Mistress By Blackmail: International Billionaires I: The Italians
Page 12
This had to stop. He wasn’t going to go down this road any longer. He laid his hand on the back of her head and pressed her face against his chest. He didn’t want to look into her eyes again. It might make him babble more inane memories. “Enough of this.”
She snuffled. “Don’t you want to know why I hate my father?”
Safe territory. It didn’t matter that he’d never before allowed a lover to confess any great secrets. He hadn’t cared about their secrets, only their bodies. Yet he’d much rather have Darcy rattling on about her past than digging into his. Even more astonishing, he actually wanted to know why she hated. The sprite didn’t seem the type to hate.
“Tell me.”
“He left me.” She sighed, a tight burst of air. “After Mum died.”
“Left you?”
Leaning back, she gazed into his face. Her eyes were no longer brilliant blue, but a hazy blur as if she were seeing across the years. “When I was twelve. He claimed he couldn’t handle bringing up a brat by himself. So once Mum went, he turned me over to residential care.”
An imaginary snapshot sprung into his head. One of a little girl: black curls, blue eyes. A little elfin child alone. “Buon Dio.”
She pulled out of his arms as if she too needed space. “I survived.”
Had she? How could a child recover from such a desertion? She still claimed hatred. Obviously, she hadn’t survived the experience with no repercussions. She continued to carry it with her—the memory of being abandoned.
A dark, yawning ache blossomed inside him. One he’d ignored and pushed aside for years. The teenager standing by his papa’s bed while the priest gave last rites. The kid who’d sat numb and distant as his father’s friends had arranged for the burial. The boy who’d thought his world had come to end.
Yet his father hadn’t left him willingly. Getting cancer had not been his choice. He’d also been a teenager, not a child. “If he weren’t so sick, I’d strangle him myself.”
“My knight in shining armor?” She threw a jaunty grin over her shoulder as she walked to the couch again. “Somehow, I don’t see you in that role.”
The thing curled in his gut. “Not a knight, true. But perhaps an avenger?”
“It’s in the past.” She waved his words away as she sat. “It’s behind me.”
“Yet you hate him.”
She hunched her shoulders.
“You also give him money on a consistent basis, according to the report I read about you. A man you supposedly hate.”
She stared at the faded linoleum floor.
“How do you explain that, carita?” He needed to know how she ticked. Needed to know for what reason he could not articulate. Still, the need beat inside him, exactly as his heart did.
She pursed her lips.
Watching her keenly, he noticed as she folded her hands primly on her lap. The action told him she was trying to pull back from her confession. It told him she was trying to put distance between them. At any other time, with any other woman, he would have felt relief.
Now? Now, he felt a compulsion to rip aside her defenses and delve deep into her mind, her past. His desperate desire to know every inch of her body had somehow turned into a dogged need to know every inch of her.
The thought shocked him.
“What?” The sprite immediately sensed the change in him. She tilted her head, giving him the same keen attention he’d given her. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
A look of disbelief filled her face. Her hand smoothed down her jeans-clad leg in an absent-minded gesture.
Touching herself. Again. Disturbing him. Again.
A thought jumped into his mind, swallowing his lust whole. In its place his non-existent conscience suddenly came to life and screamed. “Why the hell did you take my deal?”
“Huh?” She frowned.
“Why would you agree to my blackmail in order to save your worthless father? A man you supposedly hate?”
“Well.” Her gaze grew dark. “He’s my dad. He’s the only family I have.”
The only family I have.
The words ricocheted inside him, hitting his gut like pieces of spiked glass. When his papa had died, he’d been devastated. Felt totally alone. Within hours, though, his mother had descended back into his life with her new husband and an unknown younger brother, Matteo. A brother who’d unwittingly filled the hole howling deep inside him.
His little brother had become his family.
During the past years, he’d forgotten. Purposefully. Forgotten the joy of being with his brother. Of celebrating life’s journey with a member of his family. He’d forced himself to do what had to be done to salvage his pride and his honor.
His phone buzzed in her pocket.
She stared at him and then slowly slipped the phone from her pocket and held it out for him to take.
The buzz came once more.
The jangle of emotions and thoughts inside him whirled. The memories collided with the purpose which had driven him from the moment of Juliana’s rejection.
Another buzz.
Her night-blue gaze burned into his soul.
He took the phone and answered it.
* * *
Her father’s eyes were blurry with medication. But for the first time in years, they were the clear, sky-blue she remembered from her childhood rather than red with liquor or drugs.
Why this comforted her, she couldn’t for the life of her say.
“Darcy,” he rumbled. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too, Pop.” She perched on his hospital bed. Sunlight sprinkled across the white sheets and downy blue coverlet. It had been five days since she’d landed in the dismal waiting room at the public hospital. Five days of constant waiting and constant hoping. All with Marc at her side.
