Mistress By Blackmail: International Billionaires I: The Italians

by Caro LaFever

  “Twelve.” He shrugged his shoulders as if trying to appear indifferent. But she saw the underlying tension. The small boy inside him who’d been hurt, terribly hurt.

  “The same age as I was when pop gave me up.”

  His gaze met hers. They were no longer blank. They were dark, almost black, with awful recollections. They both stood, staring at each other for a long moment. The connection hummed between them, not only sexual anymore.

  Emotional. She was sure of it.

  “It is of no consequence.” He glanced back down at his liquor. “It happened a long time ago.”

  “That’s not true.” Her brain buzzed inside her head, trying to find the right words. Her heart bumped in her chest, hoping and praying she could reach him and convince him. Heal him. “You continue to carry around the baggage this left you. Examine your attitude towards women.”

  He barked a cold laugh. “My conclusions about women did not come merely from what my momma did to my papa.”

  “And you.”

  He ignored her addition, an intense look of revulsion crossing his face. “I have had other salient experiences to teach me all I need to know about women.”

  “What other experiences?” She didn’t want to know or think of him with other women. But this had to be brought out so she could understand him.

  He threw his head back and swallowed the last of his liquor. Then he eyed her. Cold steel with not an ounce of give. “It isn’t pertinent.”

  Her heart dropped when she met his gaze and heard his words. “It is.”

  He set down the glass on the cabinet with cool precision. Leaned on it as if he were unperturbed by anything around him. Folded his arms across his broad chest with admirable composure.

  “It is,” she said once more, trying to batter a wedge in the formidable wall he was building around him.

  “You want me to confess about my lovers? My experiences with them?” His lip curled with dismissal. “So you can dissect me? Understand me?”

  “N-no, I only want—”

  “Know what I feel and think,” he continued.

  “I only want to—”

  “Understand how to manipulate me?”

  Each word sliced her like a steel blade. Her throat tightened. Her dreams for them dwindled. “I just want to help you.”

  “I do not need help.” His voice clipped with icy pride. “I do not need you.”

  The clutch in her throat moved up, into her eyes. “You n-n-needed me last night.”

  “Did you think it was special?” he jibed.

  “Yes.” She was sticking her neck out, confronting her fear of trusting him. But she had to. The memory of her mum, of what she’d become for a man was no match for the surging, spreading love she felt for this wounded man standing before her. Her love for him compelled her to say the one word that would give him a weapon if he so desired. “Last night was very special.”

  He desired. Not her. The weapon. “Then you were wrong.”

  She stared at him, no more words in her.

  “It was nothing more than sex.” His face was tight, his gaze fierce. “Nothing more than taking my brother’s leavings for a night. A brother who apparently is the worst lover on earth. Your lack of skills says that clearly.”

  A short cut of anguish burst from her mouth.

  “It was not what I’d expected. Was it an act, I wonder? Or did you merely let your other lovers take you without your participation?”

  The breath hurt her lungs as she gasped.

  However, it didn’t stop him from slicing her one more time.

  “Never mind,” he continued. “I don’t need to know since it won’t happen again.”

  The last, tiny piece of her heart bled to death. There really wasn’t anything more to say, was there?

  She lifted her chin to meet his stony eyes with her tear-filled ones.

  And then she walked out of the room.

  Chapter 13

  He’d told her far too much.

  Marcus paced around the long terrace that wound around the entire penthouse. The cold wind whipped the snow and sleet on his face, wet droplets sliding down his cheeks like tears. Yet the burn of their fight heated his skin.

  He’d given her too much. He’d given her something of himself.

  A part of his past.

  A part of his soul.

  The realization roared its horror inside. Never, not for years and years, had he revealed anything like he’d revealed to her. Sweat broke out over the entire length of his body. The sweat of fear.

  “Dio,” he muttered. “Io sono un pazzo.”

  Si, he was a fool of all fools. To babble on about his childhood. To give her even a slice of his past. To try and explain or express anything about his emotions.

  To show her a piece of a wounded heart he’d long ago thought dead.

  Marcus clutched the icy railing and leaned down to take in the snow-laden street below. Taking in a deep breath of freezing air, he felt the temperature of his body cool.

  But not his long-denied emotions and heart.

  He still wanted her with desperation. This filled him with disgust yet the knowledge beat in his loins. In his awakened heart. He’d walked into the damn kitchen and had succeeded in hanging onto his determination to stay away from her for…what? Ten seconds? If she hadn’t said no, they would be in bed right now. Of that he was sure.

  He glared at the city lights. “Stick to what you decided to do, pazzo.”

  Stay away from her. Keep things cool and distant. Pay attention to what was important. The wedding. The business deal.

  “Cooking for me,” he scoffed. “Madonna in cielo.”

  What should have struck him with revulsion had instead struck a chord deep in his dead heart. The sight of her standing by his stove, with her bright-red jumper and jeans hugging her petite figure, had brought forth a welling emotion.

  Not one he cared to define.

  Pushing away from the railing, he paced down the terrace once more.

