by Caro LaFever
The ache turned inside her.
She pasted her best grin on her face, glanced around for another likely customer, looked across the street—
To meet the gunmetal glare of an angry Italian.
* * *
The relief he felt when he spotted her was way out of proportion to the importance the sprite held in his life.
Minimal.
Which was why the amount of relief surging through his veins was unacceptable in every way. He’d been successful these past three days at driving her from his mind completely.
Naturally. If he put his mind to anything, he accomplished it.
The stark reality, one he found hard to accept, was he was no longer able to handle the temptation of being with her for any length of time. He knew himself well enough to know he was very close to losing the bet between them. Very close to taking what he wanted and everything else be damned.
The degree of lust for her irritated him.
Yet he couldn’t deny its existence.
So he’d sat in his office and spent his time on what was important. He’d stayed away from the lure of her. It was necessary. He’d realized it as they’d walked down the streets of SoHo. Realized his interest in her was swiftly morphing into more than sex.
The shock he’d felt had been exactly the antidote to her draw he’d needed.
When he’d entered his London office and given it some clear thought, he’d been revolted by his actions. Canceling important business meetings to address a woman’s yearning sigh? Utterly, absolutely unacceptable.
The last three days had cemented his determination.
Sex. That’s all he wanted from Darcy Moran.
Sex.
Today, like any other day, he’d been at his office before six a.m. and worked his way through a hundred emails as he drank his morning coffee. But some sixth sense had nagged at him. At first, he’d dismissed it as merely the lingering desire to be with her. A desire he’d successfully squashed during the last few days. Somehow, though, before he had fully come to grips with his instincts, he’d found himself pacing into his penthouse.
His empty penthouse.
The fear had flashed like a gigantic lightning bolt through him as he’d stared at her empty bedroom. His hand had actually shook—shook—as he called his security. Anger had quickly followed after he’d heard their report. The fury washed any hankering to be with her right out of his system. In its place rose his recollection of what role the sprite really held in his life.
She was nothing but a pretend mistress. Nothing but a potential pitfall to an important business deal. His only duty was to keep her contained, not make her happy or gaze at her across a breakfast table or lust after her every minute he breathed.
She was nowhere near his brother.
This was what was important.
She hadn’t been kidnapped or stolen. He’d been absurd to even entertain the thought.
His security team had done their job, albeit not in the way he’d expected. However, they had tracked her, had known where she was when he’d called from the empty penthouse, irate.
They had assured him it wouldn’t happen again.
Now the only thing he needed to do was lay down the law one more time to her. One more time for the thousandth time. Then continue to stay away from her for his own sanity until she gave up her silly notion that sex wasn’t in their immediate future.
Marcus hoped his glare was boring into her thick head and making a clear statement without him having to say a word. But it appeared from her behavior when she saw him he was in for a disappointment.
She stilled for a moment, then shot him a cheeky grin. Twirling around, she spotted another in a long line of suckers, and within seconds, gained a new customer.
He marched across the street, stepped onto the sidewalk, and came to a stop.
Caricatures? She did caricatures? And she called herself an artist?
He smirked. How cute.
He’d attended enough gallery openings for business reasons to know true art when he saw it. He’d even made some judicious purchases for investment purposes. His brother’s avid interest in sculpture and determination to make it his career had been a curious choice, yet at least it had kept the kid out of trouble. He’d been perfectly happy to hand over the necessary funds to keep Matteo comfortable and content in London’s finest art school. Merda, he’d even funded a scholarship for a needy student at his brother’s urging.
In this instance, the money hadn’t been the issue.
The important fact was he’d figured the young fool would be close at hand and easy to keep an eye on. Rather than roaming the streets of Rome, picking up girls, and getting into trouble, his brother was under his control. There was also the added benefit of not having to take his mother’s calls on a daily basis. The endless screeching and wailing about the latest Matteo disaster had given him a never-ending headache.
For four years, the whole deal had gone well. Matteo had behaved. His mother had spent her time shopping rather than screeching. And he’d been left alone to make more deals and more money.
“Aren’t you darling,” the sprite cooed at her young male customer, who promptly blushed at her words.
His smirk grew. Did she think he was going to go all jealous on her because of this young sprig she was drawing? Did she think if she kept ignoring his presence, he’d slink away?
Not a chance.
He could bide his time for now. Eventually, he’d have her complete attention.
After he got that, he’d have her complete obedience.
He eyed the long sidewalk filled with various artwork, some downright awful, some with potential. The crowd was relaxed and playful. Kids ran by hanging onto balloons. A group of young girls giggled and batted their eyes at him as they passed. A fishmonger’s loud voice called out his list of delicacies including oysters and crab.
The sprite cooed another of her absurd compliments.
Marcus strolled across to a line of paintings propped behind her. In the background, he heard her soft, lilting voice become higher, louder. The sprig bantered back with teenage enthusiasm.
