Taken for His Pleasure

by Carol Marinelli

  She didn’t even have the energy to dry her hair—just rubbed a towel over it and then listlessly brushed it and tied it back, grateful that Karen would sort out the inevitable tangle later. After pulling the curtains and slipping off her robe, Lydia peeled back the immaculately made bed, placed her gun under the pillow, and climbed inside.

  God, she looked beautiful.

  Walking quietly across the room, he took a moment or two to adjust his eyes to the darkened room, to adjust his psyche to the peaceful stillness after the noise and commotion downstairs, the high that charged him at work ebbing away as he stared down at Lydia.

  Quite simply, she was beautiful.

  More beautiful than he had ever seen her.

  The make-up was gone, freckles he hadn’t noticed before dusting over her perfect, slightly snubbed nose. Her hair till now had always been straight, either dragged by the pool’s water, or sleek from a trip to the salon, but now it was pulled back in a ponytail, wispy burnt reds and oranges spilling from the tie and framing her delicate face. The colours even in the semi-darkness were like the night sky falling over his beloved home town.

  He had seen her without make-up in the pool, but now, seeing her so relaxed, he realised just how tense she had been. It was like seeing her for the first time, so young, so vulnerable, and it stirred something far deeper than lust in him—something he was scared to interpret, something that made his heart almost still in his chest for a moment. He was scared—not for him, but for her—scared at the casual price she placed on her life, the job she did, the bastards she exposed herself to in the name of duty.

  Someone was watching her,

  That feeling that someone was in the room, that she was being watched, had Lydia struggling into consciousness, like a deep-sea diver being forced to rapidly ascend.

  Disorientated, confused, still her mind worked on autopilot. Resisting the urge to snap her eyes open, she pretended to stir, her hand reaching under the pillow. It took less than a second, but it felt like for ever.

  ‘Why,’ came an angry, familiar voice, ‘are you lying here asleep without the door chain on?’

  Her fingers relaxed around the gun, anger overtaking her as her brain finally made the connection with the voice.

  ‘It’s not a good idea to creep up on me like that, Anton,’ she bristled. ‘Especially when I’m sleeping with a gun under my pillow.’

  ‘But I could have been anyone. It is not safe, you up here alone.’

  ‘They’re after you, not me,’ Lydia pointed out. ‘And the door has been left unlocked so that you can come directly in—if someone were following you, the very last place you’d want to find yourself is locked outside your suite, knocking on the door, waiting for me to wake up!’

  ‘I don’t think it is a good idea,’ Anton insisted. ‘You put yourself at too much risk.’

  ‘That’s not your concern,’ Lydia answered, staring up at him from the bed as he towered over her.

  ‘It shouldn’t be,’ Anton countered. She watched as his harsh expression softened, watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, those knowing eyes almost confused as he stared down at her, his usually strong voice thick with emotion when he spoke on. ‘But all of a sudden it is.’

  The magnitude of his words should have came as little surprise—after all, she was feeling it too—but the fact that Anton Santini was standing over her, baring his soul, telling her he was scared for her, concerned for her, was almost too much to comprehend.

  ‘I hated the restaurant this morning,’ Anton said, his voice gruff. ‘Up here it’s just us, isn’t it?’ When she didn’t respond he elaborated, each word revealing the depth of his feelings, each word telling Lydia that she hadn’t been imaging things, that Anton Santini felt it too. ‘But as soon as we step outside that door I’m reminded again that it’s all just an act.’

  ‘Anton…’ she started, but her voice trailed off, the absolute impossibility of their situation starting to hit home. They lived on opposite sides of the globe, had careers that demanded all from them, were two separate people from two different worlds, and nothing could change those facts. ‘In a few days you’re going back to Italy…’

  ‘We should be finished here the day after tomorrow.’

  Even though Maria had unwittingly warned her, still the words fell like a guillotine—the death sentence to their fledgling relationship.

