by Caro LaFever
Sei bella.
His erection pressed along the zipper of his pants, pulsing and pounding. Exactly as his blood did.
Si, so beautiful.
With grim determination, he stared at his phone. He would not allow her this control over his thoughts. The strength of his response to her mere memory was not acceptable. He clamped down on both the irritation and his libido.
The only problem with the woman who waited for him at the Plaza was he needed to bed her. This was the only small hold she had on him, the only fascination he carried for her. That was all. This was easily taken care of. She would capitulate soon. He’d seen it in her eyes this morning. She wanted him. It would have been so easy to sweep her off her feet, into the bed. However, he had his pride.
He could wait.
Wait for her first touch. Prove his point and win once more.
The limo eased to a stop at the hotel stairs.
As he strode through the lobby and into the elevator, he prepared himself. Set his shoulders straight, slipped his tie into place, buttoned his suit coat. Arranged his expression into one of forbidding resolve.
He opened the door expecting an immediate battle cry.
No one met his entrance with words or missiles. He shut the door behind him with a thump. Glancing around, waiting for an attack, he found himself standing in the middle of the living room.
She was upstairs. He could hear her humming.
Humming?
Pacing to the crystal decanter of brandy he’d ordered last night, he poured himself a shot. He swirled the liquor in the glass, watching as it sloshed against the side.
She was happy? She wasn’t meeting him at the door with an ax?
The husky, low voice above continued to hum. The sound slid across his skin and soaked into his soul. He threw his head back and swallowed the shot in one gulp.
This was only another version of her game. He could play along.
“You’re here.” She was using the husk in her voice again for good effect.
Turning, he looked to the stairs.
Despite his determined conclusions he’d made in the limo, his breath caught in his throat. His blood turned to heated oil. His cock hardened into a hot thrust of lust.
The ruby-red dress wrapped around her body like a caress, highlighting her pocket Venus figure to perfection. A tight sash emphasized her tiny waist, the round curve of her hips. Her breasts were pushed high, displaying a surprisingly impressive cleavage to his ravenous inspection.
“You fancy?” Her eyes danced as she spread her arms wide, showing herself off.
The makeup had been expertly applied. He’d known it would be well done. What he hadn’t realized, hadn’t been prepared for, was how it deepened her eyes into mysterious pools of deep-night blue. How the bright-red color on her lips highlighted the plump appeal.
She smiled.
It hit him. A womanly weapon that nearly brought him to his knees. The smile lit her face with vivacity, filled her eyes with excitement.
A giggle escaped her. “I think you like it.”
A cold wash of alarm jerked him from her power. He turned his back on her, poured another shot of brandy and drank it down. “You’ll do.”
A tense silence fell between them.
“That's good,” she finally said, her tone cool. “I would hate to think the money you’ve spent would leave you disappointed.”
He heard the click of her heels as she descended. He continued to stare at his empty glass.
“Are you changing before we go?” There wasn’t any inflection in her voice to tell him what she was thinking and feeling.
“Si.” Without looking her way, he paced to the stairs.
“I hope you’ll take some care with your clothes.”
He stopped at her words.
“I wouldn’t want to be disappointed either.”
Allowing himself to glance at her, he ignored the desire lacing through his body. “Carita, since I have never given you any expectations, how could you possibly be disappointed?”
The blast of her fuming scowl heated his neck as he ascended the steps. The resumption of their battle felt good, felt safe. What did it matter if he also felt irritated once again?
And also deprived.
* * *
Who was that woman?
Darcy peered around one of several tuxedoed men surrounding her. The men she’d charmed and corralled as soon as she’d arrived at the charity ball.
To be left to her own devices.
For all the talk about being seen together, Marcus La Rocca had promptly dropped her like a stone when they’d entered the lavish ballroom. He’d disappeared into the large crowd, leaving her standing alone. A million miles away from anyone she knew. A thousand miles away from anything familiar. In the middle of a seething mass of elegantly dressed, rich people. The type of people she knew nothing about.
Driving to the ball, she’d worried and fretted over the paparazzi they were sure to encounter entering. Profound relief had swept through her when the limo had dropped them off in the underground parking lot.
But the relief had disappeared along with La Rocca. A different kind of fear had attacked, trickling down the back of her throat, making it hard to breathe. How could she cope in this strange environment, with these polished, fashionable people?
Then, like always, the fighter in her appeared to save the day.
Grabbing a glass of champagne, she’d stuck out her chin and jumped right into the crowd. Within minutes, she’d flirted and charmed and laughed and teased with everyone surrounding her. She’d become the life of the party. It was inevitable. Did her blackmailer think she’d turn into some kind of wallflower, pitifully waiting for him to come to her side? He was in for a shock if that was the case.
She watched as the woman slid a hand down his arm. The Great Man looked at the hand and then straight into the woman’s eyes.
