by Robyn Donald
‘And I don’t photograph that badly,’ she said, her skin heating at his contempt. ‘But I wasn’t accusing you. I know the director wanted an actress for the part—’
‘It simply didn’t work,’ he interrupted. ‘Not your fault, not the director’s—I was the one who didn’t fit in. It needs shooting again; there’s a warehouse in Auckland ready to go. It took us long enough to find you.’
‘How did you?’
His smile was a cool statement of power. ‘Your agent, of course.’
Well, of course. No one—but no one—refused a man as powerful as Marco Considine . Not only had he set up his own very successful business, but when his cousin Alex, the Crown Prince of Illyria, had been called back to take over after the death of the dictator, the prince had handed his huge business concerns over to Marco. Who’d subsequently taken them into stratospheric success.
So Bella would have told him where she was.
‘Why has the chopper gone?’ she demanded.
One black brow lifted in irony. ‘It’s delivering another passenger to a lodge further up the coast, and will be back shortly. In case you’re wondering, your very hard-nosed agent has already negotiated suitable extra compensation on your behalf.’
Acutely conscious of the large amount of glistening skin she was revealing, she straightened her shoulders. He, of course, was superbly dressed from his tailored trousers to a sleek shirt, its sleeves rolled up.
‘Bella’s a professional,’ said shortly, feeling completely unprofessional, ‘and so am I. Of course I’ll do what’s necessary to make the campaign a success. It will only take me a few minutes to get ready.’
Marco lifted an eyebrow to devastating effect and drawled, ‘I’ll help you pack.’
A few minutes previously she’d been yearning for him—now that he was here she wanted nothing more than to get away from him. He was too dangerous; her foolish heart was already playing love songs, and if she wasn’t careful she’d make an idiot of herself. Feet dragging, head held so high her shoulders suffered, she started towards him.
And then something long and slimy and tough wrapped around her calf, clinging to her skin. Yelping in shock and disgust, she remembered too late the floating packs of seaweed.
‘What the hell—?’ Marco’s voice, hard and sharp.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, but too late.
Uncaring of shoes and trousers, he was beside her in a couple of long strides. Grabbing her, he hauled her out of the water, demanding curtly, ‘What is it? What did you tread on?’
‘Kelp,’ she muttered, feeling utterly idiotic but unable to stop her babbling. ‘I can walk, it was just a strand…’
But he carried her onto the beach and set her down, holding her for a few moments until he was convinced she could stand. Then, to her astonishment, he dropped to his knees and ran a hand across her thigh, clearly checking for signs of a bite or a sting.
Heat bloomed in the pit of her stomach, a forbidden fire. ‘I’m all right,’ she said in a voice she didn’t recognise—thin and faraway and drowning in desire.
A gull called, a low, crooning mew that echoed oddly in her ears. Jacoba had the strangest feeling that the earth had stopped in its track around the sun; her breath locked in her lungs, and she looked down at Marco’s black head, at his hand on her skin. Suspended in sunlight and exhilaration, she couldn’t speak.
He looked up, and read what she could no longer hide. One swift, lithe movement brought him to his feet. He smiled, and she read his intentions—and her body surrendered in a cascade of sensation that wiped out every thought but the hunger building like wildfire inside her.
Panicking, she put both hands on his shoulders and pushed, but she might as well have been trying to shift a mountain. He was rock-solid, the muscles beneath her hands firm but unmoving.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, his voice hard and sure and totally, infuriatingly confident.
And then he bent his head and kissed her, and just as before, every sensible resolution was drowned in a rush of reckless need. Jacoba kissed him back, her mouth moulding to his as though it had been craving his touch.
His arms tightened, settling her against his aroused body. Transfixed by a thousand arrows of pleasure, she shivered, her lips opening as the pressure on them increased.
Somewhere in the back of her brain a few hazy warnings jostled for attention, but she ignored them, lost in an erotic craving that time had only intensified.
