Taken for His Pleasure

by Carol Marinelli

  It was good to be alone. Punching his desired level, Anton glanced at his expensive heavy watch as the lift descended from the Presidential Suite to the lower ground floor and realised that had he caught his scheduled flight then his plane would only just be landing now. He was infinitely grateful to the unknown first-class passenger on the packed flight that had preceded his who had cancelled, allowing Anton the luxury of five hours’ sleep in a hotel bed before he faced his horrendous schedule.

  Sitting in the luxurious surrounds of the first-class lounge, sipping on a brandy as he’d waited to board the earlier plane, in a reflex action he’d reached for his mobile to call his PA and tell her about the change. But then, almost defiantly, he had clicked his phone off, filled with an urge to have a few hours in his life that were, for once, unaccountable.

  Feeling as if he was playing hooky, Anton had boarded the plane and, in a move that was so unusual for him it bordered on the bizarre, he’d handed over his laptop to the flight attendant and refused the latest copies of overseas newspapers. Shaking his head at the endless delicacies that were offered as the plane hit altitude he’d chosen instead to pull on a pair of headphones and gaze unseeing at the international news, his eyes growing heavy as it morphed into a film…

  As the lift doors slid open, Anton Santini, automatically polite, pressed the button to hold it open for a dark-haired woman wrapped in a white robe. Her flushed faced indicated that she had just come from the gym area where he was heading. She did a double take when she saw him, but Anton didn’t give it a thought. He was more than used to women giving him a second look. His six-foot-three frame and dark Latin looks merited that alone, and given that these days there was barely a newspaper or magazine published that didn’t contain a photo of him, it wasn’t just women who looked twice.

  It certainly didn’t cross his mind that the dark-haired woman might be an undercover detective who didn’t expect him to be in the country just yet! And it never entered his head that Maria was battling with a surge of panic because an unsuspecting Lydia was swimming in the pool—where, judging from the towel draped around his shoulders, Anton was clearly heading!

  With a brief nod he stepped out, following the signs for the hotel pool and gym, noting with a wry smile that despite the fact he was in Australia, literally on the other side of the world, he might just as well be in Rome, or London, or Paris, or wherever his hectic schedule took him. No matter how much the hotels fought to be different, to stamp their originality in the minds of affluent businessmen, each and every one was pretty much the same.

  Still, at least he had the place to himself.

  Even as he processed the thought Anton retrieved and corrected it. As he had turned the corner he hadn’t acknowledged the massive marble pool—he was used to extravagant surroundings, and the marble floor and glittering blue water had barely merited a glance. All he had noticed was the still surface of the water, the thick scent of chlorine, the silence of an empty room. But now, in a beat, his eyes were drawn to the long dark shadow beneath the water, to a hand breaking the surface tension, followed by a slender, pale arm arching a perfect stroke. As he went to walk on, to deposit his towel and robe on the bench, something held him back. In another beat, after another moment’s hesitation, his eyes were drawn to the figure in the water. Her pale length was effortlessly gliding the length of the pool, titian hair dragging behind her, eyes closed as she rhythmically swam towards the edge, then executed a perfect tumble-turn before disappearing beneath the surface again for an impressive length of time.

  Anton found himself drawn to the willowy figure. There was something about the effortless way her body moved, a natural litheness that held his attention—something different about this woman. He took a moment to fathom what it was: she was actually enjoying herself! Unlike most early morning swimmers in a hotel pool, she didn’t appear to be working on toning her thighs or extending her endurance. Instead she seemed to be taking a moment, an indulgent moment, oblivious to her surrounds, and inexplicably he didn’t want to disturb her, didn’t want to invade this woman’s privacy, didn’t want to break her delicate stride.

  But it was a hotel pool, Anton reminded himself with a brisk shake of his head. It wasn’t as if he’d climbed a fence and stood in voyeuristic silence as the lady of the house swum in her back garden. Almost defiantly he pulled off his robe. Unlike Lydia, he didn’t test the water for warmth, didn’t gingerly dip in his toe—ice could have been floating on the surface and Anton would have merely dived straight in—and as Lydia neared the far end of the pool he slid into the water.

