Читать книгу Redemption Of The Untamed Italian - Clare Connelly - Страница 12

‘I STILL FIND it hard to see what’s in it for me.’

Cesare Durante spoke with a voice that was naturally husky and deep, his accent ever so slightly Italian but also cultured and British. Jemima observed him from beneath shuttered lashes, wishing he hadn’t so completely lived up to her expectations. Everything she’d read about the self-made billionaire had told her what he’d be like: intelligent but charming, with the kind of looks that would make almost anyone weak at the knees.

But there was an arrogance about him too, an arrogance that communicated itself with every curve of his lips, every flash of his sharp, perceptive eyes.

When he’d introduced himself even his name had dispelled any idea that there might be a lingering softness buried in his broadly muscled chest. ‘Cesare,’ he’d said, almost as a command, the pronunciation faithful to the Italian, so it sounded like ‘Che-zar-eh’. From his lips it emerged as a rumble, a deep, rolling wave that crashed over Jemima and momentarily robbed her of breath.

‘The fund’s versatility is the main selling point,’ Laurence interjected with a confidence she knew he didn’t feel.

‘If my investors find out I’ve tanked a third of the fund’s value, I’m screwed, Jem. That’s like a hundred million quid. I need to get Durante on side—it’s the only way I can keep things afloat. Please help. Please.’

Even as a child she’d have done anything Laurence asked of her, but after her brother’s death Laurence and Jemima had been bonded in that unique way grief conspired to bring about. Laurence was the only person who could understand the void in her life and, at the same time, he was the only person who could go halfway to filling it. They were family, they were friends, they were two souls who’d known intense loss and guilt, and she’d do anything he asked of her.

Just as he’d do anything for her. She knew that was why he’d made such irresponsible, reckless investments: to save Almer Hall. He knew the extent of debt her parents were in and that even her income wasn’t equal to it. He was working himself into the ground, taking lavish risks, because he knew what the Hall meant to them and she loved him to bits for that.

‘Most funds have a range of assets.’ Cesare Durante’s expression showed displeasure. ‘I didn’t fly in from Rome for a middling sales pitch. Tell me what else you’ve got.’

She felt Laurence’s tension and her own stomach swirled. She hated seeing him like this, and she understood his anxiety. She knew what this meant to him. More importantly, she knew what would happen if Cesare Durante didn’t invest in Laurence’s hedge fund—financial ruin, certainly, and likely criminal charges for the reckless way he’d invested other people’s money without advising them of his activities. He’d be ruined, absolutely, and by extension so would her parents, because Laurence would no longer be in a position to offer any financial help to them. They’d already lost so much and couldn’t cope with another hurdle.

Reaching for her champagne, she held it just a few inches from her lips, her large green eyes regarding Cesare thoughtfully. Her eyes were one of Jemima’s most recognisable features. The first international campaign she’d landed had been for a cosmetic giant and promoting mascara had launched her career globally. She trained the full force of those eyes on the Italian now, leaning forward slightly.

‘Did you just fly in today?’ She kept her tone light intentionally.

Laurence had been clear: ‘With you there, it’ll feel social. Fun. Keep the heat off me, distract him from how much cash I’m asking him to kick in.’

Keeping the heat off with Cesare Durante at the table was apparently a physical impossibility. As he slowly turned to face her, her pulse kicked up a gear and her blood begin to boil in her veins. It took all her discipline to maintain a muted expression on her face.

‘This evening.’ His gaze shifted over her face in that same appraising way, as though he was studying her piece by piece.

It was impossible to be one of the world’s most sought-after models without knowing yourself to be beautiful. Jemima accepted that there was something in the physical construction of her face and body that was widely regarded to be attractive, but she was very pragmatic about it. She knew that she couldn’t take credit for any of these things—looks and beauty were almost entirely a question of chance, and as such the fact she was objectively beautiful gave her very little satisfaction. It was far easier to be proud of goals you worked hard to achieve rather than windfalls you were handed. She generally didn’t think about her looks much at all, except in relation to her work, to trends she might need to emulate or embrace.

