Myself.
‘Nothing.’
Amusement rumbled deep in his chest. ‘Liar.’
He tugged her head back, tilted her face to his, and she knew in the span of a single panicked heartbeat she was headed for trouble. Knew the instant his mouth covered hers this kiss would not be the hard, demanding, alpha-take-charge kiss she’d expected. No. This kiss was something altogether different. Something far more calculated and disturbing. A skilled, sensual assault that sent his mouth and tongue moving in long, lazy strokes over her tightly clamped lips.
Helena’s nostrils flared, her sharp inhalation drawing in the heady spice of his cologne, and a whimper of protest caught in her throat. Or was it a moan? Either way, Leo showed no sign of relenting. His lips coaxed, his tongue teased, his teeth lightly grazed. And with every stroke, every nip and tug, her resolve to refuse him access suffered another crippling blow.
Ruthless, she thought, the floor tilting under her, the bones in her legs melting like heated wax. He was ruthless and she was drowning, oblivious to everything except the hard male body imprisoning hers and the sweet, blistering assault of his mouth.
Belatedly she registered a tugging at her waistband, a whisper of cool air on her midriff—and then the explosive charge of flesh against heated flesh. She jerked with surprise, but the hand behind her head held firm while the other rose to cup her breast. Deft fingers hooked aside cotton and lace and closed around one hard, almost painfully taut peak.
Helena arched her back and groaned. She couldn’t help it. Her body was on fire and she couldn’t douse the flames. Her lips parted, her lungs desperate for air, and she did nothing to resist when Leo’s tongue swept in and tangled with her own. He growled—with satisfaction or triumph?—and then she was lost, unable to remember why she didn’t want this. Didn’t want him. With a moan of surrender, she wound her arms around his neck. Arched into his touch. Opened herself to his kiss.
‘Ahem...’
Helena froze.
Oh, no, no, no.
That could not be the sound of a man clearing his throat inside the cabin. Heat of a different kind crawled up her neck as she realised that Leo, too, was motionless, his mouth locked on hers, one hand twined in her hair while the other cradled her breast beneath her tee.
Horrified, she wriggled to snap whatever spell held him frozen. Slowly his head lifted, his gaze blazing into hers with momentary intensity before shifting to the uniformed man standing near the entry to the cockpit. Her cheeks flamed. Why didn’t Leo release her? Remove his hand from her breast? She squirmed, mortified.
‘Five minutes to take-off, sir,’ the attendant said, his voice neutral, his face devoid of expression.
Leo nodded. ‘Grazie.’
The man retreated behind a floor-length curtain and she dragged in a breath, waited for the curtain to fall, then shoved at Leo’s chest. Her trembling arms possessed just enough strength to break his hold. Hastily she rearranged her bra and tee, conscious of her smarting cheeks. Her tingling lips.
One kiss.
And she’d lost herself completely. Been ready to give him whatever he wanted. Whatever he demanded. How could she be so weak? So pathetic?
Was this what her mother did every time she kissed and made up with her husband? Did she let herself get played? Sucked in by some practised seduction routine that made her forget all the hurt that had gone before? All the ugliness that would surely follow?
Anger flared, at herself. At him. ‘Is this part of our deal?’ She yanked the hem of her tee into her jeans. ‘That you get to maul me whenever you feel like it?’
He had the nerve to smile. A cool, sardonic smile that made her want to throw something—preferably at his head.
‘You call that being mauled?’
‘What would you call it when a man forces himself on a woman?’
His soft laugh jarred her nerves. ‘Force?’
She would have spun away if his hand hadn’t risen with startling speed to capture her jaw. Her pulse skittered.
‘Don’t fool yourself, cara.’ He dragged his thumb over her mouth, parted her lips. Ran his tongue over his own as if recalling how she tasted. ‘You enjoyed that as much as I did.’
A sharp denial danced on her tongue but she choked it back. His heated appraisal, the glitter in those dark eyes, told her he felt the pull of their physical attraction as surely and inexorably as she. Refusing to acknowledge what they both knew existed was futile. Dangerous. Instinct warned he’d take great pleasure in proving her wrong—again.
