Читать книгу The Venetian One-Night Baby - Melanie Milburne, Melanie Milburne - Страница 9

SABRINA WAS HOPING she wouldn’t run into Max Firbank again after The Kiss. He wasn’t an easy man to avoid since he was her parents’ favourite godson and was invited to just about every Midhurst family gathering. Birthdays, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, parties and anniversaries he would spend on the fringes of the room, a twenty-first-century reincarnation of Jane Austen’s taciturn Mr Darcy. He’d look down his aristocratic nose at everyone else having fun.

Sabrina made sure she had extra fun just to annoy him. She danced with everyone who asked her, chatting and working the room like she was the star student from Social Butterfly School. Max occasionally wouldn’t show, and then she would spend the whole evening wondering why the energy in the room wasn’t the same. But she refused to acknowledge it had anything to do with his absence.

This weekend she was in Venice to exhibit two of her designs at her first wedding expo. She felt safe from running into him—or she would have if the hotel receptionist could find her booking.

Sabrina leaned closer to the hotel reception counter. ‘I can assure you the reservation was made weeks ago.’

‘What name did you say it was booked under?’ the young male receptionist asked.

‘Midhurst, Sabrina Jane. My assistant booked it for me.’

‘Do you have any documentation with you? The confirmation email?’

Had her new assistant Harriet forwarded it to her? Sabrina remembered printing out the wedding expo programme but had she printed out the accommodation details? She searched for it in her tote bag, sweat beading between her breasts, her stomach pitching with panic. She couldn’t turn up flustered to her first wedding expo as an exhibitor. That’s why she’d recently employed an assistant to help her with this sort of stuff. Booking flights and accommodation, sorting out her diary, making sure she didn’t double book or miss appointments.

Sabrina put her lipgloss, paper diary, passport and phone on the counter, plus three pens, a small packet of tissues, some breath mints and her brand-new business cards. She left her tampons in the side pocket of her bag—there was only so much embarrassment she could handle at any one time. The only bits of paper she found were a shopping list and a receipt from her favourite shoe store.

She began to put all the items back in her bag, but her lipgloss fell off the counter, dropped to the floor, rolled across the lobby and was stopped by a large Italian-leather-clad foot.

Sabrina’s gaze travelled up the long length of the expertly tailored charcoal-grey trousers and finally came to rest on Max Firbank’s smoky grey-blue gaze.

‘Sabrina.’ His tone was less of a greeting and more of a grim not you again.

Sabrina gave him a tight, no-teeth-showing smile. ‘Fancy seeing you here. I wouldn’t have thought wedding expos were your thing.’

His eyes glanced at her mouth and something in her stomach dropped like a book tumbling off a shelf. Kerplunk. He blinked as if to clear his vision and bent down to pick up her lipgloss. He handed it to her, his expression as unreadable as cryptic code. ‘I’m seeing a client about a project. I always stay at this hotel when I come to Venice.’

Sabrina took the lipgloss and slipped it into her bag, trying to ignore the tingling in her fingers where his had touched hers. She could feel the heat storming into her cheeks in a hot crimson tide. What sort of weird coincidence was this? Of all the hotels in Venice why did he have to be at this one? And on this weekend? She narrowed her gaze to the size of buttonholes. ‘Did my parents tell you I was going to be here this weekend?’

Nothing on his face changed except for a brief elevation of one of his dark eyebrows. ‘No. Did mine tell you I was going to be in Venice?’

Sabrina raised her chin. ‘Oh, didn’t you know? I zone out when your parents tell me things about you. I mentally plug my ears and sing la-de-da in my head until they change the subject of how amazingly brilliant you are.’

There was a flicker of movement across his lips that could have been loosely described as a smile. ‘I’ll have to remember to do that next time your parents bang on about you to me.’

Sabrina flicked a wayward strand of hair out of her face. Why did she always have to look like she’d been through a wind tunnel whenever she saw him? She dared not look at his mouth but kept her eyes trained on his inscrutable gaze. Was he thinking about The Kiss? The clashing of mouths that had morphed into a passionate explosion that had made a mockery of every other kiss she’d ever received? Could he still recall the taste and texture of her mouth? Did he lie in bed at night and fantasise about kissing her again?