  Crazy. He was crazy to want to know what she was thinking. Why the hell had he suddenly developed this mad need to see inside her brain? See what made her tick? Why of all women was it this little sprite who promoted this insane desire to know everything about her?

  It scared him. This driving call to know her. Know not only her body, but her soul.

  Cursing under his breath, he stopped.

  The wind whipped around him in a cold embrace.

  Her little temper tantrum in the kitchen had only whetted his appetite to take her body, soothe her worries. Without realizing the danger, he’d succumbed to her lure once again. Hard and hot and ready. When she’d stepped toward him, every inch of his skin had turned to flames. His blood had blazed in him. His lust had seared his control to a crisp.

  Then she’d rejected him.

  The burn had immediately flashed to fury. A fury as virulent as his lust.

  The fury kept roiling around inside him. Mixed with the driving, pounding need to take her. Imprint himself into her. Drive everything from her heart and head except him.

  He was in deep trouble.

  Clasping his hands before him, he rocked on his heels.

  The words he’d spilled in front of her were all because of this spontaneous combustion in him. The safe, closed coffin he’d come to rely on had blasted open and out poured his words, his pain, his memories.

  All for her inspection and her consumption. Her use.

  The fear had quickly followed, hadn’t it? The fear he’d learned as a kid, as a stupid young lover, had rolled through him like a wave of remembered pain and hate. It had twisted inside him like a demonic force.

  He’d hurt her.

  A lance of pure agony cut into him. A whoosh of breath escaped him.

  Hurt had been in her eyes. The night-blue had turned dark with midnight torment. Despite this, his words had kept coming. He’d kept lashing her, kept whipping her with his contempt and fury. It had rolled from him without any
thought other than to hurt her for getting too close.

  Her eyes had welled with tears the last moment they’d been together, with no light left in them. Only tears and stark pain.

  The howl stuck in his throat. Breathing through his nostrils, he choked it down.

  The light in her eyes when they’d lain together was gone. For good, surely. He’d very effectively snuffed it purposefully.

  This was for the best. For both of them.

  She needed to recognize the reality of the situation. There was nothing between them. Nothing but a deal. It would all be over in a few short days. She’d be free to walk out his door and his life. Forever.

  The howl escalated inside him. It became a shriek. Then a scream.

  * * *

  Splashing paint on a canvas while tears splashed on her cheeks was a new experience. Maybe it would add to her art, this level of anguish. Maybe the pain would somehow come out of her and into the painting and she’d be left free to feel…

  Nothing.

  It wasn’t working so far, still a girl had to persevere. The conversation with him that had ended minutes ago would be used to fuel her art, not her pain.

  She was a fighter and she’d fight, wrestle, cudgel her useless love into submission.

  The black slash of paint contrasted nicely with the bold red she’d splattered on before. The colors matched her mood—stark and severe. Yet it didn’t match the original idea she’d had for this piece. Of a woman being held by a man with love.

  Which was all to the good, she told herself as she wiped away her tears. That painting was a farce. A total farce.

  Another slash of black whipped across the canvas, destroying the original.

  She was a fool, but she’d survive. She’d fallen in love with a man who was so wounded by his past he’d lost his soul. So what? It wasn’t as if other women hadn’t done the same and moved past it. She wasn’t going to be like her mum and lose herself in drugs and other men’s arms because the man she loved didn’t love her. Nope. Never.

  Free of him forever. Soon she would be and she should be glad. She would be glad.

  Everything would be good. She’d take herself off, find another place, keep painting. Eight more days and she’d be out of this cold prison, out from Marcus La Rocca’s control, out from his protection.

  Her hand stuttered to a stop. The black paint dribbled down, soaking into her jumper.

  The whisper of fear curled in her stomach.

  Staring at the desolate painting before her, Darcy tightened her jaw. If the demon from her past appeared—and it was highly likely he would—she’d handle it somehow. She didn’t need La Rocca’s help or protection. She didn’t need him for anything.

  The door slammed open.

  She jerked around, her blood racing.

  Marcus stood in the entryway, his clothes wet and sticking to every muscle along his shoulders and chest. Rivulets of water streaked his cheeks. His eyes blazed.

  She took a step back.

  “No.” His voice filled the room with fierce emotion.

  “I don’t know what you want—”

  “I want you.”

  Before she could think or feel or move, he was upon her. Tugging her into his wet, hot arms. Plastering her along his damp clothes, his heated body. She lifted her head to complain or yell or cry, but before she could utter a sound his mouth slammed down on hers.

  He spoke to her without words.

  His lips took hers in a passionate call, a masculine supplication to her female powers. His tongue lanced into her like a sword of male need.

  “Stop.” She pushed the word out, trying to remember all the hateful things he’d spoken only minutes ago.

  “I can’t.” His big body shuddered against hers. “I can’t.”

  The anguish in his voice made her lift her hands to his face. She tugged his searching mouth away so she could look into his eyes.

  Smoke swirled around pure agony. “Please,” he choked. “Please, Darcy.”