Something clutched at Darcy’s gut. Jerking her attention away from the interplay, she focused on the men before her. Who all smiled back when she smiled and flirted with her when she flirted. Who appreciated how beautiful she was. Much to her satisfaction, they were all charmed and with infinite ease she’d wrapped them right around her pinky finger within minutes.
Unlike La Rocca.
You’ll do.
The words stung and burned, even hours later.
Darn it. The words hurt.
Which made her mad at herself. Why the bloody hell should she care what he thought of her? Clearly, her new façade was a brilliant hit with every other man she’d encountered at this charity ball. The makeup, the haircut, the lotions and potions had done their job. She’d rather enjoyed it if she had to confess. Surprise, surprise. The gown—the beautiful dress she’d fallen in love with as soon as she’d slipped it on—well, it was also perfect by the amount of attention she was receiving. She fit right into this crowd of the rich and famous. Like a duck to water.
Who cared if one man didn’t think much of her?
She couldn’t help herself. She glanced across the room once more. The woman kept pawing him. He was letting her. Darcy eyed the woman, noting the lush figure, the long, blonde hair, the height. A high-fashion model, maybe. Or a past lover? Or perhaps both.
Something ugly twisted inside her.
She scanned his face. No dimples. No grins. He looked the same as when he was stressed about some business email or text. Still, she would lay odds on the fact this wasn’t a business deal being negotiated between the couple.
But there was something important happening. Of that she was sure.
Darcy Moran knew her body language. It had been a matter of survival when she’d been a kid. One peek at her mum’s face and she’d known when to hide. One peek at her pop’s and she’d known when to run. Being an artist had only sharpened those skills. There was something going on over there. Something odd. It was almost as though she could feel the tension in his body.
Glancing back at her gaggle of
men, she threw them a tease and laugh, got them chuckling, and then swung her focus back at the couple across the room.
She knew. Knew the tension streaming through him. It had only been forty-eight hours since they met and yet she sensed the taut tension radiating from his body. The woman touched him again, and he finally smiled. But it wasn’t the smile she’d seen this morning when he’d been in bed showing off his gloriousness. She’d swear his eyes weren’t sparkling.
The smile was cold and icy.
The woman dropped her hand and with a flip of her hair, walked away.
Silver flashed as he glanced over and met Darcy’s gaze. His frozen smile slipped from his face, replaced by a dark frown.
Whipping her head around, she laughed at one of the men’s jokes. She made sure her eyes glowed, made sure her grin encompassed everyone surrounding her. If she couldn’t manage to bring Marcus La Rocca to his knees before her, she would darn well get every other man at this party to do the deed. At least this would be something to crow about with the Great Man. There was no way she’d give him the idea she cared one iota about what he was doing or who he allowed to touch him.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” His words silenced the chatter. “I’m afraid I must take away your entertainment.”
Her temper simmered. She wasn’t mere entertainment. She was the life of the party. “I’m enjoying myself.”
“I can see that.” His voice was mild, but his eyes crackled with sharp lightning. “However, something has come up and we must go.”
She gave him a chilly smile. “You go. I’ll stay.”
“Impossible.” He returned her smile with an icy one of his own. Was it her imagination or did every one of her ardent admirers take a step back? “I couldn’t leave you here alone.”
“Really?” She arched a brow in disbelief. “Yet this is exactly what you did when we got here, Marcus.”
His big body stiffened. She realized it was the first time she’d ever said his first name. Was this the reason for the sudden electricity sparking between them? But no. One glimpse into his eyes and she knew it was something else entirely. Why the hell would she think he’d be sentimental about something so little as his name tripping off her tongue?
Instead, it was clear; he was incensed at her rebellion.
She was baiting quite a formidable foe. Still, he deserved it. He’d belittled her and deserted her. Now he thought he could claim her like some baggage yet again? Unwanted for a time, but now claimed as his?
“Darcy,” he murmured, his tone dripping with displeasure. “You are a constant challenge.”
Her faithful fans faded from her side like smoke.
“Mmm.” He surveyed the area. “It appears your party is over.”
She found her arm held in an inflexible grip. “Hands off, bloke.”
“Not for the next month.”
His long legs started moving and it was all she could do to keep up with his pace. The crowd parted: eyes watching, tongues wagging, fingers pointing. She was literally being frog-marched out of the ball. “This is complete bollocks.”
“True.” He tugged her arm beneath his. “I can’t remember the last time I dragged a woman from a room.”
“We just got here.” Embarrassment warred with irritation. “They haven’t even served dinner.”
“Never fear.” He glanced at her and abruptly, astonishingly, the dimples emerged. “I’ll make sure you are fed.”
“That isn’t the point.” She would not let this surly man off the hook because of some dimples. She would not. As he pulled her across the foyer towards the front doors, a doorman hurriedly produced their coats. “I thought the point was to be seen together.”
“Correct.” He slid his arms into his black Armani jacket. “We will take care of that right now.”
Through the door they went. Right into a sea of flashing lights and a chorus of yells.
