diana. Maybe she was depressed, now that the divorce was finalized, and Felicity was flashing that six-carat rock in front of whatever camera happened to be pointed her way.
But that would not explain why, whenever her client came in for a treatment, she was glowing, her skin shining, her eyes bright. Whatever Diana had in the way of beauty treatments, they must be very expensive, Conchita mused, wondering about the size of the settlement.
If Conchita could have seen Diana’s beauty secret, sitting across from her in the cramped bistro, she would have been amazed.
Michael Cicero was gulping coffee and drinking in Diana at the same time. Even though she was with him every night and he reached for her in the morning, he couldn’t get enough of her. It was like trying to hold a bubble in a cage; he put up the bars of his expectations and she floated past them.
They were having breakfast together outside his apartment. He wore a black suit, tailor-made for him by Gieves & Hawkes in England. Since Imperial’s games had started selling, he could afford it. Cicero detested luxury for its own sake, but he liked looking professional. Think Sicilian, dress British. His shirts, shoes and suits were always pristine. A discreet pair of plain gold cuff links glinted in the morning light.
Michael never thought about his appearance, except to require that it be smart. Maybe that was one of the reasons he looked so damn good.
Diana was another matter altogether, though, and it worried him. As Imperial expanded, so had her job. She was his right-hand woman and he paid her commensurately.
Looking at her, he sometimes thought every cent must go on clothes.
Michael was no fashion guru, but he knew about cost. And Diana’s things cost plenty. Almost every day, as though to make up for months of relative poverty, she showed up at work in a brand-new outfit. Chanel suits. Prada handbags. Manolo Blahnik shoes. Maybe it was important for all the meetings he sent her to, as Imperial’s public face.
But Cicero didn’t know. There was still that touch of the pampered princess about Diana. Still, she worked hard, and it was her own money.
Was that why they fought so much? He was doing good, but not that good. Michael regarded Diana. Was she going to turn around and ask him to keep her in the style to which Ernie had gotten her accustomed?
The odd nice suit did not a mogul make. Michael recalled Iris. When his bonus went out the door, so did she. He hated gold-diggers with a passion.
But he could not hate Diana. She just wouldn’t let him. All his fighting to stay neutral and not hit on her, what had it meant? Just about nothing, when he thought he was faced with a lover of hers.
Michael’s groin had refused to be silenced that day.
And it was a good thing. If he hadn’t kissed her and taken her home, he might never have known what it felt like to really master a woman; not just an easy lay, the latest of the long string of girls he didn’t know, or girls he quite liked, some woman he had selected from all the girls flinging themselves at him because he needed a piece of ass. Diana, he had dreamed of. Thought about. Been distracted by.
She fascinated him. And he admired the way she had adapted to working for a living.
But, Cicero told himself, it was nothing more than that.
How could he fall for an uptown girl like Diana? She sat opposite him, in a delicate pink shift dress worked with tiny yellow daisies embroidered over the hem, a sharp matching jacket that cut under her full breasts and made the whole thing just about work-friendly. He had no idea who the designer was. Some logo was emblazoned over the tiny buttons. D&G, Dolce & Gabbana. It was another outfit that looked sensational and must have cost … well, best not to guess about that.
He reminded himself she had never asked him for anything. But was that because she thought of him as her boss, rather than her boyfriend?
Their relationship had never been defined. They worked together and fucked like rabbits. Every time he promised himself he would scale it down, his resolve evaporated when he touched her, or saw her, or spoke to her. Maybe she’d be screaming at some delivery company that was late with a package, and Cicero would suddenly look at her mouth and imagine it sliding over his skin. Or maybe she would be bending over her desk, studying cover copy, and that glorious ass would be sticking out in his face, round and firm, flaring out from her tiny waist. The effect was the same. His heart started to race, his groin stirred, he looked at her and had to have her. Sure, he liked Diana and she liked him, but they were too different. They were just friends who had sex.
Michael told himself this daily.
“I’m listening to any suggestions you have,” he said easily. “I always do. You’re pretty bright, for a foreigner.”
Diana raised one neatly plucked brow. “That’s a laugh. In England, you need a satchel and a lunch box to go to school. In America they issue bullet-proof vests at the door.”
“I know you’re big on gun control, but that’s not the Constitution. Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t drag me out here to have a political discussion,” he said, dryly.
“No.” She looked down and blushed, and he remembered the flushing of her skin under him this morning, the red patches over her breasts, the long red lines where he had slowly raked his nails across her belly. Diana writhed and gasped more than any other woman he had ever known. They were hot together. Yet when she left his bed, she was more reserved than ever.
She’s fascinating. She’s infuriating.
“I wanted to suggest that we should be careful. We leave the office together too often. We shouldn’t arrive in the same car.”
Michael swallowed a sip of the black, thick espresso and masked his disquiet. Diana didn’t want to be seen with him.
“You think people will talk?”
“Yes, I think so,” she said, nodding. Her brown hair—he had told her he wanted her to go natural—suited those sharp cheekbones, those full, pouting lips. Her creamy skin looked warmer, her eyes sparkled. “It’s not businesslike. You don’t want people thinking you gave me my job just because…”
She let the sentence hang in the air.
“Just because we sleep together,” Michael said. “That’s a good idea.”
Diana sm
iled at him and lifted her glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. She had to draw on all her reserves with Michael to keep from losing her soul. She admired him, and she wanted him and sometimes, when she looked across at him while he was sleeping, she caught herself having deeper feelings. But she ignored them, because he didn’t let her get to him.
Diana had been rejected once before. She wasn’t going to take any chances now. Michael refused to open up to her. She wanted to end it, but she couldn’t. He aroused her like she had never known.
Sex was no longer frustrating and enervating. This time, when she was turned on, she was satisfied. If that was the word for it … squirming and whimpering, clutching at Michael as he pounded into her, the thickness of his cock driving all caution away. It was hard to make barriers when she kept remembering the way his thumbs rubbed gently back and forth across her nipples, his palms slipped down to cradle her ass and caress her pussy, softly, until she was twisting in his hands, begging him to fuck her again. And Michael Cicero was not a pretty boy. With the shirt and suit off, the bull-like chest was fully revealed, the thickness of his biceps, the dark, wiry hair that covered his chest and his arms. The face that stared down at her, kissing her hard as his hands pinned her arms over her head, teasing her, keeping her motionless, was a man’s face, broken-nosed, dark-eyed, thick black lashes, close-cropped black hair. Ernie’s skinny frame seemed even more unattractive and … Diana flinched in distaste at the thought of his cock.
Maybe it was true that size didn’t matter … but she didn’t think so.
It wasn’t about length, it was about thickness. How long Michael was she really didn’t know … about average, maybe. What had her biting her lips to stop from crying out was the solid thickness of him, that stubby, wide, sweet plunging, relentless flesh that was so merciless in seeking out her pleasure. Cicero was a master. Outside the bedroom, Diana thought she could handle him, but inside the bedroom, his word was law. Michael wasn’t a sensitive lover. He didn’t go for poetry and long candlelit, soul-baring dinners. They rarely got to dessert before his hand was rising up her knee and he was shoving her into a cab, touching her breast under her jacket, firing her blood and making her breath come out in ragged gasps. He pinned her down across the bed, a table, his knees. He held her locked in place with his body, one hand holding down both her arms with utter ease as the other roamed across her body, tormenting her. And when he finally agreed to fuck her, Michael knew how to pace it, driving her, forcing her up to the brink, tilting her body so his cock pressed against that soft, melting spot on her inner walls that forced her to yield, the pleasure exploding inside her like a firework, a white-hot, blinding shower of stars.
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