Читать книгу Modern Romance June 2015 Books 1-8 - Эбби Грин, Natalie Anderson - Страница 13
ОглавлениеMAX LOOKED AT his watch again. Where was she? He’d meant to go and meet her at the apartment, but he’d been delayed in the office by a conference call to New York, so he’d changed there.
He’d texted Darcy to explain and got back a terse, Fine. See you there.
Max almost smiled; he couldn’t imagine many women he knew texting him back like that. His almost-smile faded, though, when he thought of that morning and choosing the ring in Paris, and afterwards when they’d run into that wall of paparazzi.
He could still recall Darcy’s jerk of fright and the way she’d burrowed into him instinctively. He’d felt like a heel. He’d totally underestimated how frightening that might be for someone who hadn’t experienced it before. He was used to women revelling in the attention, preening, lingering... Darcy had been pale and shaking in the aftermath—not that she’d let it show for too long.
Something in Max’s chest tightened. And then she was there, in the doorway of the function room, looking for him. Hair pulled up. One shoulder bare in an assymetrical dress that clung to her breasts, torso, and hips, before falling to the ground in a swirl of black silk and chiffon.
The room fell away, and the ever-present thrum of awareness made his blood sizzle.
How had he ever thought she was unassuming? She was stunning.
He could see her engagement ring from here, the brilliant flash of ice-white, and he pushed down the tightness in his chest. That same sense of protectiveness and possessiveness he’d felt earlier outside the jewellers hit him again, and he pushed that down too. It was nothing. It was the thrill of anticipated triumph over the deal that would finally take him away from that moment on the streets in Rome, when his own peers had seen him shabby and feral. Reduced to nothing.
Her eyes met his and he went forward to meet her.
* * *
Darcy saw Max almost as soon as she stopped in the doorway. Of course she did. He stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd. He was wearing a classic black tuxedo and she felt as if someone had hit her right between the eyes.
He’d made some effort to tidy his hair and it was swept back from his face now, dark blond and luxurious, but still with that trademark unruly length. And she could see from here that his jaw was clean-shaven.
In truth, she’d been glad of a little space from Max for the rest of the day—especially now she knew she’d be heading back to his apartment with him that night. She wasn’t ready for that at all.
He was cutting a swathe through the crowd, heading straight for her, and—damn it—her breath was short again.
When he got to her he just looked at her for a long moment before slipping a hand across her bare shoulder and around the back of her neck. Her skin sizzled as his head came closer and his mouth—that perfect sensual mouth that rarely smiled—closed over hers.
She wanted to protest—Stop kissing me!—even as she knew he was only doing it for the benefit of their audience. But the fact was that every time he kissed her another little piece of her defences around him fell away.
There was nothing but blinding white heat for a second, as the firm contours of Max’s mouth moved enticingly over hers, and then a rush of heat swelled all the way up her body from the pulse between her legs.
When he took his mouth away and pulled back she was dizzy, hot. It had been mere seconds. A chaste kiss on the mouth.
Max still had a hand around her neck. He was so close she could smell him, feel his heat around her. It was as if he was cocooning her slightly from the crowd and Darcy was reminded of the shock and vulnerability she’d felt in front of those paparazzi.
She pulled away from him.
‘You look...beautiful.’
‘You don’t have to say that.’
Darcy felt exceedingly self-conscious in the dress the stylist had picked out for her to wear tonight. She glanced up at him from her eyeline, which was roughly around the centre of his chest—she’d been avoiding his gaze till now and his jaw was tight.
‘It’s not a line, Darcy, I mean it. You look...stunning.’
‘I...’ She couldn’t speak. No man had ever complimented her like this before. She’d never felt beautiful before. But for a second, now, she did.
Max took her hand and led her into the throng, stopping to take the glass of champagne offered by a waiter before handing it to Darcy. She took a gulp, glad of the sustenance, aware of the interested looks they were getting—or rather that she was getting.