But as Cesare swept his thickly lashed eyes over her face and his wide lips—set in a perfectly square jaw—quirked a little, she felt an unwelcome rush of warmth and feminine satisfaction fill her chest. His gaze travelled to her lips, lingering there for so long they began to tingle, and a flash of something with which she had very little personal experience but still recognised burst through her—desire, unmistakable, overtook her body, warming her insides, making her breath burn in her lungs.

‘And you?’ He matched her body language, leaning forward a little so she was acutely conscious of his frame. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him and yet somehow he seemed huge, as if he took up more than his allotment of physical space in the fashionable restaurant. He had to be six and a half feet, but it wasn’t his size alone that was formidable. It was as though he’d been cast from stone, or sculpted from bronzed marble. His body was broad, his shoulders squared and strong, his waist slim where his shirt met the leather belt, his legs long and confident. He’d discarded his jacket some time after their main course plates had been cleared and the cotton shirt he wore underneath, though undoubtedly the very best quality, and likely hand-stitched specifically for his body, strained just a little at the tops of his arms, so she could see that his biceps were pronounced.

But it was his face that had fascinated her all evening. It too had the appearance of having been deliberately sculpted, but by a hand of exceptional talent. It was a symmetrical face, with an aquiline nose, a firm, chiselled jaw, thick dark lashes above intensely watchful eyes and lips that were wide and deliberate. And when he smiled—which he hadn’t done much—two deep dimples scored his cheeks. His hair was thick and dark, cut close to his face, in contrast to a stubbled chin that she imagined would feel quite coarse beneath her fingertips.

Jemima was used to physical beauty. It didn’t generally impress her. She spent much of her time surrounded by models and, if anything, she’d begun to crave interesting, unusual features: skin that was marked with lines or tattoos, faces that told stories and invited questions.

He was purely beautiful, and yet she was fascinated by him, intrigued by him. She sensed something within him that made her want to ask questions, that inflamed her curiosity.

‘Jemima lives around the corner.’ Laurence spoke for her at the same time he lifted a hand to call a waiter’s attention. Neither Cesare nor Jemima looked away. It was as though they were the only people in the room.

‘I have a flat,’ she supplied after a beat.

One single brow lifted, changing his face altogether, so now she felt scepticism emanating from him. ‘You grew up in London?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘My family has an estate outside of Yorkshire. Almer Hall.’ She and Laurence shared a brief look at the mention of the family property that meant so much to them, the family property that would be lost if the hedge fund went down the drain.

Cynicism briefly converted to insolent mockery and then his expression was blank of anything except banal, idle curiosity.

‘You’re aristocracy.’ It wasn’t a question and yet she felt compelled to answer.

She lifted her shoulders. ‘There’s a title there somewhere. We don’t use it.’

‘Why not?’

‘It feels a bit outdated.’ She sipped her champagne now, relishing the popping of bubbles as they raced down her throat. His watchful gaze was warming her up, so she was glad for the cooling effect of the drink.

‘Scotch, Cesare?’ Laurence offered. Cesare finally took his attention from her and Jemima expelled all her breath in a long, quiet whoosh. She blinked, as though waking from a dream, and leaned back in her seat a little.

What would it be like to have those steel-grey eyes turned on her with the full force of his attention? No, she’d had his attention... With the full force of his desire? What would it be like to lean forward and brush her fingertips over his arm, to flirt with him a little, to smile and murmur an invitation in his ear?

Not for the first time, she felt the burden of her virginity with a burning sense of impatience. If she’d had some experience she’d be sorely tempted to act on those impulses. After all, the media had already hanged her for the crime of being a harlot—she might as well enjoy some of the spoils. Yes, if she’d had even a hint of experience she may well have acted on her impulse despite what that might mean for Laurence, despite the fact it could complicate matters for him.

Cesare’s voice was deep as he said the name of a whisky she recognised only because it was one that a photographer friend favoured—it was outrageously overpriced. Laurence ordered the same but, before the waiter could be dispatched, Cesare turned back to Jemima; her pulse rushed.

‘You are happy with your champagne?’

Her heart shifted in her chest. Despite all the reasons to maintain her distance, desire pushed her forward a little, just a fraction, as though her body was on autopilot, seeking his.