Ignoring both of them, he eyed the oil before him. A sturdy stone cottage nestled itself on a rolling hill. The glow of candlelight sprinkled gold on the waving leaves of an old oak tree. With a bit of a shock, he realized it was good. The technique was excellent, the color choices highlighting the sense of homeyness. He could almost feel the warmth of the light, the wisp of the wind.
Something twitched inside him.
He stepped to the next oil. Immediately he knew it was the same artist. Something about the use of color told him. The painting showed two children running down an alley. One of them, a tiny girl with a shock of long, black hair, was staring over her shoulder with fear.
Marcus stared at the night-blue eyes in the picture.
Filled with fear.
The similarity was striking. The memory of another pair of eyes shining with fear struck him right in the chest, along with the immediate recognition of who the artist had to be.
He jerked around and stared at the nymph.
The same night-blue eyes peered back at him from beneath her long, black eyelashes, wariness lacing this stare.
Why was she hiding her talent in this long row of wannabes? Why hadn’t she damn well insisted his stupid brother include her in last year’s big gallery showing? Rocca Enterprises had funded the entire event, with the proviso that some new artists would be included in the display. He’d let Matteo choose who would be included along with himself. His brother had been ecstatic.
Why the hell hadn’t he included his very talented lover’s paintings?
The young male sprig left with one last longing gaze at Darcy. Marcus stared at his lanky figure as he strolled away, the prized caricature in hand. Her protection had disappeared at exactly the right moment.
Pacing to the chair opposite her, he sat. “Draw me.”
The wariness in the blue
depths started to sparkle. A fake frown appeared on her delicate brow. “I don’t think you’ll like the results.”
“Try me.”
She waggled her pen at him and then whisked it across the broad paper before her. Silence descended between them, the only noise coming from the crowd of people surrounding them. Marcus watched her face as she drew. Watched her focus narrow. Watched her front teeth worry her lower lip as she concentrated.
His blood thickened.
He’d missed her these last few days. It wasn’t something he wanted to admit, but a man had to be honest with himself, if no one else. He’d missed her high spirits, her teasing. The dancing eyes when she glanced at him and threw him a joke. The way she scrunched her brow when she questioned his sanity. The pointed chin she’d give him as she lashed at his ego.
The soft smile when she’d dressed up for his pleasure.
The soft skin against his when he held her sleeping body.
The soft laugh when she’d won the business deal for him in New York.
He scowled.
Darcy arched her brows. “Is that the look you want me to draw?”
“What?”
“If so,” she responded. “I don’t need you to pose. I know that look by heart.”
“What are you talking about?” Exasperation crackled in his voice.
“The dark frown.” She mimicked her words, her brows lowering.
He glared at her, lust and frustration and confusion churning inside him.
“The forbidding look that’s supposed to freeze me in my tracks,” she continued.
“Clearly I have not yet been successful in the freezing process.” Irony wove through his tone as he forced himself to stay irritated in the face of her teasing. “If I had, you’d be safely frozen in the place you are supposed to be.”
“Safely?” Her eyes misted with…wistfulness?
“In the penthouse.”
She cocked her head, the mist clearing from her eyes. “Why do you never say it’s your home?”
The lust and frustration churning inside him froze. The sudden memory of warm Italian sun and flowing Italian wine and a strong Italian hug threatened to melt him deep inside. He shrugged aside her question and the memories. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m starting to figure that out all on my own.” Her stare felt like it was piercing his skin, his blood. Felt like a laser slicing straight to the center of him.
No one was ever allowed into the center of him. Never.
“Those are your paintings.” His wave towards the pictures was dismissive. His words an accusation. He knew it and couldn’t control it. Striking back was what he did when attacked. Her observation had been an attack he’d felt deep inside.
She mimicked his shrug with a nonchalant one of her own. “So?”
Yet he knew he’d penetrated her center. Knew his words and actions had sliced into her.
An ugly howl erupted in his gut. The fact that no sound came from his mouth didn’t lessen the strength of the cry. Confusion swelled in his non-existent heart. It choked his throat and tugged at the damn unnamable thing deep inside him only she seemed to be able to twist.
“I’m done.” Her smile was fake, but he gave her credit for attempting to shift the conversation away from this cesspool swirling between them.
He lifted a brow in response and felt his usual control over his memories and emotions returning. “I won’t pay if I don’t like it.”
Her pout was a classic. Plump and wet. Her lips set off the wild in him. “I warned you before I started. Therefore, you owe me the standard fee no matter what you think of it.”
“Show me.”
Totally unintimidated at his tone, she gave him a knowing smirk as she twirled the caricature around for his review.
Horns. Forked tongue. On what was a extremely good likeness of his face.
But no clichéd pitchfork in his hand.
Instead, there was an exaggerated drawing of his phone clutched in his hand.
* * *
Marcus La Rocca was completely and utterly gorgeous when he laughed. The sunlight lit his olive skin with a golden shine. His white teeth flashed bright. The sound he made was deep, masculine, joyful. The man should laugh constantly. He would end world strife, create peace and harmony between all.