And not just kissing, but...

‘Signorina?’ The hotel receptionist jolted Sabrina out of her reverie. ‘We have no booking under the name Midhurst. Could it have been another hotel you selected online?’

Sabrina suppressed a frustrated sigh. ‘No. I asked my assistant to book me into this one. This is where the fashion show is being held. I have to stay here.’

‘What’s the problem?’ Max asked in a calm, leave it to me tone.

Sabrina turned to face him. ‘I’ve got a new assistant and somehow she must’ve got the booking wrong or it didn’t process or something.’ She bit her lip, trying to stem the panic punching against her heart. Poomf. Poomf. Poomf.

‘I can put you on the cancellation list, but we’re busy at this time of year so I can’t guarantee anything,’ the receptionist said.

Sabrina’s hand crept up to her mouth and she started nibbling on her thumbnail. Too bad about her new manicure. A bit of nail chewing was all she had to soothe her rising dread. She wanted to be settled into her hotel, not left waiting on stand-by. What if no other hotel could take her? She needed to be close to the convention venue because she had two dresses in the fashion parade. This was her big break to get her designs on the international stage.

She. Could. Not. Fail.

‘Miss Midhurst will be joining me,’ Max said. ‘Have the concierge bring her luggage to my room. Thank you.’

Sabrina’s gaze flew to his. ‘What?’

Max handed her a card key, his expression still as inscrutable as that of an MI5 spy. ‘I checked in this morning. There are two beds in my suite. I only need one.’

She did not want to think about him and a bed in the same sentence. She’d spent the last three weeks thinking about him in a bed with her in a tangle of sweaty sex-sated limbs. Which was frankly kind of weird because she’d spent most of her life deliberately not thinking about him. Max was her parents’ godson and almost from the moment when she’d been born six years later and become his parents’ adored goddaughter, both sets of parents had decided how perfect they were for each other. It was the long-wished-for dream of both families that Max and Sabrina would fall in love, get married and have gorgeous babies together.

As if. In spite of both families’ hopes, Sabrina had never got on with Max. She found him brooding and distant and arrogant. And he made it no secret he found her equally annoying...which kind of made her wonder why he’d kissed her...

But she was not going to think about The Kiss.

She glanced at the clock over Reception, another fist of panic pummelling her heart. She needed to shower and change and do her hair and makeup. She needed to get her head in order. It wouldn’t do to turn up flustered and nervous. What sort of impression would she make?

Sabrina took the key from him but her fingers brushed his and a tingle travelled from her fingers to her armpit. ‘Maybe I should try and see if I can get in somewhere else...’

‘What time does your convention start?’

‘There’s a cocktail party at six-thirty.’

Max led the way to the bank of lifts. ‘I’ll take you up to settle you in before I meet my client for a drink.’

Sabrina entered the brass embossed lift with him and the doors whispered shut behind them. The mirrored interior reflected Max’s features from every angle. His tall and lean and athletic build. The well-cut dark brown hair with a hint of a wave. The generously lashed eyes the colour of storm clouds. The faint hollow below the cheekbones that gave him a chiselled-from-marble look that was far more attractive than it had any right to be. The aristocratic cut of nostril and upper lip, the small cleft in his chin, the square jaw that hinted at arrogance and a tendency to insist on his own way.

‘Is your client female?’ The question was out before Sabrina could monitor her wayward tongue.

‘Yes.’ His brusque one-word answer was a verbal Keep Out sign.

Sabrina had always been a little intrigued by his love life. He had been jilted by his fiancée Lydia a few days before their wedding six years ago. He had never spoken of why his fiancée had called off the wedding but Sabrina had heard a whisper that it had been because Lydia had wanted children and he didn’t. Max wasn’t one to brandish his subsequent lovers about in public but she knew he had them from time to time. Now thirty-four, he was a virile man in his sexual prime. And she had tasted a hint of that potency when his mouth had come down on hers and sent her senses into a tailspin from which they had not yet recovered—if they ever would.

The lift stopped on Max’s floor and he indicated for her to alight before him. She moved past him and breathed in the sharp citrus scent of his aftershave—lemon and lime and something else that was as mysterious and unknowable as his personality.