The fear clutched in her throat and fisted shut any remaining words she had. The flashbulbs bloomed in her face, and she had a sudden image of her picture being carefully cut from a tabloid. Taped to a wall. Gloated over and obsessed over. Ugly, slimy memories rose like haunting wraiths swirling around her, grasping and gouging and gripping her in their talons.
“No!” The cry came from her heart; a spiked scream of fear.
Marcus jerked his head around to stare at her. What he saw caused his dark, satanic brows to tighten into a fierce frown. With a sharp tug, he wrapped her in one hard arm and picked up his pace. Striding through the crowd, he ignored the catcalls, the questions. Even though she now lay sheltered in his grasp, she was unable to push the ghosts of her past away.
He would see the pictures.
He would find her.
He would kidnap her.
It seemed like hours to her, yet it must have been only seconds before they were safely ensconced inside the limo. The car pulled away from the curb and the press and the photographs, leaving her limp with exhaustion.
“What’s wrong?” He inspected her with sharp eyes. “You have gone completely white.”
“Nothing.”
His dark brows rose. “You appear as if you’re about to faint and I am supposed to believe it is nothing? Don’t take me for a fool, carita.”
“I don’t like my picture being taken. That’s all.” She slumped into the warm leather seat, pulling at the lapels of her new faux fur coat to conceal her face from his scrutiny.
“That’s the whole point of this outing.” He pulled the omnipresent mobile phone from his pocket, then slipped his finger across its screen. “To be seen together.”
“I d-don’t see why there have to be so many pictures.”
“The more pictures, the more chance my brother will see one and get the message.”
“Your brother isn’t going to care about us being together.” Frustration at his stubbornness chipped a bit of her fear away. “Other than knowing both of us and being rather curious as to how we got together.”
He jerked his head up and pinned her with his glare. “The love of your life not care?” he mocked. “You have such little hold on him?”
“He is not the love of my life,” she gritted.
“But you confessed a towering love for him when we first met.” He continued to glare at her, silver swords flashing. Did the memory bother him? Is this why she glimpsed fierce anger in his gaze? “You begged me to release him into your arms.”
“I did not beg.”
“Close enough.” He returned his attention to his emails.
“You misunderstood what I was saying.”
“I misunderstood nothing.” His fingers moved over his phone. “Don’t try and convince me I can let you go and you will behave with Matteo. It is an exercise in futility.”
Silence descended. Darcy curled her hand on the fake fur, taking slight comfort in the rich feel of the coat. The comfort, however, wasn’t enough to banish the old fear chugging through her veins. The realization hit her; the longer she hung with the Great La Rocca, the more and more exposure she was going to get in the press. More press exposure = more chance she’d be found.
Bloody hell. For a smart girl, she’d behaved rather stupidly, hadn’t she?
It was imperative to get away. Now. What could she say to penetrate this man’s thick, arrogant hide? Which words could she use to convince him this was a stupid waste of his time and hers?
“Stop trying to figure a way around me,” he grumbled from across the seat. “I can see your scheming and conniving from ten meters away.”
Some woman had really, really done a job on this man. And she was unjustly reaping the rewards.
“You might be able to dazzle those men back at the ball into falling at your feet,” he continued. “However, I am a different kind of man.”
A sharp thrill spiked in her. He’d noticed the attention her charm had elicited. The realization gave a small stroke to her ego.
Then his last words penetrated her brain.
The thril
l tightened her fear into outright panic. Not only did she have to get away from him because of the press, but he had just slapped another realization right in front of her.
He was a different kind of man for her. This close proximity to him—to his big body, his bold stare, his potent masculinity—was casting a lure around her. His allure drained her of her spunk, garbled her thinking. If she was always with him for this coming month, she was very afraid she might do the unthinkable: let go of her pride and fall into his arms.
He would win the war between them. Then, when he walked away, she would be left alone to fight her demon once more.
Safe?
A hysterical laugh burbled in her throat.
Being with this man wasn’t safe. Being with him was the most unsafe she’d ever been since she’d been seventeen.
A deep sigh came from him. “It is such a waste of time, carita.”
She peered at him. His attention was back on her. A quirk of a smile graced his mouth. The silver now glowed in his eyes. His big body leaned back in casual elegance on the fine leather.
“It is a waste of time,” she agreed, hoping he’d finally listen. “You’re holding me against my will for no reason whatsoever.”
“Against your will? For no reason?” A disparaging sound slid across the seat. “You made a choice to be here. And you and I both know there’s a very good reason.”
Turning from his cynical stare, she stared at the back of the driver’s head. What was the use of arguing with him anymore? The stubborn arrogance he exuded shielded him from any doubts or second thoughts.
A deep dread settled down on her.
“Let us agree it would be best if you stopped your endless womanly machinations and instead took the only reasonable avenue before you.”
“Womanly machinations?” His accusation stung and frustration and fear turned to outright fury. What was the difference between his bullying and her attempt to stand her ground? She was merely protecting herself by using the skills she’d acquired the hard way. Her temper spiked through the last of the lingering nightmare. “Reasonable avenue?”