She jerked free of his grasp, moved to a window seat and strapped herself in. Outside, the ground crew completed their final safety checks and she stared out the window, feigned interest in their activity.
Leo made her feel vulnerable, exposed, and she hated it. Hated that her desire for him was so plain to see. Hated the ease with which he zeroed in on it, ruthlessly exploiting her weakness for him.
Her father did the same thing—found people’s weaknesses, their soft spots and vulnerabilities. Was that why her mother stayed? Did he wield her fears and weaknesses against her? Use them as leverage so she didn’t leave?
Helena blinked away the burn of tears. She’d never make her mother’s mistake. She’d rather die a dried-up old spinster than tolerate a man who didn’t treat her with respect.
If only Leo’s kiss hadn’t made her blood sing. Hadn’t fired every dormant cell in her body to glorious life.
With a ragged sigh, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the seat.
So much for cool and aloof.
* * *
Leo closed his laptop as the pilot announced their descent into Rome’s Fiumicino Airport. The flight had been uneventful and he’d passed the time with work, sifting through emails and reports while Helena had mostly slept. Or pretended to. He wasn’t sure which. Either way, she’d avoided engaging with him, stirring only once in two hours to visit the restroom and accept refreshments.
He studied her in the seat opposite. Her eyes were closed, long lashes the same dark auburn as her hair fanned over ivory skin, and the slopes of her breasts rose and fell in time with the steady, hypnotic rhythm of her breathing. Her hair was shiny and tousled and the thick, lustrous curls he’d enjoyed twining his fingers through tumbled in soft waves to her shoulders.
His groin stirred, unbidden. She was a temptress. Beautiful as a mythical siren and twice as dangerous with those sweet, alluring lips that could test the restraint of any man with a libido and a heartbeat.
They had certainly tested his.
He let his gaze linger a few seconds longer, then dragged his focus to the window and the vast sprawl of lights in the blackness beyond.
This version of Helena was a mystery to him and he didn’t like mysteries—or secrets. He liked staying one step ahead of the game. The takeover was a done deal, but writing off his opponent would be premature. Douglas Shaw would be seeking ways to retaliate, and the man had a reputation for playing dirty. The possibility that he’d reached out to his estranged daughter, manipulated her in an effort to undermine his adversary, was one Leo couldn’t afford to ignore.
The jet’s wheels hit the Tarmac and Helena stirred. She straightened, blinked, looked out the window, then peered at her watch.
‘One hour,’ he said.
She glanced up. ‘Sorry?’
‘Turn your watch forward one hour. It’s just after ten.’
The plane taxied to a stop near a large hangar. Fifteen minutes later customs formalities had been completed and their luggage transferred to the trunk of a black Maserati convertible. He guided Helena into the front passenger seat, then slid behind the wheel, anticipating at once the dichotomous feelings of control and freedom he enjoyed whenever he took charge of the sleek, powerful machine.
‘The Eternal City,’ Helena murmured when, a short time later, he manoeuvred them into busier, more densely populated streets. She stared out her side window at the illuminated façades of elegant old buil
dings, towering columns and ancient timeworn structures.
‘You’ve never visited Rome?’
She shook her head. ‘I never got around to it.’
He glanced at her. Was that a wistful note in her voice? Seven years ago she had bubbled with excitement when he’d suggested bringing her to Rome. He didn’t know why the fact she hadn’t come with a boyfriend or lover in the years since should give him a small kick of satisfaction—but it did.
‘I’d love to explore while I’m here.’
‘You can sightsee during the days, while I’m working. I will arrange a driver and a guide.’
He sensed rather than saw her sharp look. ‘I don’t need a babysitter.’
‘I am not suggesting you do.’
‘But you’d be happier if someone kept an eye on me, right?’ Her sigh was loud. ‘You really do have trust issues, don’t you?’
A young couple on a red scooter swerved in front of the car, forcing him to brake. ‘Meaning...?’