She hated the prickling feeling of being under scrutiny. The crowd in the ballroom of the exclusive Rome hotel was seriously intimidating. This was A-list territory. Actually, this made the A-list look like the B-list. She’d just spotted a European royal and an ex-American president talking together in a corner.
In a bid not to appear nervous, Darcy asked, ‘So, what charity is benefiting from this function?’
Max glanced down at her. ‘Numerous charities—I’ve nominated one I run with my brother.’
Darcy looked at Max, wondering again about his relationship with his brother, but she found herself distracted by his clean-shaven jaw and the white line of his scar that gave her a small jolt every time she saw it.
Just then a gong sounded and the crowd started to move into another room.
Max explained, with a cynical tinge to his voice, ‘They’ll get the charity auction and the posturing out of the way now, so that they can get on with the really important stuff.’
Max let go of her hand so she could sit down, and Darcy smiled politely at the man next to her. When Max took the seat next to hers she said, ‘You mean the wheeling and dealing? The real reason why people are here?’
He looked at her approvingly. ‘I’ll make a proper cynic of you yet.’
Darcy felt a little hollow. She didn’t need Max to make her a cynic. Her parents’ spectacular break-up had gone a long way to that end already. Not to mention this pseudo-engagement.
She thought of something then, and looked at Max. ‘You said to Montgomery that we’d be getting married in two weeks?’
He looked at her. ‘We will. I’ve arranged for a special licence.’
Darcy felt as if she was drowning a little. ‘Is it really necessary to go that far?’
Max nodded. ‘It’s just a piece of paper, Darcy. Neither of us really believes in marriage, do we?’
For a moment Darcy wasn’t sure what she believed. She’d always sworn she’d avoid such a commitment, but she knew deep inside that some small part of her still harboured a wish that it could be different. Buying the ring today had tapped into it. And she hated it that this weakness was becoming evident here, in front of Max, under that gold gaze.
She forced a brittle smile. ‘No, of course not. With our histories we’d be mad to expect anything more.’ And she needed to remember that—especially when Max’s touch and kisses scrambled her brain.
To take her mind off that she looked around and took in the extreme opulence. Even though her parents had always been well off—apart from her father’s recessionary blip—she’d never moved in circles like this. Except for her time at Boissy. She grimaced at that memory, wondering if any of her old Boissy classmates were here. It was quite likely. This was definitely their stomping ground. Some of the offspring of Europe’s most prominent royal families had been at the school.
The auction started and it was mesmerising. The sheer amounts being bid escalated well into the millions.
After one bid she gasped. ‘Did someone really just buy an island?’ Max’s mouth quirked and Darcy immediately felt gauche. ‘Don’t laugh at me. I haven’t been to anything like this before.’
There was a lull after the last few bids and he reached for her hand and lifted it up, turning it so that he could press a kiss to her palm. Darcy’s heart-rate accelerated and she tried to pull her hand back, but he wouldn’t let go, those eyes unnervingly direct on hers.
Feeling more and more discomfited, she whispered tetchily, ‘We need to set some rules for an acceptable amount of PDAs. I wouldn’t have thought you were a fan.’
Inwardly, Max reacted to that. Normally he wasn’t. At all. He hated it when lovers tried to stake some kind of a public claim on him. But every time he touched Darcy he felt her resistance even as she melted against him. It was a potent mix of push and pull, and right now he wanted to touch her.
‘You’re big on rules and boundaries, aren’t you?’ He kept her hand in his when she would have pulled away, fascinated by the way colour washed in and out of her face so easily.
Her mouth tightened. ‘They’re necessary—especially when one is trying to be professional.’
Max chuckled, surprised to find himself enjoying being here with her so much. It had been a long time since he’d seen anyone interested in a charity auction. ‘I don’t think I need to tell you our professional boundaries are well and truly breached.’
She hissed at him. ‘As if I’m not aware of that. Do I need to remind you that if it wasn’t for this crazy marriage farce I’d be long gone by now?’