  ‘I fly back to Italy in a couple of days’ Anton affirmed. ‘I have come now to get some files that I hadn’t thought would be needed today because things have moved on far more quickly than any of us expected. All we have to do now is go through some more figures, a few more presentations, then it will be merely a case of signing on several hundred dotted lines. There is no reason to stay longer.’ Anton stared down at her. ‘I don’t think your colleagues would be too thrilled if I told them I was staying on in Melbourne for an impromptu holiday! Why don’t you do it, though?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Come back with me?’ Anton stared down at her. ‘We could spend some time together—some real time together…’

  ‘It’s not that easy, Anton.’ Lydia almost snapped the words out, terrified that if she didn’t stay strong she might give in—might lose her head and take him up on his offer. ‘I’m up for promotion. I can’t just take a couple of weeks off when I feel like it.’

  ‘If you have no holiday time left I can…’ Seeing her face harden, he stopped talking, but he needn’t have bothered. The offer, even if hadn’t been voiced, was there.

  ‘Pay for my time?’ Angry eyes glittered as she spoke.

  ‘You are twisting my words. I like you, Lydia, and I want to spend time with you. I was just trying to come up with some way to do that.’

  ‘You don’t know me, Anton,’ Lydia pointed out. ‘You see this groomed, elegant woman, who’s at your beck and call—a woman who supposedly has nothing better to do than sit in her room and wait for your meetings to finish. That isn’t the real me.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. That is why I want to spend time with you, and get to know the real Lydia.’

  ‘She’s nothing like this!’ The words were delivered with a defiance that startled even herself. ‘The real Lydia wears jeans and sneakers. The real Lydia works twelve, sometimes twenty-four-hour shifts, and she certainly wouldn’t take being spoken to the way you saw fit yesterday.’

  ‘I’d already guessed that.’ A tiny smile ghosted his lips as he gazed down at her. ‘And, at the risk of enraging you further, you’re not looking particularly groomed or elegant now!’

  Bastard!

  Too livid even to blush, Lydia spoke through pursed lips, challenging him with her eyes. ‘Would I suffice, Anton?’ she asked. ‘If I couldn’t be bothered with make-up or the hairdresser this afternoon? If I pulled on my inadequate black trousers and off-the-peg top to join you for dinner, would you still want me?’

  Anton didn’t answer, just ran an eye over her unmade-up face and messy hair, the expression on his face unreadable. ‘Come with me, Lydia. Let’s get to know each other better.’

  ‘There’s no point.’ She almost shouted the words, angry at the impossibility of it all, angry at Anton, too, for pretending they might stand a chance when they both knew it would be over before it even started.

  ‘You’re quite sure of that?’

  There was dignity in his question—no argument, no pleading his case, no fanciful lies to attempt to sway her, just a tiny chance for Lydia to retract.

  She dragged her eyes from his, staring fixedly at the ceiling, terrified that if she looked at him she’d waver. ‘I can’t come.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘Both.’ Lydia held her breath, watching as Anton’s eyes narrowed. ‘I can’t come because of my work and I won’t because…’ Her argument ended there, because quite simply there wasn’t one.

  ‘You want me as much as I want you.’

  Anton spelled it out to her, delivering irrefutable facts, but in a stab a
t self-preservation somehow Lydia managed a denial, knowing that if she gave in now, if she followed him, yes, it would be wonderful, yes, it would be divine—but it could never, ever last. A man like Anton would eat her up and spit the pips out afterwards—she’d read his bio.

  She knew the score.

  ‘No, Anton.’ Somehow she managed to look at him as she lied. ‘For a while there I thought I did, but no.’ She shook her head firmly. ‘You’re not what I want.’

  She watched as he opened his mouth to object, but there had been a finality to her voice that must have reached him, because snapping his mouth closed he gave a curt nod of his head, and she knew as he turned to walk away that that was that.

  Men like Anton weren’t rejected twice in a row.

  He’d offered her the trip of lifetime and she’d refused; now she had to live with the consequences.

  ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours to take you shopping.’ He stared long and hard at her. ‘Maybe you should get your hair and make-up done in the meantime.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘BLOWDRY and make up?’ Karen beamed as Lydia walked into the salon and wearily she nodded, lying back on the familiar chair, waiting while Karen transformed her into a suitable escort for Anton. ‘Are you doing anything nice this afternoon?’

  ‘Shopping,’ Lydia replied tightly, and then checked herself, forcing her frozen face into what she hoped was a bright smile. ‘Anton’s taking me shopping.’

  ‘Lucky you!’

  She tried hard to enjoy it—tried so hard to just accept this surreal moment, to push aside the logistical nightmare Anton had created with this brief expedition. Armed detectives walked discreetly behind them as they wandered down Chapel Street and into the trendiest, most exclusive boutique that was closed to everyone except her and Anton. But even with the doors safely bolted, with Lydia able to legitimately drop her detective mode for a short while, she found it impossible to relax.

  Anton had said that he wanted to get to know her better, to see the real Lydia, and then promptly ordered her to get her hair done. And now, after selecting several dresses that he considered suitable, he had guided her to the changing area—a changing area like Lydia had never seen before. It was a huge room with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and Anton was now sitting, long-limbed and relaxed, on a leather lounge, thumbing through glossy magazines as Lydia changed again and again for him in one of the cubicles, opening the doors every now and then, utterly humiliated, parading in front of him.

  ‘I don’t like it.’ Defiantly she stared at him and lied through her teeth yet again. This dress was in fact one of the most gorgeous things she’d ever laid eyes on, but she certainly wasn’t about to tell Anton that! ‘Anyway, red clashes with my hair.’

  ‘It isn’t red, it’s more burgundy—anyway, I like it,’ Anton said, as if that should be reason enough for her to want it. ‘Try the grey now.’

  Since their confrontation in the hotel room his mood had been wretched. Clearly unused to rejection, Anton had taken it in bad part, and had returned at his most bloody and chauvinistic, flouting the rules she had carefully laid down, demanding that she hurry up if she wanted to escort him, then walking out of the hotel with little warning, forcing Graham and John out of their newspapers and out into the street. And now he was taking out his toxic mood on her—demanding that she fit his extortionate bill, choosing shoes, perfume, even underwear for her as if she were some sort of mannequin it was up to him to dress. He was letting her know in no uncertain terms that if she was going to escort him tonight then she’d damn well better look the part.

  Pulling on a crushed velvet dress, Lydia wrestled with the zipper, scowling at her reflection—furious that yet again Anton had somehow managed to choose the perfect dress, wondering how he got it so right over and over.

  ‘Where’s the assistant?’ Peering round the cubicle door, Lydia called to Anton. ‘I want her to help me with my zip.’

  ‘I told her that we wanted some privacy,’ Anton said, levering himself out of the couch and boldly walking into the cubicle. ‘I will help you.’

  This was not the plan, Lydia thought frantically as his hand met her waist and he turned her around so that her back was to him, This was so not the plan!

  ‘It’s on the side,’ Lydia hissed. ‘It’s a concealed zip…’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ But he didn’t move, and neither did she.

  Lydia eyed his reflection in the mirror, frozen still as his hand located the tiny zip she hadn’t been able to manage. He should have pulled it up. Even as she stood staring Lydia knew that by now the dress should be done up. But instead his hand was parting the soft fabric, warm fingers stealing in, softly stroking the exposed flesh. The sensible thing would have been to stop him, to push his hand away, to tell him she could do it herself or call loudly for the assistant. But quite simply she didn’t want to—didn’t want the feather-light strokes on her stomach to abate.

  The only sound of a zipper Lydia could hear was Anton’s, coming down.

  ‘Someone might come in…’ she whispered, her voice a mere croak as his hand moved lower, but Anton shook his head.

  ‘I told you—I asked for privacy.’ And what Anton asked for he got, Lydia realised. It would be more than the assistant’s job was worth to come in now.

  ‘They’ll surely know,’ Lydia begged, though she ached for him to go on.

