by Tessa Radley
After dinner he yawned and stretched. “Time to hit the sack.”
Danielle stood, suddenly nervous. “You can go first. I’ve something I want to finish on my laptop, I’ll be up shortly.”
“Checking e-mail?”
“No!” Danielle shivered at the thought, knowing that Rico would demand to download her mail and check the messages first. The knowledge was oddly comforting. “I just want to give a report a final proofread.” She didn’t need to. But she wanted a reason to delay going to bed. If she could, she’d procrastinate until he was asleep.
“Okay, I’ll keep you company.”
Damn. She didn’t want Rico hanging around but gave in. “I’ll bring my laptop upstairs.” It would give her an excuse to look busy in the lag of time before plunging the room into the dark, simmering air of expectancy that made her quiver.
He followed her up the stairs and all of a sudden that electrifying silence was back.
After dumping the laptop on the new bed and grabbing her nightie, Danielle scuttled into the bathroom and locked the door behind her—not that she expected Rico to follow her. A deep breath stilled the nervous tremors that vibrated through her. Composed at last, she shucked off her clothes and stepped into the shower.
Afterward she dried off, changed into her silk nightie and returned to the bedroom. Rico stood beside the window, a dark shape in the unlit room. He didn’t turn at the sound of the door opening. “It’s beautiful tonight—the moon is rich and full.”
“Let me see.” She moved across the room.
“Careful. Remember what I said. Never stand in the centre of the window. Stand to the side, use the curtains to shield you, it will blur the shape of your body, making it difficult to get a clean shot.”
She eased in beside him. Outside the moon hung low over the shiny black sea, so swollen and full that Danielle could imagine reaching out to touch it. The glow outlined the ghostly volcanic cone of Rangitoto Island, and the beauty tugged her heartstrings.
“This is why I love it here. The natural beauty, the space around one. It’s a slice of paradise. I’ve missed it.” His voice dropped to a low, mesmerising hum. Danielle was conscious of the romance of the dark, humid night, of Rico’s scent, and her heart kicked up a beat.
Deliberately she placed her fingertips on his arm. His flesh was firm and warm, and the connection made her tingle. “I’m glad—glad you’re back.”
Rico went very still. Finally he let out his breath, and the sound was loud in the quiet room. “It’s been a long day. I need a shower. Try to catch some rest, hmm?”
She sagged at the snub. He might as well have said, “Make sure you’re asleep when I return, because I don’t want to be bothered.”
Seven
“W hat’s this?” she asked Rico the following Saturday morning. Fear knotted her stomach as she remembered the contents of the last envelope he’d handed her.
“Relax.” His hand closed over hers.
Curious, she took the envelope and drew out a plastic folder embossed with a banking crest. Inside lay a wad of bank notes, a chequebook, a gold credit card and some promotional booklets. She stared at the innocuous items as though she’d discovered a pit of serpents.
She forced herself to reach out and pick up the credit card.
“Danielle D’Alessio.” Would her heart always contract at the sight of that name? She ran her thumb over the raised print on the gold card and thought of the pile of plastic in her purse—and the invisible strings of control that went with them. She raised her gaze and said levelly, “I don’t want these.”
Instantly his brows met. “Why not? You’re my wife.”
Was that annoyance and…hurt…that lit his eyes? No, impossible! Nothing she could do would ever hurt Rico D’Alessio. “Your temporary wife—not your real wife!”
“We’re married.”
“Not for the reasons we should be.” He’d certainly made his feelings for her clear—going to bed after she was already asleep, making sure he was out of the bedroom before she awoke. She hesitated, searching for the right words to explain how she felt. “But even if we were, I don’t think I could take them.”
His eyes went black. “I don’t understand you.”
“Well, you should!”