  She felt his presence.

  She couldn’t really explain how she knew the presence was male, but as she felt the wedge of water buffet her slightly Lydia knew quite simply that it was, and, snapping out of her almost hypnotic trance she shifted back to an alert, edgy state. The effortless strokes she had been executing were more cumbersome now. Her breath was no longer coming regularly, her strokes were no longer deep and rhythmic, and she grasped the marble beneath her fingers, turned around and held onto the edge to catch her breath a moment.

  Her eyes gazed the length of the pool, idly focusing on the man coming towards her, and suddenly, despite the width, it was as if the pool had shrunk. Maybe she was too used to the routine of her usual gym—the lanes neatly divided by a row of yellow buoys, swimmers keeping strictly their lanes—but he was heading straight for her, every stroke drawing him closer, long, muscled arms stroking their way nearer. Inexplicably she didn’t move, just held onto the edge as he came in too soon, too fast.

  ‘Scusi.’ Even though it was the shallow end the water was still deep, but he stood his ground, didn’t need to clutch the edge as Lydia did, shaking his black hair, blinking his eyes and facing hers. ‘I thought it was bigger…’

  ‘Me too.’ She gave a small shrug, understanding instantly what he meant—the regular length of a pool like this was twenty-five metres, but this one fell a couple short, and if you were used to swimming—as this man clearly was—used to pacing yourself, it was an easy mistake to make. ‘You soon get used to it.’

  ‘Sorry!’ He said it again, only in English this time. Lydia actually preferred the more spontaneous response he had used earlier, but there were other things on her mind now. Her shrewd amber eyes focussed, and there was a nervous swallow in her throat as she realised that, way before schedule, the man she would be spending the next few days with, the man she should be ‘accidentally’ meeting in a few short hours, was actually here.

  Her mind raced for an explanation and her helpless eyes darted around. She was half expecting to see her colleagues Graham and John appear at the doorway, or for Anton Santini to formally introduce himself, explain that there had been a mix-up in the schedule and that this in fact, was their accidental meeting.

  That would explain it, Lydia decided in a split second. That would explain why he had swum so directly towards her—would explain why she had been so acutely aware of his presence, why his eyes were boring into her as if he knew her—he knew who she was!

  But, far from introducing himself, he gave her a small nod before pushing away from the edge and swimming off, leaving her standing there clinging to the edge, her heart racing, her breath coming in small shallow gasps. Only it had little to do with the exercise and everything to do with the man who shared the pool. Her skin stung from the brief touch of him, and goose bumps appeared on her arms as she recalled the feel of his strong legs brushing against hers. Her mind raced to calm itself, to turn off the energy he had released, to switch off the adrenaline that was pumping through her veins right now. She didn’t know what to do, unsure now if Anton actually did know who she was, if her lack of response when he had tried to approach her had confused him.

  Taking a deep breath, even though her body was tired now, Lydia knew that she had to swim on, to give Anton another chance to talk with her, mindful that if Anton was here then anyone could be watching. Her eyes glanced up to the security cameras. Even t
hough it was only the two of them in the pool this meeting had to look accidental; the biggest threat to Anton Santini’s safety was the fact that no one yet knew who the enemy was—no one knew how sophisticated the plans that were intended to bring him down might be.

  Swimming a couple more lengths should have been easy, but her effortless stride eluded her now, and Lydia tried to fathom why she couldn’t resume the simple strokes. She decided that the work-out, the swim, and then the surge of energy when she had realised that Anton was in the pool had left her depleted. Her body was heavy and leaden as she dragged it through the water, and her mind was spinning like a stuck CD—whirring furiously for a moment before playing aloud the single track she didn’t want to hear…

  He’d aroused her.