Something inside Max went cold. She would be gone because of what had happened in his office that night. He didn’t doubt it. But Max knew now that he would have felt compelled to try and persuade her to stay...or to seduce her properly. She’d set a fire alight that night, and a very unwelcome and insidious suspicion occurred to him. Had he on some level wanted to keep her at all costs? Precipitating his flashbulb idea of marrying her?
Panic washed through him and he handed her hand back. ‘You’re right. We don’t want to overdo it—no one would believe it.’
The sudden hurt that lanced Darcy made her suck in a breath. Of course they wouldn’t believe it. Because why on earth would someone like Max—a golden god—be with someone like her?
She got up jerkily and Max frowned.
‘Darcy—wait. I didn’t mean it like—’
But she cut him off with a tight smile and muttered something about the bathroom, making her escape.
Everyone was standing up now and moving, starting to go back out to the main ballroom, where a world-famous band were about to play a medley of their greatest hits. She found a blissfully empty bathroom off the main foyer and looked at herself in the mirror with horror.
In spite of Max’s cruel words she was flushed, and her eyes looked wide and bright enough to be feverish. Just because he’d held her hand? Pathetic.
She ran the cold water and played it over her wrists, as if that could douse the fire in her blood. Damn Max anyway. He shouldn’t have the power to hurt her.
Sounds came from outside—voices. She quickly dried her hands and left just as some women were coming in on a wave of expensive perfume. They were all chattering, and stopped abruptly as soon as they saw her.
Darcy pinned a smile on her face and tried not to let the fact that they’d obviously been discussing her intimidate her.
* * *
As she approached the ballroom again Darcy saw Max standing at the main door, hands in his pockets. He looked...magnificent. Hateful. Proud. But also apart. Like a lone wolf. Good. A man like him didn’t deserve friends. And that just made Darcy feel horrible.
He turned around and saw her and she could almost feel the place where the cold water had run on her wrists sizzle.
He frowned as she came closer. ‘Are you okay?’
Now she felt silly for rushing off. ‘Fine. Needed to go to the bathroom.’ She thought a little despondently that his usual lovers probably didn’t suffer the mundane bodily functions of mortals—and certainly never mentioned them to him.
He took her arm. ‘We’re done now. Let’s go.’
Suddenly the thought of going back to his apartment with him loomed like a spectre in the dark. Anger at him pierced her, and anger at herself—for letting him hurt her so easily.
A rogue voice made her dig her heels in and say, ‘Actually, I’m not ready to go yet.’
He looked at her, not a little stunned. He was not used to people saying no to him.
She tipped up her chin and took a moment of inspiration from the music nearby. ‘I like this band. I want to dance.’
Now Max looked horrified. ‘Dance?’ Clearly he never indulged in such pedestrian activities.
She arched a brow, enjoying needling Max a little. ‘Dance, Max. You know—a recreational social activity designed to bring people together in a mutually satisfactory way.’
Clearly angry now, Max moved closer to Darcy and pulled her into his body. ‘I can do a “mutually satisfactory” activity, dolcezza, if that’s what you’re looking for—but it’s not called dancing.’
Darcy’s breath hitched. She should have known better than to tease him. She was serious. ‘A dance, Max. That’s what I’m talking about.’
He lifted a hand and cupped her jaw, for all the world the besotted fiancé. She cursed. She was playing right into his hands.
‘Fine, then. Let’s dance.’
Max took her hand in a firm and slightly too tight grip that told her of his irritation and led her onto the dance floor just in time for a slow number. Darcy cursed herself again for opening her big mouth.
He turned and gathered her close and she had to put her arms around his neck. He looked down at her and said mockingly, ‘Forgive me. I had no idea you were so eager to make our charade look even more authentic.’
Darcy snorted, and then went still when one of Max’s hands moved lower, to just above her buttocks, pressing her even closer. She closed her eyes in frustration for a moment—as if she needed to be reminded that he resented this PDA as much as she did.
And then she felt his hand brush some hair back off her cheek and he said, in a different tone of voice that set off flutters in her belly, ‘Darcy, look at me.’