It was madness. As a teen model, she’d come across more than her fair share of designers, photographers, magazine editors and public relations guys, all of whom had thought she’d do whatever it took to advance her career, so by her fifteenth birthday she’d become adept at saying no without causing offence. In fact, she was very good at saying no without even having people realise that she was rejecting them. Sex, drugs, alcohol, orgies. Jemima had a knack for turning people down and still having them think well of her.

But there was danger in Cesare—a darkness that called to her, that made her certain he could be her weakness, and in that moment she wished more than anything that she was the kind of woman the world thought her to be. She wished she was sophisticated and experienced and that she knew exactly what to say to get a man like Cesare to have sex with her.

The thought alone had her standing abruptly, scraping her chair back so both sets of eyes lifted to her.

‘You okay?’ Laurence queried.

‘Perfectly fine.’ She pasted a smile to her face as she became aware more people were looking in her direction. Cursing her recognisability, and the fact Laurence had chosen this celebrity hotspot in an attempt to impress his would-be investor, she nodded jerkily. ‘I’ll be right back.’

She forced herself to walk sedately towards the facilities. Once inside, she lingered with her back against the cold, marble wall and her eyes swept shut.

She’d likely never see Cesare Durante again after this night. She was there for one reason and one reason only: to help Laurence secure him as an investor.

She had to help her cousin—there was too much at stake to risk ruining the evening because she couldn’t stop looking at Cesare and imagining what those broad, capable hands would feel like running over her body... Heat flushed her cheeks because she knew they’d feel good. Better than good. But that was beside the point—nothing was going to happen between them. She needed to get a grip.

Sucking in a deep breath, she quickly checked her appearance in the mirror, pausing just long enough to reapply her soft coral lipstick and finger-comb her generous, side-sweeping fringe so it artfully covered one eye. She sucked in a deep, fortifying breath and pulled the door inward, stepping into the wallpapered, dimly lit corridor that led to the amenities. At one end, there was a sideboard with a huge bunch of lilies sitting on top of it. A nostalgic smile briefly curved her lips.

As a child, Almer Hall had always had flowers. Huge arrangements, just like this, grand and fragrant. She paused in front of the vase, her fingertips lifting on autopilot to gently stroke the petals—like silk, dewy and tender. She inhaled the scent and swept her eyes shut, remembering the feeling of visiting her grandparents as a child, running down the marbled hallways. In summer, the fragrance had been almost overwhelming.

There were no flowers now. More than two-thirds of the house was shut down, doors closed, furniture—what remained of it—covered in sheets. The family quarters, whilst cheery, were modest and beginning to look tatty in parts. What she wouldn’t do to see the house as it used to be, tables in each room groaning under the weight of arrangements such as this.

Laurence had to pull this off. It was the only way they’d be able to save Almer Hall, to stave off the necessity of its sale. She couldn’t see it pass into other hands. It would be the final straw for her parents, who had already lost so much.

She pinged her eyes open with a swirling sense of discontent, but when her eyes naturally landed in the mirror above the flowers her gaze connected sharply with a pair of eyes that had been fascinating her all evening, and they were watching her with undisguised speculation. Her breath began to clog in her throat, making her feel light-headed.

‘Did you get lost?’ A sardonic lift of one brow was accompanied by a smile that set off a sudden round of fireworks in her belly. The desire she’d been trying so hard to fight lurched through her anew.

She shook her head, her throat parched at this man’s sudden appearance. Even more so when his eyes lowered, carrying out a visual inspection of her body in the pale-grey silk slip she wore.

Her heart in her throat, she turned to face him, the action bringing them toe to toe.

‘You’re shorter than I would have thought,’ he murmured so that it was Jemima’s turn to lift her brows in silent enquiry. ‘Most of the models I know are closer to my height.’

‘And I suppose you know lots of models?’ The words emerged husky and soft, and for some reason she didn’t step back from him, even when it would have made sense to put a little distance between them.

‘A few,’ he confirmed in a way that made her certain he was intentionally under-stating the facts. But then his expression sobered and he was looking at her more intently, concentrating on her features as though committing them to memory. ‘You are tiny. Like a little bird.’

Her lop-sided smile was spontaneous. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before.’