  It had nothing to do with the fact it was Anton Santini—the man she was engaged to protect for the next few days—in the water with her. Instead it had everything to do with the man who had dived in just a few moments ago—a man she had been attracted to even before she had realised his identity. It was that thought that panicked Lydia, made every supposedly natural movement a chore, made this chance meeting all the more difficult.

  ‘You must swim a lot?’

  He was waiting for her at the other end, as she had known he would be, and his voice was deep, husky and heavily accented when he spoke. Heart hammering in her mouth, Lydia nodded.

  ‘Most days,’ she breathed. ‘Though I think I’ve done too much this morning. I was working out before, and then I had a sauna…’

  Lifting her hand, she gestured to the gym behind them, but Anton’s gaze didn’t follow where she was pointing. Instead she felt his dark navy eyes drag the entire length of her slender arm, scorching her pale flesh from her fingertips to her creamy clavicle. He took in every facet of the subtle muscle definition, of the pale tea-coloured freckles, then slowly worked his way up her long slender neck, searing her with his eyes. The flicker of her pulse in her neck, his nervous swallow, every tiny movement was accentuated until finally he looked directly at her. But there was no relief, only recognition—a jolting recognition, not of familiarity but of attraction. It was a powerful, faint-making emotion, terrifying exhilarating, and Lydia felt her panic multiply. She struggled to retract what her eyes had just stated, to tell this man that this was strictly business—that she was only here because it was her job. She was supposed to be meeting him in the hotel lounge in two hours, as she pretended to check out of the packed hotel—was supposed to spill a glass of water over him. Their attraction was meant to be mutual—so much so that Anton Santini would overcome the problem of a full hotel, would fall so much in lust with this stranger that he would, within a matter of a few hours, install her into his bedroom. That was the plan.

  At this very moment Anton Santini was supposed to be being pulled over by customs officers, and John and Graham would deliver those very instructions.

  What had happened?

  Lydia didn’t have time to guess—didn’t have time to go through the hows and whys. She had to swing her mind away from the delicious distraction of his eyes and force herself to operate—not as a woman, but as a detective. If the plans had changed then so must her approach—there wasn’t exactly a glass of water handy to spill over him right now!

  ‘I’m Lydia,’ she managed, forcing a small smile to lips that didn’t seem to want to obey. ‘You are…?’

  He didn’t answer, just gave her a small, slightly superior smile, his full mouth twisting upwards slightly, his dark eyes still shamelessly staring. Lydia knew that he didn’t want to play along, and considered introductions completely unnecessary when they both knew who they were dealing with—but anyone could be watching, Lydia reminded herself. They had to act as if they were strangers meeting, had to keep appearances up at all times. She would reiterate that fact to Anton later, when they were alone.

  Alone.

  Her stomach tightened at the mere thought. A knot of anticipation gripped deep within, a blush spread over her chest as a thousand inappropriate thoughts played in her mind. She understood now how it happened—understood how so many powerful, beautiful women had fallen for him so completely and utterly—how they had ignored his appalling reputation and thrown caution to the wind. The sheer, raw sensuality of the man was devastating, his presence overwhelming, blocking out reason, dimming rationality with the power and force of a solar eclipse. And right now, even if it was all engineered, that energy was focussed entirely on her.

  Lydia struggled to reflect it. She struggled to keep a level head as her body begged a more primitive response. Angrier with herself than at him, her voice was more demanding, her eyes holding his boldly, as she insisted that he introduced himself. ‘You are…?’

  ‘I am…’ His smile bordered on the cruel now, like a predator eyeing his victim. His gaze was inescapable as the massive room suddenly closed in around them, as the steamy warm air seemed set to suffocate her, the atmosphere so throbbingly sensual Lydia could almost hear the hiss of the temperature rising as he moved in closer ‘…going to kiss you…’

  She didn’t know what to do. Her head was telling her to pull back, reminding her that this level of intimacy wasn’t in her job description. But instead she stared up at this stunningly beautiful man, her eyes wide, her body rigid with a curious dizzy expectation as his face moved towards her, sheer unadulterated lust drenching her far more than the water.