Reluctantly she opened her eyes, far too aware of his lean, hard body pressed against hers.
‘I think you misunderstood me before... I meant no one would believe it because I don’t usually indulge in any kind of overt affection with lovers in public.’
Darcy hated it that he’d seen her hurt. She shrugged. ‘It’s cool, Max, you don’t have to explain anything.’
Even so, the hurt dissipated like a traitorous little fog.
‘The problem is,’ he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘I can’t seem to stop myself from touching you.’
She looked up at him, and they stopped moving on the dance floor while everyone kept going around them. Max pressed against the small of her back, moving her closer to his body, where she could feel the distinctive thrust of his arousal.
Now he looked intense. ‘This is not usual for me, Darcy.’
She was barely aware of where they were any more, and she whispered, ‘You think it’s usual for me?’
Max started to move again subtly, ratcheting up the tension between them. Panic flared at the thought of going back to his apartment. ‘Max, this isn’t... We can’t do this. We need to keep this pro-professional.’
Great. She was stuttering now. All she knew was that if Max seduced her she wouldn’t have anything left to hold him at bay with. He’d already swept through her life like a wrecking ball.
He arched a wicked brow. ‘You know what I think of professionalism? It’s overrated.’
And then he kissed her, deeply and explicitly, and Darcy knew she was right to fear him—this. Because she could feel her very cells dissolving, merging into his. She was losing herself.
She pulled back with effort. ‘No, Max.’
A faster, more upbeat song was playing now, and she and Max were motionless in the middle of the floor. He grabbed her hand and pulled her from the throng. Her legs were like jelly.
Once away from the dance floor Max stopped and turned to Darcy, running a hand through his hair, an intense look on his face.
‘Look, Darcy—’ He stopped suddenly as something caught his eye over Darcy’s head. He cursed volubly and an infinitely hard expression came over his face.
Darcy frowned and looked behind her to see a stunningly beautiful woman in the far corner of the room. Something pulled at a vague memory. She was wearing a skin-tight black dress that shimmered and clung to her spectacular figure. Dark hair was swept back and up from her high-cheekboned face, and jewels sparkled at her ears and throat.
Darcy’s insides cramped a little as she wondered if it was an ex-lover of Max’s she’d seen in a magazine.
He was propelling them across the room before she could say anything, and as they got closer she could see that the woman was older than she’d imagined—but incredibly well-preserved.
She was arguing with a tall, handsome man, holding a glass of champagne and gesticulating. The wine was slopping messily onto the ground.
The man looked at Max with visible relief and more than a little irritation. He said curtly, ‘I’ve had enough—you’re welcome to her, Roselli.’
The woman whirled around, and just as Darcy noticed with a jolt of shock that she had exactly the same colour eyes as Max he was saying, in a tone tinged with steel, ‘Mamma.’
His mother issued a stream of vitriol. Her eyes were unfocused and there was a sheen of perspiration on her face. Her pupils were tiny pinpricks. It was shocking to come face-to-face with Max’s mother like this, and it made Darcy’s heart clench to think he’d probably only told her half of what she’d been like.
The other man had walked away. Max’s mother made as if to go after him but Max let go of Darcy’s arm to stop her, taking her glass away and handing it to Darcy. His mother screeched and Darcy could see people looking.
Max had his mother in a firm grip now, and he said to Darcy, ‘I’ll take her home. If you wait here I’ll get my driver to come back for you.’
Darcy was about to agree, but then she said quickly, ‘Shouldn’t I go with you? It’ll look a little odd if I don’t.’
Max was clearly reluctant to have Darcy witness this scene—she had a keen sense that he wouldn’t allow many, if any people to witness it—but he obviously realised she was right.
‘Fine, let’s go.’
Staff had ordered Max’s car to come round and he got into the back with his mother, who was remonstrating volubly with Max now. Darcy got in the front, her nerves jumping. Max was apparently used to this, and was on his phone making a terse call.