He continued to stare at her and her smile dropped. She was conscious of everything: the feeling of her breath in her body, the sound of his, the warmth from his chest, the parting of his lips.

‘Anyway.’ She shifted her eyes towards the door with effort. ‘Laurence will be wondering what’s keeping me.’

Cesare’s expression shifted immediately. ‘On the contrary, I think it is fair to say his entire focus is on whether or not I’m going to save his ass from financial ruin.’

At that, Jemima’s gaze skittered back to Cesare. No one knew about Laurence’s situation. He’d taken great care to hide the parlous state of the fund, particularly given the risky investments he’d been making with other people’s capital. She tried not to think about the fact that he’d drawn her into this mess, nor to wonder whether that made her some kind of accessory. No one was supposed to know. Surely this man, this fascinating, handsome hunk of an Italian tycoon, couldn’t really have any idea as to the full extent of Laurence’s situation?

‘You’re surprised?’ He correctly interpreted the look flitting across her expressive face. Her skin paled, her lips parted, and she stayed resolutely silent—for lack of any certainty about just what to say.

His body shifted, moving ever so slightly closer to hers—by only a matter of degrees, but it was enough. Enough for everything about him to become bigger, stronger and more overpowering and for all the temptations she’d been fighting off to threaten to consume her. ‘Do I strike you as a man who would come to a meeting like this—or to any meeting, for that matter—unprepared?’

‘No.’ The answer was intuitive.

Approval warmed his face and he nodded, just once, not moving his eyes from her face. ‘So you’re, what—bait?’

She frowned, not understanding.

‘Did Laurence think that having you at the table would distract me sufficiently to make me rush into this investment? That I’d put aside common sense and offer to buy into his hedge fund to the tune of half a billion pounds just because the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen happened to be fluttering her lashes at me all evening?’

It wasn’t really a compliment, yet butterflies beat their wings against the sides of her belly. There was an insult in there, or at the very least the hint of condemnation. A need to defend her cousin stiffened her spine. ‘On the contrary, Laurence simply wanted it to feel like a pleasant evening rather than purely business.’

Cesare’s wolf-like smile showed how little he believed that statement. ‘This is business.’ He growled the words out. ‘And I never let anything affect my judgement where business is concerned.’ He moved closer, so now his arm brushed against hers, and she had to suck in a sharp breath of air—which was a mistake, because it tasted of him, all hyper-masculine and citrusy.

‘Although, you have made that hard to remember at times.’

Another compliment buried in a tone that was somehow derisive. She stared up at him, the pale overhead light catching her hair so it shone like threads of precious gold. ‘Have I?’

His expression was droll. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware.’ He lifted a hand, running a finger across her cheek, and she trembled in response. ‘It was an excellent gambit.’ His thumb padded across her lower lip and desire sparked like flames against her sides. ‘I can see why he would think you might win me over.’

‘That wasn’t his intention.’ Her voice came out stiff and cultured, her tone plummy enough to please even her mother.

Cesare’s laugh spread through her veins like warmed caramel. ‘Yes, it was. Perhaps he didn’t inform you of that, but I have no doubt your cousin believed that serving you up on a silver platter would make this deal go through more smoothly.’

‘I’m not being served up, to you or anyone,’ she demurred without moving backwards, even when she knew she had to. ‘I often accompany Laurence on business meetings.’ It wasn’t particularly convincing.

‘Really?’ He lowered his hand to her shoulder, his eyes chasing the gesture, fixating on the exposed flesh there, pale cream with a pearl-like translucence.

‘You find that hard to believe?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s hardly your scene, is it?’

‘My scene?’ Her heart threw an extra beat into its rhythm.

‘International supermodel attends dinner meeting regarding finance fund?’

His mockery made her pulse skitter. ‘You think the two are mutually exclusive, Mr Durante?’

‘Call me Cesare.’

She found she couldn’t resist. ‘Cesare.’ His name in her mouth was erotic. She pronounced it as he had, ‘Che-zar-eh’, then swallowed, trying to quell the buzzing that was spreading through her. ‘It doesn’t matter what I call you. It doesn’t change the fact that your opinion is pretty offensive.’

‘Name three of the companies your cousin has stakes in.’