His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You told me you didn’t want your wife’s money when she was alive, that you wanted to make it your own way. You had pride.” She drew herself up to the full height of her five foot six inches. “Well, I have my pride, too—I need to establish my independence.” Hurriedly she pushed the card, the cash and the brochures back into the folder and shoved it into his hands. “My father’s always given me whatever I want. But there’s always been a heavy price attached.”
“And you think I would do the same? Use money as a hold over you?” He sounded affronted.
She took in his wounded expression, the way his bottom lip jutted out, and almost snorted. He looked like a little boy who’d been royally told off instead of a man who had her wedged between a rock and a hard place. She arched an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Never!”
At his adamant response, she did snort. “Let’s just say you have enough holds over me already.”
He went silent, staring at the folder. When he finally looked up, his eyes were cool, all hint of the boyish appeal gone. “Look at it from my perspective. I’m staying in your house. You’ve stocked it with supplies, arranged for Parsons to order furniture. I don’t pay rent. I’m essentially a kept man. This—” he shook the bank pack at her “—makes me feel better.”
Kept man? His pride wouldn’t like that. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I can see your dilemma. First, you offer to be my naked chef, and now it’s almost like you’re barefoot and pregnant in my kitchen.”
He shot her a killing look.
She held up her hands. “Joke.”
“Not funny.”
“Oh, come on, Rico!”
He gave her a reproving glance. “You have a very wicked sense of humour. I’m not sure that I approve of you poking fun at me like this.”
“Doesn’t anyone ever laugh at you? Just a little?”
He managed to look both injured and insulted. Danielle stifled a smile. Tipping her head sideways, she considered the red slash of colour high on his cheekbones. “They don’t, do they?”
“No, I’m the eldest,” he said, the words sounding forced from him.
“Ah.”
“Ah? What does this ‘ah’ mean?”
“And you’re the only son. No wonder you take yourself too seriously. It’s time for you to cut loose and have some fun, Rico.”
He looked suspicious. “It’s been a while since I’ve wanted to have fun.”
Four years, at least, she thought, and her heart softened. After a moment’s consideration, she said, “I tell you what, we’ll compromise. You keep the chequebook and the cash. I’ll take the card and I’ll use it each month up to a limit, like rent. Okay?” She named a figure.
He looked like he was going to argue.
She upped the amount a little, hoping it would be enough to satisfy his masculine pride. But she refused to accept anything that could be construed as charity—or worse, an amount that he could later claim payback on. “And that’s final.”
“A stubborn streak lurks under your sweet exterior.” His voice was curiously gentle. He opened the folder, extracted the money and pocketed it, then handed her the square of gold. Carelessly he dropped the folder on the table. “But today I’m going to be equally determined. I want to buy something for the house.”
Danielle slowly nodded. If he could compromise—which she doubted had been an easy task for him—then so could she.
Saturday passed in a flash.
Back from Newmarket, Auckland’s shopping Mecca, Rico admitted that he’d had fun. Fun when Danielle had dragged him into the seventh carpet shop and
they’d found the perfect rug for the sitting room; when she’d selected a couple of ceramic planters with bright designs and when he’d found an ancient oak table that reminded him of the huge table in his parents’ kitchen. The table where his mother pored over recipes, where he and his sisters had done their homework, and where his father spread his evening newspaper out. The kind of table that spelt generations.
Arriving home, he’d checked out the townhouse and then Danielle walked in, parcels rustling and the floaty fabric of her dress swirling around her. She reached the sitting room, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed onto the couch among an armful of packages.
“My feet are killing me,” she said, laughing at him, as he returned pretending to stagger under the weight of more bags.
“Woman, never let it be said that you can’t shop.” He pulled a face at her. “Now, can I fix you a drink?”
“Something long and cool, please.”
“Your wish is my command.”
She flung her head back and, glancing sideways at him through crinkled, laughing eyes, she said, “Yeah, right!”
For a moment he was struck dumb by her vitality and joy. He could become addicted to the sound of her laughter. He shook himself free of the odd notion, like a dog ridding itself of rain, and strode quickly to the kitchen.