  All her determination to hold onto her pain and hold him apart from her vanished. How could she keep her love under wraps when this man needed it? How could she tell him stop, tell him to go? How could she not throw herself into his arms and pray that in some way they could make this work?

  She couldn’t.

  Her hands wrapped around his neck, caressing him with her unwanted love. She leaned in, letting her tongue dance with his, accepting his need and answering it with her own.

  A low groan came from the depths of him.

  Lifting her into his arms, he paced out of the room, down the hall. All the while his mouth devoured hers with driving lust. Within seconds, their clothes were on the floor of his bedroom and they were on his bed.

  Heat poured from his body as he lifted himself over her. With one thrust, he took her and claimed her. He filled her with himself and filled her with joy. He wanted her. Even after he’d said no, told her he wasn’t going to.

  He couldn’t help himself. Just as she couldn’t help loving him.

  This time she was determined to be the lover he needed and deserved rather than lying beneath him stunned and overcome. This time she was going to be a full participant and leave him wanting more and more of her. Only her.

  He’d given her a second chance. She wasn’t going to waste it.

  “Carita,” he rasped as he thrust once more. His gaze was filled with a silver desire and something else. Wasn’t there something else? Or were her dreams getting in the way of reality?

  “Toccarmi.”

  His accent rolled around the word, making it sexy and seductive. She remembered the word. Knew what he wanted. Her hands slid down his sides, stroking his heated skin. His muscles bunched at her touch. His hands pushed him up, arching over her, displaying the width of his shoulders, the delineation of the muscles of his stomach.

  He was all male magnificence and he was hers.

  His virile splendor built her desire to take him, pull him into a need so great he would never reject her again. Her fingers danced across his chest and slid down to his abdomen.

  “Dio.” His big body shuddered. He threw his head back as he thrust into her warm, willing core.

  Remembering, she slipped her legs over his hips, lifting herself into him. Her hands whispered across his back and down over his surging buttocks.

  A string of Italian words poured from him. The music of his native tongue husked a magic that spoke to her heart. She didn’t need to understand with her mind. She knew in her soul.

  This was a joining for both of them. A coming together that wasn’t about lust—it was about spirit.

  He looked down and met her eyes.

  And told her everything she needed to know without words.

  * * *

  The sun shone bright and warm, yet the air was crisp and cold. Darcy didn’t mind. She was bundled into a nice new coat Marc had brought her the night before. Insisting she needed more clothes. She didn’t. Still, she appreciated the gift because of how he’d gazed at her as she opened the package.

  With love. Surely it was love in those smoky eyes.

  She held on tight to her hope. The hope she’d secretly nurtured these last five days. His passionate loving every night fed the hope. The gifts of flowers and chocolate and clothes he continued to give her every evening sprinkled more hope in her heart. The way he watched her when he came home nourished the hope even more.

  Home.

  The word trembled inside her. She’d begun to dream. She dreamed as she cooked him another dinner. Dreamed of the changes she wanted to make to his penthouse. Dreamed of a life with Marc filled with laughter and love.

  She stepped onto the sidewalk of Bayswater Road and browsed an assortment of watercolors and oils as she chatted with the artist. The wind picked up, whisking the last of the autumn leaves around her boots.

  A shiver ran down her spine.

  They hadn’t talked about his past or her fears. No final confrontation about Matt or blackmai
l or what they felt for each other. They’d both avoided the issues bubbling between them and instead had settled into a fragile peace. But every minute they spent together, the fragile peace was building a bridge between them.

  A bridge of trust.

  At least, that’s what she hoped and dreamed was happening.

  Time was running out, though. In three short days, her buddy was going to get married. She hadn’t had the balls to bring it up to Marc. Which was wrong of her. Tonight, she promised herself, tonight she was going to take the chance and say something. And hope this bridge of trust would be strong enough to hold the weight of her words.

  Her heart lurched. Because what if he said no? What if he went even further and told her she was out of his life in three short days? What would she do then?

  This wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t.

  One memory of the way he gazed at her when they made love was enough to bolster her confidence.

  Her new mobile phone jingled in her pocket.

  Another one of his gifts he’d insisted she carry around all the time. She’d objected, the old one she had was fine. She didn’t need new doodads. Plus, the last thing she wanted to do was become as obsessed as he was with his phone. In spite of this, when he insisted, she capitulated. How could a girl turn down a masculine god when he was whispering sweet nothings in her ear?

  Darcy slid it open and smiled when she saw who was calling. “I’m here.”

  “Where is here?” The words might have been demanding, yet his tone told her all she needed to know. He was simply interested in what she was doing.

  “Bayswater Road.”

  “Carita,” he replied. “You no longer have to waste your talent on drawing pictures of tourists. As I told you last night, I have contacted several gallery owners.”

  “I know and as I said last night, thank you.”

  “Not at first,” he said. “I had to convince you.”

  “True. But you’re pretty good at convincing.”

  This was another reason to hold onto her hope. No man who planned on ditching his lover would take on the task of setting her career up, would he?

  A masculine chuckle rolled through the phone. “Which is why I’m telling you that hanging out on a street is not something you need to do as an artist anymore.”