Marco’s kiss, his closeness, fed that hunger with ruthless efficiency. It burned inside her, a passion that had been smouldering over the long days and nights, stoked by a series of erotic dreams and the sharp, disturbing memories of dancing in his arms.
Her feverish response undermined what little was left of her will-power. A moan caught in her throat when his lean hand found the soft mound of her breast, his long fingers cupping it with exquisite precision. The caress melted her bones in a swift surge of pure sexual need that drove through her and swept away everything but the passionate instinct to surrender.
And it felt so perfect—as though this moment, this sensation, had been foreordained; as though something had slotted into place in her life and she was never going to be the same again. As though at last she had found her true home…
Her bikini was too tight, its friction unbearable against her wildly sensitive breasts and the aching heat at the pit of her stomach. Shifting from one leg to the other, she shuddered when Marco slid his hand beneath the fine catch at the bra top.
‘You don’t need this pretty thing,’ he said unevenly, and removed it in one deft, experienced movement, leaving her half-naked to his scrutiny.
A reckless excitement shot through her. Marco’s eyes narrowed and their colour intensified into diamond heat as he examined her breasts, creamy against his tanned hand. She’d never felt anything like this desperate arousal before; more than anything she wanted his mouth on the hard little points that tormented her with their responsiveness.
She gasped when he picked her up and carried her across to the rug under the pohutukawa, but wariness had been overwhelmed by the tide of passion. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged as he lowered them both to the ground, ending up with her sprawled across his lap.
Hot-skinned, she hid her face against his throat and undid his shirt, her fingers fumbling as she wrestled with each button, her whole being so responsive she was aflame with hunger.
She ran her hands across the broad, sleek shoulders and chest she’d exposed. Her breath stopped in her throat. He was magnificent, sleekly sexual, his body honed to strength and power, his face angular and arrogant when he looked down at her.
Their gazes clashed in fierce need. He said on a harsh indrawn breath, ‘You are so beautiful you make me ache.’
His words, his tone, melted the last tiny spark of resistance. Jacoba turned her head and kissed the swell of his shoulder, her lips lingering and provocative. His chest lifted and she felt the rapid upswing of his heartbeats, a heavy tattoo in her ear. Delighted by his involuntary response, she licked the sleek, fine-grained skin with delicate greed. His subtle smoky taste transfixed her, so entirely male—a physical expression of his faint, subliminal scent.
‘Too beautiful,’ he said as though it were a fault.
‘So are you,’ she told him, her voice drowsy with passion.
He laughed, a sexy, uninhibited sound that brought her head up.
‘Save that term for the pretty men like Sean Abbott and the stand-in at the shoot,’ he said, and bent his head before she could formulate an answer.
The kiss was almost brutal, yet she matched it, exploring his mouth in a primeval challenge, at once defiant and yielding. Sheer, wicked excitement licked through her—head-strong, intoxicating and terrifying.
His mouth on her breast summoned shudders of pleasure; she held her breath while he kissed his way to the centre, and shivered at the violent drumming of her pulses when at last he took the tip into his mouth.
A broken, inarticulate sound forced its way between her lips. Tense and waiting, she felt something vital inside her snap, its fragments drowned in the honeyed sweep of passion.
While his mouth worked its heady magic, he loosened the tie of her bikini bottom and slid a hand beneath the material to stroke across her flat stomach.
‘Si belle,’ he muttered, his voice thick and ragged against the silken skin of her breasts. In the same language he said, ‘You make me drunk with delight…’
Jacoba spoke French, but she’d have known what he meant even if she hadn’t. Although his tone was rigidly restrained he couldn’t control the glitter in his pale eyes, or the flush of heat along his wide, Mediterranean cheekbones.
Matching his language, she whispered, ‘It is entirely mutual.’
He lifted his head, his eyes suddenly speculative and intent. ‘So how does a girl from New Zealand speak such good Parisian French?’
How could he shut off this passionate craving so abruptly? Chilled, she said, ‘My babysitter was French. I grew up speaking it.’
Marco nodded, but she realised that he was storing this information somewhere in his cool, clever brain. ‘Later—much later,’ he murmured against her skin, ‘you must tell me a little more about your upbringing.’