He led the way along the carpeted corridor and came to a suite that overlooked the Grand Canal. Sabrina stepped over the threshold and, pointedly ignoring the twin king-sized beds, went straight to the windows to check out the magnificent view. Even if her booking had been processed correctly, she would never have been able to afford a room such as this.

‘Wow...’ She breathed out a sigh of wonder. ‘Venice never fails to take my breath away. The light. The colours. The history.’ She turned to face him, doing her best to not glance at the beds that dominated the room. He still had his spy face on but she could sense an inner tension in the way he held himself. ‘Erm... I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this...’

The mocking arch of his eyebrow made her cheeks burn. ‘This?’

At this rate, she’d have to ramp up the air-conditioning to counter the heat she was giving off from her burning cheeks. ‘Me...sharing your room.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘I mean, it could get really embarrassing if either of our parents thought we were—’

‘We’re not.’ The blunt edge to his voice was a slap down to her ego.

There was a knock at the door.

Max opened the door and stepped aside as the hotel employee brought in Sabrina’s luggage. Max gave the young man a tip and closed the door, locking his gaze on hers. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

Sabrina raised her eyebrows so high she thought they would fly off her face. ‘You think I’m attracted to you? Dream on, buddy.’

The edge of his mouth lifted—the closest he got to a smile, or at least one he’d ever sent her way. ‘I could have had you that night three weeks ago and you damn well know it.’

‘Had me?’ She glared at him. ‘That kiss was...was a knee-jerk thing. It just...erm...happened. And you gave me stubble rash. I had to put on cover-up for a week.’

His eyes went to her mouth as if he was remembering the explosive passion they’d shared. He drew in an uneven breath and sent a hand through the thick pelt of his hair, a frown pulling at his forehead. ‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you.’ His voice had a deep gravelly edge she’d never heard in it before.

Sabrina folded her arms. She wasn’t ready to forgive him. She wasn’t ready to forgive herself for responding to him. She wasn’t ready to admit how much she’d enjoyed that kiss and how she had encouraged it by grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling his head down. Argh. Why had she done that? Neither was she ready to admit how much she wanted him to kiss her again. ‘I can think of no one I would less like to “have me”.’

Even repeating the coarse words he’d used turned her on. Damn him. She couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to be had by him. Her sex life was practically non-existent. The only sex she’d had in the last few years had been with herself and even that hadn’t been all that spectacular. She kept hoping she’d find the perfect partner to help her with her issues with physical intimacy but so far no such luck. She rarely dated anyone more than two or three times before she decided having sex with them was out of the question. Her first and only experience of sex at the age of eighteen—had it really been ten years ago?—had been an ego-smashing disappointment, one she was in no hurry to repeat.

‘Good. Because we’re not going there,’ Max said.

Sabrina inched up her chin. ‘You were the one who kissed me first that night. I might have returned the kiss but only because I got caught off guard.’ It was big fat lie but no way was she going to admit it. Every non-verbal signal in her repertoire had been on duty that night all but begging him to kiss her. And when he finally had, she even recalled moaning at one point. Yes, moaning with pleasure as his lips and tongue had worked their magic. Geez. How was she going to live that down?

His eyes pulsed with something she couldn’t quite identify. Suppressed anger or locked-down lust or both? ‘You were spoiling for a fight all through that dinner party and during the trip when I gave you a lift home.’

‘So? We always argue. It doesn’t mean I want you to kiss me.’

His eyes held hers in a smouldering lock that made the backs of her knees fizz. ‘Are we arguing now?’ His tone had a silky edge that played havoc with her senses.

Sabrina took a step back, one of her hands coming up her neck where her heart was beating like a panicked pigeon stuck in a pipe. ‘I need to get ready for the c-cocktail party...’ Why, oh, why did she have to sound so breathless?

He gave a soft rumble of a laugh. ‘Your virtue is safe, Sabrina.’ He walked to the door of the suite and turned to look at her again. ‘Don’t wait up. I’ll be late.’

Sabrina gave him a haughty look that would have done a Regency spinster proud. ‘Going to have your client, are you?’