And bring every woman to heel.
Including her.
Darcy sighed and leaned on the warm leather seat of his limo. Today had been as wonderful a day as the SoHo day. She’d tried to fight it, tried not to get sucked into the fantasy.
Yet he’d got to her. Precisely like before.
The laugh at her caricature of him had turned her insides to mush. The surprise she’d felt when he hadn’t demanded her immediate removal to his penthouse? It had been nothing compared to her sheer disbelief when he’d lounged around for hours with Al and several other of her artist buddies, talking football. Her disbelief had grown as he’d stayed the entire day, bringing her fish and chips for lunch, chatting with her potential customers. Good grief, even persuading several of them to buy her oils.
What was a girl to do in the face of this rampant appeal?
The coup de grace happened, though, at the end of the day. He’d told his security to pack her remaining art and transport it to his penthouse, where she was to have a room of her own to paint. With one wave of a bold hand, he’d commanded the head of his security to attend to the details. One of the cold, lifeless bedrooms was to be turned into whatever she desired and needed.
What was a girl to do?
The leaden feeling of disillusionment and disappointment she’d felt during the last few days had slowly but surely turned back into the bright, happy feeling she’d felt as she strolled SoHo. It had whispered inside her as she saw him laugh at something Al said. Brightness wiggled through her heart as she noticed the lines of stress disappear around his eyes. Happiness had shouted out loud when he’d given her a gift she’d never, ever had.
A place of her own. For her art. The one true love of her life.
Maybe not the only love you now have?
The thought had shot through her and brought her up short.
No. No. No.
For the last few minutes, she’d waged a determined, frightened fight against the thought, the feelings, the happiness. Yet all of the emotions continued to bubble inside her. Peering at him, she watched as he fingered his mobile. Went through his emails, answered his texts, and frowned once more. Allowed tension to overtake him once again.
Why? Why did he do this to himself? He must have more money than almost every person in the world. Why didn’t he spend his time laughing, enjoying life? Loving…
Her.
The beat of her heart blasted inside her chest. Useless, she told her heart. It would never happen. She wasn’t up to the fight to save him. She couldn’t imagine ever really, really breaking through his tough hide to the man she’d only glimpsed a couple of times.
The fighting spirit inside her rebelled.
Someone had to save him from himself. Someone had to show him his work was nothing compared to what he could have. Someone had to give him the gift of living life to the fullest.
“What are you thinking?” His low voice was taut with frustration.
She glanced across the seat to meet stormy eyes. What was his problem now? Other than she’d made her escape earlier today. Something he’d alluded to, but seemed to have put behind him.
“Not much.” She certainly wasn’t going to pour out her dilemma to him. The cause of it all.
He muttered an Italian oath under his breath and turned back to his trusty phone, frowning at a message. The lines encircling his lips turned white.
She couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand to see him this way.
Slipping across the seat, she placed a hand on his cheek. Turned his mouth to hers and kissed him.
His big body stiffened. His lips went slack beneath hers. She felt the slip of his breath hissin
g deep in his throat.
Then he changed. In a split second.
His body burned with hot passion along her side. His mouth firmed and took control. His arms surrounded her in a tight, hard grasp. The taste of him filled her as his tongue lanced inside her, pushing into her deeply, sliding along her own tongue and sipping her soul.
Masculine power, male need, potent virility.
“Ti voglio,” he murmured, his lips hovering over hers.
Her arms were around his neck now, her breasts plastered against his chest. With one strong tug from him, she found herself straddling his legs. The heat of him surrounded and enveloped her. The pulse of his passion pounded through her blood. There was no fear, no instinctive need to draw away, to pull away from his touch.
Only him. The smoky light in his eyes, the gentle curl of his hair twining through her fingers, the warmth of his body beneath hers.
“Ti ho volute dal primo momento che ti vedi.” He slurred each word, the richness of his accent making the phrase an ode to seduction.
“What?”
The grey of his eyes turned darker. “I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”
“Me too,” she managed before his mouth took hers once more and she fell headfirst into the lust he always inspired in her.
His big hands slid under her jumper, onto her hot skin. A low, hoarse sound came from him as he touched her, slipping his fingers across her belly and then higher. Higher. She gasped as he reached her sensitive breasts, her tight nipples.
“No bra,” he groaned. “Do you wish to drive every man insane?”
“Only you, Marcus. Only you.” She kissed the side of his cheek, her hands smoothing across his broad shoulders.
He stared at her. “Call me Marc.”
This was important. She didn’t know why. But she knew. “Marc.”
The limo jarred to a stop.
Jerking away, she stared into his face. A wicked smile turned him into the devil incarnate. “Should I tell the driver to keep going, carita? Or would you prefer to take this upstairs where we can be more comfortable?”
A blush of embarrassment heated her cheeks. She scrambled off his lap and onto the seat beside him.