  ‘So?’

  So?

  The word resonated in her mind. Her body was a squirming mass of desire at his touch. She felt empowered by the knowledge that this sensual, desirable man wanted her just as much as she wanted him, and even if it was just for now, even if they could never, ever make it, somehow she wanted this moment, wanted the bliss of him inside her, wanted to follow her instincts, to take this dangerous step and finish what they’d started in the pool.

  It was the most reckless, decadent decision of her life, but for now, for Lydia, it wasn’t just the right one, it was the only one she could make—to go with her instincts, to heed the call of her body, to sate the desire that had overwhelmed her since Anton had come into her life.

  Maybe then she’d have clarity, Lydia begged of herself, as his fingers moved in ever decreasing circles. Maybe once the frenzy he so easily generated had abated she’d be able to see things more clearly. But for now all she was could see was Anton’s navy eyes, holding hers in the mirror’s reflection, and transfixed she stared back at him, stared back at the beautiful man who stood behind the beautiful woman he had created.

  Thoughts of the assistant waiting for them in the store, of the detectives standing out in the street, instead of horrifying her, aroused her. She could feel his hand stealing down towards her knickers, watched as he pulled the velvet material of the dress upwards and slid her knickers down. She stared at her own image, watched as his fingers parted moist, delicate flesh, and all she could see was beauty, her fascinated eyes widening as he stroked her most intimate place, the pink of her labia. And the swell of her clitoris was a sweet contrast to the angry swell of his arousal, jutting against her.

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t want me…’ His fingers slipped inside, and she was so welcomingly moist, the tiny gasps in her throat so needy, it was absolutely pointless to persist with the lie.

  Almost a spectator, she watched in the mirror as his other hand pushed the spaghetti strap of the dress down, watched his lips kissing her pale shoulder so deeply that surely he must bruise her. He massaged her erect nipple as his fingers still worked on below, and Lydia felt herself tip into oblivion, felt her soft mound trembling in his hand, and knew she wouldn’t last more than a second longer.

  Neither would he, Lydia realised, and in one swift movement he turned her around, lifting her so she was slightly above him, his fingers bruising the peach of her buttocks, his mouth working the pale, tender skin of her shoulder.

  She didn’t have time to process the thought, didn’t have time for anything as he nudged at her entrance. All Lydia knew was that she w
as coming, her whole body rigid as he plunged deep within her, spilling at her entrance as she dragged him in. She could see their entwined bodies in the mirror—pearly white thighs a contrast against his dark suit, her toes curling in her strappy sandals as they scratched the cubicle wall, his fingers parting her buttocks as he stabbed deeper within—and it was all she had imagined it would be and more, the most dizzy, exhilarating ride of her life.

  When it was over, when she was coming back down to earth and he was lowering her to shaky ground, there was no awful thud of shame. Dragging her against his chest and pulling her in, tenderly he held her, wrapped his arms around her till she found her balance.

  Maybe she should have felt used, should have burned with shame for what had just taken place. But even when he let her go his eyes were still holding her with a softness she’d never witnessed in Anton, and his mouth for once was tender as he smiled down at her.

  ‘I’d better buy you that dress.’

  ‘You’d better.’

  It was the most heady feeling of her life, walking back into the hotel lobby with Anton, as the bellboy rushed to relieve them of their bags, her body tingling from their union, the whole world sharper, more colourful now.

  ‘Anton!’ Angelina pounced on them as they headed for the lift, followed by a long-suffering Maria. ‘I need to talk to you. Some figures don’t add up—nothing major, though. We can do it over coffee at the bar—it shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Why don’t you go on up?’ Anton called over his shoulder, heading towards Angelina, then stilling as Lydia did the same—and they both knew why: for a tiny slice of time he had forgotten that she was on duty, truly forgotten that she was here to protect him.

  ‘I’ll stay, if you don’t mind,’ Lydia said, forcing a smile and following him through the foyer with Maria, wishing that it really could be so, and knowing that Anton was thinking exactly the same.