A funny little something fluttered in her stomach. A flutter of happiness or joy or something. A feeling of being cherished. Or maybe it was because she was tired and had a stomachache after drinking so much bad coffee. For whatever reason, he had stuck around. He’d been there to advise her and console her. His phone had blasted away all the time, still, he’d never ignored her if she really needed him.
She’d come first.
The flutter erupted in the depths of her once more.
There’d been other flutters and feelings, though, hadn’t there? There’d been five days to sit and contemplate her past. Her pop. Her mum. It wasn’t in her nature to contemplate her history. She’d much rather charge into the future. Yet somehow, the lack of anything to do but wait, and the solid male presence at her side—somehow, quite a bit had come out.
As she’d sat, cuddled to Marc’s side, she’d found herself confessing about her mum’s heroin overdose. About how she’d been the one who’d taken care of her parents. She’d done the cooking and the washing and the cleaning. She’d made sure their limited funds, most of the time, had paid the bills.
He’d listened. Simply listened.
Darcy sat in the sunlight and felt the warmth of his acceptance of her past. Although he’d left her today for an important business meeting he couldn’t miss, she still felt him inside her heart.
“Pretty fancy digs.” Her father interrupted her happy meanderings.
“Yep.” She pulled herself away from her delirious dreams. Straightening his covers, she smiled. In only a short time after his operation, her pop had recovered enough to be transferred to a private clinic specializing in cardiac patients. The place was a miracle of the most advanced medical science combined with elegant surroundings.
Everything paid for by Marc.
“I know I told you I’d come to visit you soon.” Her pop rubbed his hand across his face. “But I got busy with other things. You know.”
“Yeah.” Childhood memories crowded around her. “I know.”
A strained silence fell between them.
Her father finally chuckled under his breath. “You’ve sure landed on your feet with this one,
baby.”
“What?” She narrowed her gaze at his tone. The tone she’d heard her entire life. A tone of a man on the take, a charmer seeing his next big deal.
“Come on.” He chuckled again. “Don’t play innocent.”
“I was never an innocent,” she snapped. “Not with you as my father.”
“Now, now.” His hand smoothed across his chest as a reminder. “Don’t get cranky on me. I’m not at the top of my game.”
She puffed out an exasperated breath, but fell silent again.
Her father eyed her. There was still the sparkle of the con artist in the sky blue gazing at her. “All I’m saying, baby, is you’ve got yourself a winner this time.”
Considering this was the first time she’d introduced any man to her pop, his statement was— “Don’t be a nutter.”
“He had a word with me before he left today.”
Darcy gazed at her father, trying to stifle the urge to ask. She couldn’t help herself. “Okay. I’ll bite. What did he say?”
His eyes twinkled. “You were always a curious child.”
“What did he say?” Impatience crackled in her words.
“Told me to behave myself with you.”
“Pop.” She gave him a wry smile. “We both know that’s never going to happen.”
“Well, he sure knows how to lay down the law. If I wasn’t a tough old bird, he’d have scared me.” He chortled, a cunning, caustic sound. ‘I saw it for what it was, though.”
“What was that?”
“A declaration of his intent.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve got your hooks in him good, baby girl.” His voice was rich with pleasure. “He’s all protective towards you.”
The flutter batted inside her. She waved his words away. “You’ve got it completely wrong.”
“I rarely get these kinds of things wrong. I know a jackpot when I see one.”
A fiery burn of temper erupted. “Marc is not a jackpot.”
“Whatever you say.” Her pop winked.
“He isn’t.” Frustration mixed with fear flooded through her. Had her dear old dad insinuated such a thing directly to Marc? If so, what were the chances the cynical man she knew lurked behind his kindness would reemerge? “I don’t care about his money.”
“Sure you don’t.” Her pop’s laugh sounded rusty, scratching down her spine in an irritating grind.
His mocking take blazed a path of fury inside her. She’d never seen Marc as a mark. Never. In fact, as she’d gotten to know him, his money had turned into an obstacle. Or rather, his damn need to make more and more money had been the problem.
A sudden thought struck her. Is this how he'd become so cynical? Did everyone approach him as a potential sugar daddy? Did he see the same gleam of greed in the eye of every woman and man who approached him?
No wonder he was so cool and contained. No wonder.
“He could be poor as a church mouse and I wouldn’t care.” Fiery truth scorched her
words.
“Hell.” Her father eyed her with immediate distaste. “Don’t be like your stupid mother.”
“Don’t talk about her.” The old rage bubbled in the pit of her stomach.
“Darcy, lass.” His wiry hand tapped a beat of disgust on the covers. “Your mum did some stupid things—”
“Stop—”
“But the stupidest thing she ever did was fall in love.” His voice was laden with rueful resignation. “With me.”
“Look where that got her.” The words shot from her mouth before she could stop them.
“Exactly.” His one word cut through her soul.
She took a deep breath. “I’m not in love with him.”
“Good,” her father stated. “That’s good.”
“I’m simply grateful for what he’s done for you.”
“Keep it that way.” Her pop’s eyes burned bright. “Don’t be a fool and fall in love and give everything of yourself to him. He’ll only use it and you. Then discard you. Keep control of the situation and you’ll come out on top.”