The drugging fumes of desire were fading enough for her to realise what the inevitable result of this would be. She lifted her head away from his chest, but before she had time to gather her wits, he kissed her again, and his long fingers found the source of all her frustration and pleasure.
With delicate, unbearable skill, he stroked in slow, deliciously frustrating torment. A burning heat rose from deep in her pelvis, racing like wildfire through every cell in her body.
Once more his mouth closed over the tip of her breast.
Then he lifted his head. He said in a hard, thick voice, ‘You’ve been driving me insane ever since I saw you. Tell me now that Hawke Kennedy is your lover, and I might be able to stop.’
Shattered, Jacoba said, ‘I don’t—he isn’t—’
He waited until she stuttered into silence, then said with ruthless persistence, ‘Why do you stay with him when he so obviously doesn’t love you enough to be faithful?’
Jacoba felt her face freeze. ‘I don’t have to answer that,’ she said disdainfully, and scrambled to her feet, looking desperately around for her bikini top.
He rose too. He was angry, she realised with an inner quiver as she recognised the cold fury burning beneath his armour of self-control.
‘Because he’s such a fantastic lover you’ll forgive him anything?’ he said brutally. ‘Because he offers some sort of stability? Because he blackmails you into it?’
When she gasped and turned away, he took her arm and swung her around so that he could see her face. ‘Is that it?’ he asked, the words gritty and forceful, his expression so aggressive she suddenly saw those ancestors who’d successfully steered their way through the violent, bloody politics of the Middle Ages and later.
‘No!’ she stated harshly. ‘Of course he doesn’t blackmail me! And we are not lovers.’
‘Just good friends?’ the prince mocked. ‘I don’t believe in that sort of relationship between two adults.’
Uttering each word through gritted teeth, she said, ‘It happens, especially when those two were practically brought up as brother and sister. Now let me go!’
He did, but only to cage her in his arms. In spite of her anger, desire rioted through her in a potent, heady flood, clouding her brain. Jacoba drew in a jagged breath, meeting his piercing, ice-blue eyes with helpless intensity.
‘Brother and sister?’ he said, and smiled, a slow, sensuous movement of his lips that pushed her eager arousal up another notch.
She sucked in a breath and closed her eyes, shutting him out. Forcing her voice to keep to a level, toneless note, she told him, ‘We grew up together; our mothers were single parents who had to work, so a neighbour cared for us, at first all day, later after school and during the holidays. People used to think we were brother and sister, and we’ve always felt that way towards each other.’
Silence spiralled between them, until he said in a low, formidable undertone, ‘Look at me.’
Reluctantly, she lifted her lashes to meet his probing, crystalline gaze.
Marco asked, ‘Why haven’t you told anyone this? You must realise that everyone believes you to be lovers, and pities you for his supposed infidelity. Or do you get some sort of kick out of being seen as a modern version of patient Griselda?’
Her head came up. ‘Who’d believe us? Anyway, it’s no one’s business but ours,’ she said curtly.
‘But you told me.’
Jacoba bit her lip. Yes, she had, and why? She and Hawke both valued their privacy and they’d found the whole situation amusing. And for her their supposed relationship had been a shield against the predatory males she met in her career. Most of the men who wanted to take her to bed were careful not to offend Hawke.
Uncannily, Marco echoed her thoughts. ‘Why?’
And when she stared at him, her mind churning, he elaborated, ‘Why tell me, Jacoba?’
‘Because you made me angry,’ she said curtly.
‘Or because you wanted me to know that your relationship with him isn’t one I need to be concerned about?’
‘No!’ late, she realised the trap she’d set for herself. She blurted, ‘Didn’t you say the chopper is due back any minute?’
She was right. Frustration set fire to Marco’s temper. How the hell had he let this happen? He wanted her so much that he could taste the hunger in his mouth, feel it etch like hot acid through him. Somehow she managed to shatter the control he’d always possessed, even in sex.