She blinked.

‘Any three. There are twenty-seven in the hedge fund.’

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. ‘I’m not interested in the details.’

‘No, you’re not. And you’re not here to talk business.’

‘You honestly think I’m here as some kind of inducement to you?’

He shrugged. ‘I cannot fathom any other reason for your presence.’

She glared at him, shaking her head. ‘Yeah, well, you’re wrong...’

‘I doubt that.’ His eyes bore into hers and then swept her face. ‘You know, I’ve seen your photo dozens of times. You’re everywhere—on buses, billboards, television. You are beautiful always, but in person you are much more so.’ He frowned, as though he hadn’t intended this to be a compliment. ‘If Laurence thought I would lose my mind and simply agree to sign on the bottom line, then he played an excellent bargaining chip.’ He dropped his head lower so his lips were only inches from hers. ‘I suspect one night with you would be worth half a billion pounds.’

Desire was like a tidal wave crashing over her.

‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she murmured, but didn’t move away.

His lips twisted cynically. ‘I know what the rumours say. I know that you and Clive Angmore had an affair that almost ended his marriage, despite the fact he was in his sixties and you were barely legal.’

Her heart strangled at that familiar accusation. It was surprising how much it hurt coming from Cesare. After all, she’d lived alongside Clive’s lies for a long time—she’d thought she’d developed a thicker skin than this. But hearing Cesare shame her for the supposed affair cut her to the quick.

‘And you blame me for that?’

‘No.’ His eyes were thoughtful. ‘As I said, you were just a teenager.’

If she’d been surprised by the hurt his accusation had caused then his next statement was a balm she also hadn’t expected. ‘Surely you’re too intelligent to believe everything you read in the paper?’

‘Not everything,’ he murmured, the words drugging her with their sensual tone. ‘But I’ve also observed that the old adage “where there’s smoke, there’s fire” is often true.’

She compressed her lips. It bothered her so much that he had clearly bought into all the rumours, was so believing of the image that the press had created of her ‘out of control’ lifestyle.

‘You’re wrong, Mr Durante.’ She deliberately reverted to the use of his formal name. ‘I’m here to support my cousin, and nothing more.’ Her voice wobbled a little, but she was pleased with the coldness of her tone. And now, finally, she side-stepped him, gratefully breathing in Durante-free air.

No, not gratefully. Wistfully. She would have been grateful if she’d stayed exactly where she was, because in a matter of seconds she suspected he’d have been kissing her.

Her mind splintered apart at the very idea and a rush of warmth pooled low in her abdomen.

‘Stop.’ She couldn’t say why she obeyed, but her legs remained perfectly still, unmoving, her face tilted towards his. He was watching her carefully, as though he could peel away her layers and see something deep inside.

‘I came here tonight with a sense of amusement. I am not a man to be baited by a beautiful woman. And yet...’ He lifted his hand to her cheek once more, his eyes roaming her face thoughtfully.

‘And yet?’ Her voice was croaky.

‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.’ He didn’t move but she felt as though his body was touching her, pressing into her, and her stomach twisted into a billion knots.

‘I’m not bait,’ she insisted. If only he knew that her experience with the opposite sex was completely non-existent.

He brushed aside her words with a flash of his eyes. ‘I want you to come home with me tonight.’ Before she could say anything in response, he lifted a finger and pressed it to her lips. ‘It will have no bearing on my decision with the hedge fund. Business is business.’

He paused, his eyes devouring her inch by inch. ‘Pleasure is pleasure.’

His finger against her lips moved to outline her Cupid’s bow. ‘Come home with me because you feel what I feel. Come home with me because you’re as fascinated by this as I am.’ He leaned closer so his warm breath buzzed her temple. ‘Come home with me because you want me to make love to you all night long, until your body is exhausted and your voice hoarse from crying my name over and over again.’

She sucked in a sharp breath. Words were beyond her.

‘Come home with me, Jemima.’

Her knees were weak, her pulse insistent. She swallowed but her throat felt thick; everything was out of whack.

She couldn’t seriously be considering this. Cesare Durante was a renowned bachelor, a self-made billionaire who had no time for relationships that lasted more than a few days. She hadn’t needed to run his name through an Internet search to know that—it was an established fact. He wasn’t offering anything except one night—sex.