Minutes later he handed her a tall glass filled with a rich melon-coloured liquid. “Try this.” He dropped down beside her, and his thigh brushed hers, the warmth of her body providing a connection that he found oddly comforting. Barely aware of his actions, her reached for her free hand, enfolding it his larger one.
“Lovely,” she sighed, after a long sip. “Tell me about Lucia. How did you meet?”
He was so mellow, he barely flinched at the sudden question. “At an embassy function. I was there advising on security, she was there with a friend. She was Italian, it drew us together. I asked her out, she accepted. By the time I figured out who she was, it was too late.”
He paused, remembering the argument he’d had with Lucia when he’d learned she was a member of the wealthy Ravaldi family. Pride smarting, he’d demanded to break it off, but she’d refused, insisting that they were in love, that she wanted to get married. Beautiful, tempestuous Lucia whom he’d loved to death.
“We were married within six weeks of our first meeting. Her family flew out for the wedding. But—” he shot Danielle a wry look “—as you know, I’m a proud man. I was determined to stay in New Zealand and carry on working. My wife wasn’t going to support me. Sometimes my resolve annoyed Lucia immensely.” In the end they’d compromised. She used her funds for clothes and other female fripperies, but they’d lived simply in the apartment he’d rented, eating food he bought.
“You were already married when you came to work for Daddy. You must both have been very young.”
“I was twenty-one when I met Lucia. She was eight years older. I was stunned that this sophisticated woman of the world found me so riveting.” He gave a self-deprecating grin, remembering how flattered he’d been.
Danielle’s face held an unfathomable expression. “I’m not at all surprised that you snagged her attention.” Then a wicked gleam lit her eyes, and instantly her features were transformed. “Even if you were only a baby.”
“Baby?” Rico tried to sound affronted, but her sparkling eyes made it impossible. “Who’s the baby? I was only a year or so younger than you are now.” He smiled at her, and when she grinned back, he suddenly felt on top of the world. Affection for her warmed him. It had been so long since he’d spoken to anyone about Lucia, it was as if a huge dam had broken inside him, easing some inexplicable tension that he’d barely known existed.
With her free hand Danielle reached for her glass. Rico watched her throat move as she swallowed the juice. He followed the path of the liquid down to where the neckline of the dress dropped in a sharp vee, to where the first of a row of buttons nestled. Consciously he forced himself to relax his grip on her slim fingers as the tension escalated inside him.
The fabric moulded her breasts—
He snapped his gaze away. Okay, so she was attractive. She was kind.
And considerate.
And nice.
Finally he gave up cataloguing her virtues and simply admitted that he liked her, that he’d had a great day, that he’d had fun—maybe for the first time in years.
And that worried him.
Because this wasn’t about enjoying himself. He’d set himself a task. One that he would never accomplish if he continued to allow guilt to gnaw his gut each time Danielle roused a smile. What he had to do was about more than revenge.
His father might be dying. He, Rico, was the last D’Alessio. He’d promised his father, at the high-sided hospital cot that he’d feared would be his father’s deathbed, that he’d see to it.
Danielle Sinclair was going to provide him with a baby, an heir to the D’Alessio name. He couldn’t allow the feeling that he was betraying Lucia to keep getting in the way. He’d loved Lucia. He’d never fall in love with Danielle Sinclair. No threat of betrayal to Lucia existed. This was about life—new life—not a new love. And he was avenging Lucia, too. Simple.
So when had it all become so complicated? Was it when he’d stood beside Danielle at that scarily real, fake wedding? When he’d held her fragile fingers in his, and vowed to love, cherish and honour her?
He tightened his hand around hers, and she twisted her fingers, lacing them through his. They fitted, warm and supple, against his.
Something stirred inside him.