‘Meaning I’m not going to run off the minute your back’s turned. We made a deal and I don’t plan to renege on it. I’m here, aren’t I?’
The scooter sped off down an alley and he hit the accelerator again. ‘Rome is a vast city, Helena. An experienced guide can ensure you see the best sights. Go to the right places. There are areas I would not like to see you, or any woman unfamiliar with the city, go to alone.’
‘I can take care of myself.’
He smiled. Briefly. ‘I have no doubt. But if you wish to sightsee you will have a guide. I will not debate with you on this,’ he ended, injecting a note of finality into his voice.
Helena averted her face and he wondered if she would sulk. He didn’t recall her being the petulant type, but then neither did he remember her being so argumentative. Perversely, he liked it.
‘Are you always so over-protective?’
Her voice was soft, laced with curiosity rather than the irritation that had spiked her earlier words. He frowned, a ripple of discomfort sliding through him. The question felt intrusive, too personal, and for several awkward moments an answer eluded him.
‘I do not consider the use of good sense to be over-protective,’ he said at last.
Silence met his statement, and when he glanced over she was studying him intently. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Marietta, too, had accused him of being over-protective at times, but taking care of his sister was a responsibility he would never shirk—no matter how vociferously she objected. He knew the consequences of failing in that duty and he never wanted to feel the devastation of such failure again. Loving someone, being responsible for them, was no trifling task. Most days it scared the hell out of him.
Setting his jaw, he crunched the Maserati’s gears and turned into the narrow lane that ran down the side of his apartment building. He pressed a key fob on his visor and a wrought-iron gate rattled open, granting access to the secure courtyard he shared with his tenants. He nosed the car past two others and stopped in a reserved space beneath the leafy branches of a mature orange tree.
Helena peered up at the building’s ornate façade. ‘You live right in the city?’
He shut off the engine. ‘Apartments in central Rome with private parking are rare. When one of my clients put the building on the market last year I considered it a good investment.’
She gaped at him. ‘You bought the entire building?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s convenient. My office is a few blocks from here.’
She shook her head and climbed out of the car, completely absorbed, it seemed, in her surroundings. Leo retrieved their luggage from the boot and hoped their previous discussion was over and forgotten. With any luck she’d realise the futility of defying him and accept his edict about the sightseeing.
If she didn’t...?
Well, he could think of several ways to silence her arguments. And he wasn’t above a few dirty tactics of his own.
* * *
Leo’s penthouse apartment was spectacular.
Stylish modern furniture, richly textured rugs and great expanses of glass created a slick, contemporary oasis that floated in peaceful isolation above the heart of the ancient city.
Helena tried hard not to look impressed.
Tried harder still to calm the flutter in her belly as he took her to a bedroom with stunning views from a floor-to-ceiling window and an en suite bathroom so massive she could have swung a tiger. She slipped her holdall off her shoulder, her gaze landing on the gigantic bed with its big, plump pillows and soft ivory comforter.
A steady flush crept up her neck.
‘Hungry?’
She darted him a look. ‘A bit.’ On the plane she’d snacked on biscuits and fruit between bouts of sleep. Now her stomach craved something more substantial. Not to mention her mouth. Dry as a sandpit. ‘Thirsty more than anything.’
He laid her case on the upholstered ottoman at the end of the bed. ‘Settle in, then come and find me in the kitchen when you’re done. Back down the hall on the right.’
Left alone, and with a burst of energy born of nervous tension, Helena made short work of unpacking. Not that the task required much effort. Even with all her clothes arranged on individual hangers she’d utilised only a fraction of the gargantuan wardrobe. She straightened the skirt of the long black gown she’d bought on impulse from a store selling pre-loved designer fashion, stashed her case in the rear of the wardrobe, then checked her phone.
No messages, but she hadn’t expected any. She’d told her mother she was going out of town, visiting a girlfriend in Devon and then attending a team-building course with colleagues during the week. Small, innocuous lies that had caused a pang of guilt, but there was no reason her mother should know about her arrangement with Leo.