He obviously bought into the articles in the press, the ones that made it look as if she spent her life getting hammered at parties and sleeping with any guy that moved. She’d lost track of how many fictional relationships she’d been in, secret marriages she’d walked out of, how many times she’d been pregnant, dumped and broken-hearted. How many times in rehab, fighting with other models, all of it preposterous and laughable—except she didn’t often laugh about it. She simply didn’t read the stories any more.

Her manager had hired an exceptional public relations guru who only contacted Jemima when a story wouldn’t die, something Jemima was required to respond to, but otherwise Jemima let the papers run their fictional pieces while she got on with her real life. And that was about as far removed from the public’s perception as it was possible to get. She spent more time with her hands wrangling tulip bulbs than they did any man.

He had the wrong idea about her. He’d be disappointed if he learned she had precisely zero experience in bed. And she didn’t want him to be disappointed in her.

‘I can’t.’ Her reluctance wasn’t faked.

‘You don’t want to?’ he murmured, and now his lips brushed hers so her knees felt as though they were going to collapse beneath her. A soft moan escaped without her intention.

But she did. She wanted to go home with him in a way that should have served as a warning. Her hand lifted of its own accord to wrap around his neck, drawing his head lower, her eyes hitched to his. ‘I don’t even know you,’ she pointed out, but the words were so quiet she might as well not have spoken.

‘You know it would be good,’ he replied simply, and she nodded, because she did. But he had no idea—he couldn’t know what he was getting.

This was crazy. It was utterly mad, yet she felt something inside her tip, and all she could think of was how badly she wanted to do this.

It wasn’t as though she’d planned to remain a virgin. Saying no had become a habit, one she was glad of. She’d seen more than her fair share of heartbreak and hurt amongst the models she worked with, models who slept with photographers only to discover the photographer was married, or sleeping with half a dozen other models.

But Cesare was different. He wasn’t in the fashion industry at all; they’d never have to see each other again. She could sleep with him, lose her virginity, discover a little bit about the whole sex thing and then get on with her life. Truth be told, she was reaching a point where she felt that her virginity required an explanation and it would be nice not to think about that. Yes, it was a burden, and she’d be glad to be rid of it. And at least with Cesare she could be assured of two things: it would be meaningless and it would be good...

There were a thousand reasons not to do this, but none of them as drugging as the reasons to say yes. Even before she’d come face to face with him, she’d been fascinated by the legend of Cesare Durante, curious about the man who, as the stories said, had gone from being the dirt-poor son of an Italian nanny to one of the richest men in the world. He had the Midas touch, and his confidence was its own source of power and attractiveness. But, now that she’d met him, there was so much more to Cesare, so much more that had caught her completely in his thrall, so she found herself nodding slowly, almost without her knowledge.

‘It has nothing do with Laurence.’

His smile was lightly mocking and, damn it, even that she found sexier than she should have. ‘I would hope not.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘I can assure you, he will be the furthest thing from your mind when I make you mine.’

A frown formed on her features, disbelief and uncertainty being swallowed up by a fierce rush of desire. Make you mine. The words held such a promise of possession and intent that she was already craving him, craving this. Tonight would be the night she lost her virginity and, all of a sudden, she could barely wait.

‘I will make you sing, little bird.’ He murmured the words against her ear, so goose bumps spread across her body. ‘Come home with me.’

Common sense was completely submerged by desire, so she nodded, her hooded eyes finding his a second before his lips crushed hers. ‘Yes,’ she agreed into his mouth, though the word was barely necessary. Her hands wrapped around his neck, her body arching to press to his, her agreement evident in every cell of her body. Still, she said it again, partly to convince herself this made sense and also to reassure herself this was really happening. ‘Yes, Cesare. Yes.’

He lifted his head to stare down into her eyes. ‘Words I am going to make you scream soon.’ The grey of his eyes flashed with a silent promise. Her nipples tightened against the soft fabric of her dress and, when he stepped back, his attention dropped to the tell-tale sign of arousal so that heat flashed in her face. ‘You are going to be begging me to take you, and I am going to enjoy that.’