“What top would that be?”
“Walk away with your dignity,” he snickered. “And a big pot of money.”
“Bye, Pop.” She jerked herself off the bed. A slick coating of humiliation slid up her throat as she confronted what she’d come from, who she called family. “I have to go get something to eat.”
As she marched down the hospital hallway, she clenched her fists and bit her lip. She was not. Not after Marc for his money.
She was not like her pop.
She was not like her mum.
She was not.
Chapter 9
“Put it on.” Marc’s accented voice made her shiver inside.
Darcy inspected the dress hanging in the walk-in closet of her temporary bedroom. It shimmered in the light from overhead. Deep blue mixed with aqua and turquoise. The tiny straps clung to the hanger and the long, flowing silk called her name.
“The color made me think of your eyes.”
She turned, instant surprise rising inside. “You picked this out yourself?”
Leaning on the door frame, he arched a brow. “Si.”
“You didn’t have one of your minions pick it out?”
“No.” He shrugged. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem at all.” Turning back to the dress, she couldn’t resist sliding her hand across the cool silk. A flash of joy exploded inside her at the thought of Marc actually taking time away from his busy business schedule to go shopping.
A low growl came from behind her. “Touching. Always touching.”
A smile whispered across her lips. It had been a long ten days since her pop’s heart attack. And it had seemed even longer during the last five days when Marc had left her side to return to work. She’d hardly seen him since. She'd spent every minute at the recovery center, often sleeping in the chair beside her pop’s bed. It had only been last night she'd felt secure enough in his condition to come back to the penthouse for a good night's sleep. By the time she'd rolled from the bed this morning, Marc had already left for work.
She glanced over her shoulder as she slipped her palm across the silk once more. “It feels lovely.”
His silver gaze glowed with hot heat. “The dress will feel even lovelier with you in it.”
Her smile widened and she took pleasure in watching the muscles of his shoulders tighten in reaction. She’d missed him. The memory of where they’d been, what they’d been about to do before her father’s crisis had stopped them, returned.
The want for him had not dissipated.
Exactly the opposite.
The want had grown from a sexual need she was afraid of into a driving desire to make this man happy in every way. During the past days—as he stood by her side, held her in his arms, did whatever needed to be done to make her more comfortable and her pop more secure—every wall inside her had fallen. The lust swamp which had bubbled inside her even during the grimmest moments of waiting for news, that swamp had now turned into a warm, willing lake of need and desire.
Don’t be a fool and fall in love and give everything of yourself to him.
She shoved her pop’s words aside and the sea of emotions threatening to rip her apart. Time enough to take them out and analyze them half to death. Right now, she wanted to do something entirely different while she had the guts. Taking her courage into her hands, she took the few steps to reach Marc’s side.
He eased off the doorframe and stared into her eyes. “What?”
Placing a hand on his hard chest, she smoothed her fingers on the sleek silk shirt covering his pectorals. “I like to touch you.”
He took a deep breath in. “You pick a damnable time to do it.”
“You don't like it?” Taken aback at the unexpected rejection, she started to snap her hand away.
He grabbed it and tugged her closer. “I like it too much, but now is not the time.”
Then he laughed, dimples flashing. With one swift tug, he’d turned her back to the dress and stepped out of the closet. “You are temptation personified, piccola carita. However, I’m afraid I must insist you put on the dress. We have somewhere we need to be tonight.”
“Where?” Curiosity warred with lust. Still, she dutifully slipped the dress off the hanger.
“You’ll see.” His voice carried across the bedroom as he paced to the hallway door. “Be ready in a half hour.”
Dress in hand, Darcy strolled into the bathroom and shut the door.
She'd been tired when she'd arrived at the penthouse this afternoon. Yet now a vibrant energy pulsed through her. It washed away the long hours consulting with doctors, monitoring her father's care, and most especially, the times she'd had to listen to her pop's explanations of things long past. There were no apologies, naturally. She'd long ago abandoned any hope of that. It would have been nice to hear at least once that something had been his fault, but dear old dad kept to his party line.
Her mum had forced him to marry when she'd been pregnant.
Her mum had been the one to start the fights with her constant flirting.
Her mum was the reason he'd become addicted to heroin—she'd been the one who'd introduced it to him. It had been her mum’s decision to start taking customers in order to foot the drug bill. He’d had nothing to do with it. In fact, he’d objected to it.
The biggest line of them all—it was her mum's fault for dying. Her death had forced him to give her to foster care. A man couldn't be expected to care for a young twelve-year-old girl, now could he?
The long days listening to her pop had definitely been a trial.
She made a face in the mirror. She'd survived, as usual. Plus, she had something to look forward to at this moment. Marc was taking her out once more, like he had in New York City. Somewhere spangly and sparkly. Somewhere with a spot of champagne and new people to meet. This is what she needed to focus on. She deserved a bit of fun after listening to endless ridiculous excuses.