  The morning shadow on his chin was almost as navy as his heavy-lidded eyes, his cheekbones exquisitely sculptured in his haughty face. Truly, Lydia decided, he was the most beautiful man she had ever borne witness to—such strength, such arrogance, even, etched in every feature. Yet his eyes were gentle as they held hers, soothing her terror and multiplying it at the same time. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to back away from the pleasure that was surely to follow. Even if it was orchestrated, even if it was just for show, a tiny voice was telling her to go with it—a tiny, dangerous voice she’d never heard before was telling her that she didn’t want to miss the feel of this beautiful man close to her, that never again in her lifetime was she likely to be kissed, to be held, by someone as supremely divine as Anton Santini.

  Her eyes closed in giddy expectation as painfully slowly he moved in…But in a curious move his lips didn’t meet hers. Instead he dusted his cheek against hers, the warmth of his breath tickling her face, and even if the kiss that was surely about to ensue was only for the cameras, for the sake of the hidden audience that might be watching, before his lips even met hers Lydia knew it would be one she would remember for ever.

  His chin was scratching, dragging slowly along her pale, alert flesh, so slow it was almost painful. Yet it had the desired effect. His decadent stealth banished her fear and skilfully replaced it with need—a need that was physical, a need that was palpable. Her lips twitched with desire, her body flaming in its treacherous response to his touch, and lingering misgivings were gone completely. His touch had her moving her lips to his, and so magnetic was his force that reason and doubt were erased, and it was Lydia moving things along, Lydia’s mouth searching for his, and finally, deliciously, finding it.

  She relished in the bruising weight of his mouth against hers, the cool of his tongue as it parted her willing lips, the soldering feel of his hand in the small of her back as he pulled her a fraction closer, fanning the flames of desire. Her insides literally melting, she felt her fingers let go of the edge, but the bottom of the pool was too deep for her to stand. He supported her easily, her body weightless in the water, his arms holding her as his mouth ravished her, warm, muscular thighs tipping her further into heady oblivion.

  Her swollen nipples were straining against Lycra, and heat was flaring between her legs. The need that imbued her was still not satisfied, the taste of such pleasure making Lydia greedier now, hungry for more. And Anton reciprocated. The nudge of his erection against her taut stomach was faint-making as she pressed provocatively against it, fuelling a primitive desire Lydia had never, not
even in her most intimate moments, fully experienced—a total and utter abandonment, a complete, delicious loss of control.

  He made her bold, made her wanton, provocative, immersed her in passion.

  Her mind was completely focussed now on her own desires, on the pulse flickering between her legs. Her clitoris was engorged, twitching with want, and only this man could satisfy it. Still he kissed her, ravished her, but his mouth was moving now, tracing her neck, kissing the hollows. He buried his face in her dripping hair, and her fingers dug into his shoulders, and in a movement that was as provocative as it was instinctive she raised her hips several decadent inches. His fingers pressed into the warm flesh of her taut buttocks and the deep, languorous, throaty kiss was abandoned as she glided her swollen, most intimate lips along the endless, solid length of his manhood.

  His breath was hot on the shell of her ear as she nestled the heat of her centre on the tip of his. She wanted him to take her, to part the tiny inch of fabric that covered her most private place. Wanted him to fill her, to calm the frenzy of her body beneath the still surface of the water. Her stomach tightened in rhythmic contraction and her legs wrapped around him as he pressed his velvet steel harder against her. Heady, drunken, faint, Lydia rested her head on a damp shoulder, nibbling at the salty flesh of his skin, willing him to take her, sure that the strength of his erection alone could part the fabric that covered her. She could feel the pulse of her orgasm aligning, the heavy pit in her stomach an abyss that needed to be filled. And, from the short, rapid breaths in her ear, the tension in every muscle beneath her fingers, Lydia knew he was as close as dammit too.