When they pulled up outside an exclusive apartment block in a residential part of Rome a man in a suit was waiting. Max introduced him as Dr. Marconi and he came in with them. Once inside a palatial apartment Max and the doctor and his mother disappeared into one of the rooms, with the door firmly closed behind them.
Darcy waited in the foyer, feeling extremely out of place. Max’s mother was shouting now, and crying. Darcy could hear Max’s voice, low and firm.
The shouting stopped.
After a long while Max re-emerged and Darcy stood up from where she’d been sitting on a gilt-edged chair.
‘How is she?’
Max’s hair was dishevelled, as if he’d been running his hands through it, and his bow tie was undone. He looked grim. ‘I’m sorry you had to witness that. I would have introduced you, but as you could probably tell her response was unlikely to be coherent.’
‘You’ve dealt with this before...?’
Max smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You could say that. She’s a drug addict. And an alcoholic. The man at the party was her latest enabler, but evidently he’s had enough. So what’ll happen now is she’ll enter an exclusive rehab centre, that’s got more in common with a five-star resort than a medical facility, and in about a month, when she’s detoxed, she’ll rise like a phoenix from the ashes and start all over again.’
The other man emerged now, and spoke in low tones to Max before taking his leave after bidding goodnight to Darcy. Max turned to her.
‘You should go. My driver is outside. I’m going to wait for a nurse to come and then make sure my mother is settled before I go. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Clearly he wanted her to go now. She backed away to the door.
‘Goodnight, Max.’ She turned back from the door to say impulsively, ‘I’m sorry...about your mother. If there’s anything I can do...’ She trailed off, feeling helpless.
‘Thank you,’ Max said shortly. ‘But it’s not your problem. I’ll deal with it.’
For a fleeting moment Darcy thought that if this was a real engagement then it would be her problem too. She wondered if a man like Max would ever lean on anyone but himself and felt an almost overwhelming urge to go to him and offer...what?
She left quickly, lest Max see anything of her emotions on her face.
In the car on the way home Darcy had a much keener and bleaker sense of what things must have been like for Max when he’d left Brazil with his mother. The fact that he’d ended up on the streets wasn’t so hard to believe now, and the empathy she felt for him was like a heavy weight in her chest.
* * *
A few hours later Max sat back in the chair in his dark living room and relished the burn of the whisky as it slid down his throat. He finally felt the tension in his body easing. He’d left his mother sleeping, with a nurse watching over her.
When he’d seen Elisabetta Roselli across the function room earlier tension had gripped him, just as it always did. It was a reflex born of years of her inconsistant mothering. Never knowing what to expect. And even though he was an adult now, and she couldn’t affect his life that way any more, his first reaction had been one of intense fear and anxiety. And he hated it.
Darcy... He could still see her face in his mind’s eye when she’d turned back from the door, concerned. The fact that she’d handled seeing his mother in that state impacted on him in some deep place he had no wish to explore.
His brother had not had to suffer dealing with the full vagaries of their mother. Max was used to dealing with it on his own... But for a moment, with Darcy looking back at him, he’d actually wanted to reach out and pull her to him, feel her close, wrapping her arms around him...
A soft noise made Max’s head jerk up. Darcy stood silhouetted in the doorway of the living room as if conjured right out of his imagination. She was wearing loose sleep pants and a singlet vest that did little to hide those lush heavy breasts, the tiny waist. Her hair was long and tumbled about her shoulders.
‘Sorry, I heard a noise...you’re back. Is she...your mother...is she okay?’
Max barely heard Darcy. He was so consumed with the sight of her breasts, recalling with a rush of blood to his groin how they’d felt pressed against him on that dance floor.
Damn it to hell. He didn’t want to want her. Especially not when he felt so raw after the incident with his mother. But even from across the room her huge blue eyes seemed to see right through him—into him. Right down to the darkest part of him.
It made something twist inside him. A need to push her away, push her back. Avoid her scrutiny.
‘Getting into character as my wife already, Darcy? Careful, now—I might believe you’re starting to like me. I guess having an addict for a mother is bound to score some sympathy points...’