Lust, he told himself. Nothing to feel furtive or guilty about. It was the age-old, primitive response of a red-blooded man to a beautiful woman he knew he was going to bed. Its strength came from the fact that it had been a long time since he’d been laid—it certainly would never impact his heart.
No one expected him to live like a monk.
He could do this. He had to do this.
Unless he was prepared to disappoint his father.
Danielle flexed her feet, stretching the arch that was tender from pounding the Newmarket pavements. Rico stood and she felt a sharp sense of loss as she watched him walk away through the archway. They’d shared laughter and a sense of kinship today. Now he was leaving her alone. All the happiness went out of her, like a deflated balloon.
It was dangerous to allow herself to be so happy. This was all temporary. She was staring blindly at her bare feet when Rico returned holding a towel she’d placed in the guest bathroom.
“Feet sore?” he asked as he sank down beside her.
“Killing me,” she said. “What are you doing?”
“Can’t have you limping around, so I’ll have to make it better.”
He stretched past her, and she caught his warm scent. Renewed hope stirred. Firmly she suppressed it. She could not allow herself to become hooked on Rico. Soon he’d be gone.
She pushed the disheartening thought away as he gently lifted her foot onto his lap and wrapped the hot, dampened towel around it. Oh, sheer bliss. Shutting her eyes, she focused on the heat penetrating her sore foot muscles and slowly relaxed. After a few minutes he pulled the towel free and deftly wrapped her other foot. Taking the freed foot between his hands, he started rubbing the arch, his thumb finding the knots and easing the aches.
Danielle moaned. “That is so good.”
“Relax. Let the tension go.” His fingers massaged the tender skin under her feet.
Danielle let her breath ease out. “Whatever you say.”
He snorted. “Since when do you do what I want, hmm?”
“All the time.” She smiled at him. “Rub my feet and I’ll be your slave for life, oh master.”
Rico made a choking sound. The eyes that met hers glinted with laughter. “I have never met a woman like you, who looks so biddable, yet underneath lies a will of pure steel.”
“Oh.” But his words flattered her. Here was someone who didn’t consider her a dutiful daughter, a gullible sister, a
doormat. No, she reminded herself sharply before the tide of emotion could spread the gentle warmth any further, to him she was simply a body to impregnate.
“Just when I think I know what to expect from you, you confound me.” He switched feet, carefully lowering the first to the ground and firmly grasping the other. Then he gave it the same relentless attention. And she surrendered to the shivers of pain-edged pleasure that rippled upward from her feet as he tended to the kinks. She tipped her head back and sighed in ecstasy. “Mmm.”
Slowly his hands followed the ripples in lazy arcs, up her calf…up…to the soft skin inside her knees. “Take what we’re doing now. I’m rubbing your sore feet. You should be groaning with pain, yet you confound me, uttering those little murmurs of pleasure that make me grow hard.”
Her pulse began to hammer. She made him hard. He wanted her.
The lowest button of the button-through dress gave. “Your skin feels warm and soft under my fingers.” His thumb stroked across her thigh, and instantly her body turned to fire.
A second button slid free. She held her breath, waiting for his next move.
He shifted. “Danielle…”
When she opened her eyes, his face was above hers. So close that she could see his dilated pupils against the midnight irises.
“Yes?”
“Are you ready for this?”
She nodded. But a shard of doubt pierced her. Could she let Rico make love to her, knowing that all he wanted was her fertility? His hip brushed hers, and a bolt of heat leaped through her. He was hard and warm and male. Of course she could do this!
A frown creased his forehead. “Are you certain, cara?”
Her pulse thudded at the endearment. But then reality kicked in. He was simply trying to make it easier for both of them. It didn’t mean a thing. For an instant she hesitated. Clinically she analysed her dilemma. She wanted Rico to show her what passion was all about. If she turned him down, told him everything…would he ever make a move on her again? Or would he simply write her off, walk away and find another woman? Perhaps even pursue Kim. She closed her eyes. “Yes, I’m certain.”