She tucked her phone away. Recent conversations with her mother had been stilted, tense, but Miriam had agreed to meet and talk the following weekend, and that, if nothing else, was progress. In the meantime Douglas had run off to Scotland to shoot deer and no doubt seek solace in a bottle or two of single malt: typical behaviour for a man who thought himself untouchable. But on the upside her mother was safe. For now, at least. The coward couldn’t lay hands on his wife while he wallowed in denial four hundred miles away.
Expelling her father from her thoughts, Helena ventured into the hall and followed the faint aroma of garlic and basil until she came to a big, stainless steel and black granite kitchen.
Leo stood behind a large central island, his hand wrapped around the handle of a sharp knife, a partially sliced tomato on the thick wooden board in front of him. An open can of soda sat on the granite. He appeared relaxed. At ease. And more achingly handsome than any man had a right to look, standing at a bench chopping vegetables.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘You cook?’
He glanced up. ‘Bruschetta is hardly cooking. But, yes, when I have the time. My housekeeper stocks the kitchen for me.’
A housekeeper. That explained the spotless floors and gleaming surfaces everywhere she looked.
‘You said you were thirsty. Wine, juice or soda?’
Wine was tempting, but her lack of control after the bubbles on the plane made her shy away from that idea. ‘Juice, thanks.’ She raised a hand when he paused his work. ‘I can help myself.’ Better that than stand there gawking at him. She crossed to a stainless steel double-door refrigerator, surveyed its impressive contents, and selected a carton of apple juice. ‘Glasses?’
‘Cabinet on your left.’
After filling a tall glass and savouring her first thirst-quenching swallow, she hovered awkwardly. ‘Anything I can do?’
He scooped the cut tomato onto a platter with thin strips of prosciutto, sliced mozzarella, fresh basil leaves and fat cloves of garlic. ‘If you still like Cerignola olives, there’s a jar in the fridge door. Small bowls are in the same cabinet as the glasses.’
Her mouth watered. Years ago he’d introduced her to the large, sweet-flavoured Italian olives and she’
d loved them. Still did. The fact he remembered that tiny detail made her heart clench in an unexpected way.
What else did he remember?
She found the jar and grabbed two ceramic bowls—one for the olives and one for discarded stones.
It didn’t matter what he remembered. Or what he didn’t. She wasn’t here for a waltz down memory lane.
She hunted out a spoon and fished out the olives, putting them into a bowl, careful not to transfer too much of the oily brine.
She couldn’t resist. The olives were plump and juicy and she was ravenous. She popped one straight from the jar into her mouth, paused a second to anticipate the burst of flavour on her tongue—then nearly inhaled the olive whole when two large hands circled her waist from behind. Her hand jerked and the spoon slipped, catapulting an olive over the benchtop like a miniature green missile. Helplessly she watched it shoot off the end and roll, leaving a wet, glistening trail over the limestone floor.
Leo pulled her against him. ‘Relax,’ he murmured in her ear, and she bit through the flesh of the olive.
The temptation to do exactly that—relax into him, let her shoulders and buttocks mould to his hard, muscular contours—was too strong. Too dangerous.
She gripped the edge of the bench.
Oh, God.
She wasn’t ready for him to touch her like this, hold her like this, whisper in her ear like a sweet, familiar lover. No more than she’d been ready for the mind-blowing impact of his kiss. Yet in less than twenty-four hours she had to be ready. Tomorrow people would watch them closely. Especially the Santinos. And Italians were demonstrative people, unafraid to express themselves in front of others. She and Leo couldn’t simply claim to be lovers. They must behave like lovers.
She forced her grip on the bench to loosen.
‘I’m just getting in some practice.’ His warm lips brushed the sensitive skin below her earlobe, inciting an involuntary shiver in her muscles. His arms tightened around her. ‘You are cold?’
Damn him. She wasn’t cold and he knew it. The evening was humid and sultry. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
‘So quiet, Helena...’ His mouth trailed to the ultra-sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder. ‘What are you thinking?’
Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian Page 8