Mentally he cursed himself for being so crass as to mention Kennedy. If he’d thought a moment, he’d have understood exactly what her reaction to his taunt would be.
At least he’d learned that much about her, he thought caustically. And it didn’t help to have to admit that when she was in his arms he wasn’t capable of thinking at all.
Her lips, made fuller and more passionate by his kisses, trembled. ‘We have to stop,’ said unsteadily. ‘I need to pack.’
Gritting his teeth, Marco fought back another violent surge of hunger. He saw the colour come and go in that translucent, satiny skin as she turned away and struggled to pull the wet bra top over her breasts.
He said, ‘Here, take this,’ and handed her the shirt she’d stripped from his shoulders.
Scarlet-faced, she shrugged into it, turning away to slip the shirt on and retie the knot on her skimpy bikini pants. He noted that her fingers were trembling and had to stoop to pick up the beach blanket to give himself a moment’s respite from the urgent hunger that had him in its grip.
When he’d reimposed a fragile control on his body, he straightened up, unashamedly using his height and size to intimidate. She looked hastily away, as though the sight of him—lean and bronzed and icily aloof—scared her.
That sideways glance through her lashes made him wonder if she hadn’t expected him to stop. Clearly she’d anticipated denunciation and anger. But then, she was a consummate actress. In the video she’d been a woman falling in love, her expression radiant and innocent and wondering.
‘You’re right. We’d better go,’ he said in a level, judicial tone, and set off up the beach towards the shack.
The slight squaring of her shoulders and the adjusted tilt of her jaw revealed that she was clawing her confidence back, inch by painful inch.
Marco said with the silky distinctness that always sent his employees scuttling, ‘Don’t look so scared. I’m not an animal, to force a seduction.’
She didn’t answer, but he saw the betraying quiver of a muscle beside her mouth.
‘Not that it wouldn’t have been hugely enjoyable,’ he added. He waited until colour flooded her skin before finishing, ‘For both of us.’
The flick of scorn in his voice tightened her nerv
es, but shored up her pride. It was useless to lie; he knew she’d enjoyed every one of the maddened seconds she’d spent in his arms.
Ignoring the heat in her cheeks, she said, ‘Yes. I owe you that, I suppose.’
He lifted an arrogant brow. ‘You don’t owe me anything. And because we have to work together I’ll make one thing plain: if there is a next time, it will only happen when you make it clear it’s what you want.’
Her eyes widened, then her lashes came down. Deeply mortified, she said brusquely, ‘Don’t worry, you’re quite safe.’
‘It’s a deal,’ he said, and stopped just below the steps onto the veranda to hold out his hand.
When she hesitated, he smiled—a definite challenge.
Stung, Jacoba overcame her reluctance and shook hands with him. Electricity ran up her arm, re-igniting the flame she’d fought back only a few minutes previously. The glitter in his eyes told her he was feeling it too, that he’d initiated this contact deliberately.
Setting her jaw, she pulled away. ‘If you want me to be ready by the time the helicopter comes back, I need to shower and pack.’
‘It will wait,’ he said indifferently, but he released her and strode beside her up the beach.
CHAPTER FOUR
MARCO followed her into the one room of the bach, looking around him with lifted brows.
He’d probably never seen anything so primitive before in his pampered life, Jacoba thought snidely. And, damn it, he took up most of the available room and all of the available air!
Aloud she said, ‘If you wait outside, I’ll get ready.’
‘Will you be coming back here?’
‘No,’ she said abruptly, then wondered whether she should have revealed that much about her plans. But it wasn’t worth making another long journey north again; in a few days she was due to spend time with Hawke at his house in the Bay of Islands and he wouldn’t mind if she arrived a couple of days early.
He said, ‘If you get me a box, I’ll empty the fridge.’
Furious with him for being thoughtful, she snapped, ‘Thank you. The chilly bin’s over there.’ She indicated the large insulated box that would keep the food fresh. But as she turned to collect a change of clothes, her eyes caught the wet hems of his trousers and his sodden shoes.