He left without another word, which, annoyingly, left her with the painful echo of hers.

* * *

Max closed the door of his suite and let out a breath. Why had he done the knight in shining armour thing? Why should he care if she couldn’t get herself organised enough to book a damn hotel? She would have found somewhere to stay, surely. But no. He had to do the decent thing. Nothing about how he felt about Sabrina was decent—especially after that kiss. He’d lost count of how many women he’d kissed. He wasn’t a man whore, but he enjoyed sex for the physical release it gave.

But he couldn’t get that kiss out of his mind.

Max had always avoided Sabrina in the past. He hadn’t wanted to encourage his and her parents from their sick little fantasy of them getting it on. He got it on with women he chose and he made sure his choices were simple and straightforward—sex without strings.

Sabrina was off limits because she was the poster girl for the happily-ever-after fairytale. She was looking for Mr Right to sweep her off her feet and park her behind a white picket fence with a double pram with a couple of chubby-cheeked progeny tucked inside.

Max had nothing against marriage, but he no longer wanted it for himself. Six years ago, his fiancée had called off their wedding, informing him she had fallen in love with someone else, with someone who wanted children—the children Max refused to give her. Prior to that, Lydia had been adamant she was fine with his decision not to have kids. He’d thought everything was ticking along well enough in their relationship. He’d been more annoyed than upset at Lydia calling off their relationship. It had irritated him that he hadn’t seen it coming.

But it had taught him a valuable lesson. A lesson he was determined he would never have to learn again. He wasn’t cut out for long-term relationships. He didn’t have what it took to handle commitment and all its responsibilities.

He knew marriage worked for some people—his parents and Sabrina’s had solid relationships that had been tried and tested and triumphed over tragedy, especially his parents. The loss of his baby brother Daniel at the age of four months had devastated them, of course.

Max had been seven years old and while his parents had done all they could to shield him from the tragedy, he still carried his share of guilt. In spite of the coroner’s verdict of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, Max could never get it out of his mind that he had been the last person to see his baby brother alive. There wasn’t a day that went by when he didn’t think of his brother, of all the years Daniel had missed out on. The milestones he would never meet.

Max walked out of his hotel and followed the Grand Canal, almost oblivious to the crowds of tourists that flocked to Venice at this time of year. Whenever he thought of Daniel, a tiny worm of guilt burrowed its way into his mind. Was there something he could have done to save his brother? Why hadn’t he noticed something? Why hadn’t he checked him more thoroughly? The lingering guilt he felt about Daniel was something he was almost used to now. He was almost used to feeling the lurch of dread in his gut whenever he saw a small baby. Almost.

Max stepped out of the way of a laughing couple that were walking arm in arm, carrying the colourful Venetian masks they’d bought from one of the many vendors along the canal. Why hadn’t he thought to book a room at another hotel for Sabrina? It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford it. He’d made plenty of money as a world-acclaimed architect, and he knew things were a little tight with her financially as she was still building up her wedding-dress design business and stubbornly refusing any help from her doctor parents, who had made it no secret that they would have preferred her to study medicine like them and Sabrina’s two older brothers.

Had he wanted her in his room? Had he instinctively seized at the chance to have her to himself so he could kiss her again?

Maybe do more than kiss her?

Max pulled away from the thought like he was stepping back from a too-hot fire. But that’s exactly what Sabrina was—hot. Too hot. She made him hot and bothered and horny as hell. The way she picked fights with him just to get under his skin never failed to get his blood pumping. Her cornflower-blue eyes would flash and sparkle, and her soft and supple mouth would fling cutting retorts his way, and it would make him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in years.

Alive and energised.

But no. No. No. No. No.

He must not think about Sabrina like that. He had to keep his distance. He had to. She wasn’t the sex without strings type. She wasn’t a fling girl; she was a fairytale girl. And she was his parents’ idea of his ideal match—his soul mate or something. Nothing against his parents, but they were wrong. Dead wrong. Sabrina was spontaneous and creative and disorganised. He was logical, responsible and organised to the point of pedantic. How could anyone think they were an ideal couple? It was crazy. He only had to spend a few minutes with her and she drove him nuts.

How was he going to get through a whole weekend with her?