Читать книгу One Night In… - Кейт Хьюит, Оливия Гейтс - Страница 43

‘I SEE you discovered the wet room.’

Anna tried to frame a coherent sentence but found herself able to do nothing more than mouth impotently. The only words that came to mind were too offensive for her to even utter.

‘Pretty impressive, no? Designed to use as little water as possible. All the shower jets incorporate tiny vacuum pumps to aerate the water as it comes out and so increase the pressure.’ He’d been lounging against the door-frame, but now he levered himself upright. ‘That way, you get a very powerful shower while using a minimum amount of water, and the whole thing is operated by sensors.’

‘Thank you,’ she spat. ‘I think I’d just about worked that bit out for myself.’

The second part of the sentence came out as a dry croak as she watched him unbuttoning his shirt. She took a step backwards, unable to take her eyes off the rippling golden chest that was gradually being revealed.

‘What are you doing?’

He looked up and grinned as he slipped his shirt off. For a fleeting moment she thought she might pass out.

He held out the shirt to her.

‘Here. Put this on.’

‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’

She made to walk past him, but as she did so he caught hold of the tie at the back of her sodden bikini. And pulled.

She breathed in sharply, making a small shivering sound.

In an instant he was behind her and, with swift, capable hands, had drawn the tiny triangles of fabric over her head, in the same seamless movement wrapping his shirt around her. She was aware of nothing but the warm scent of him, imprinted into the whisper-soft linen, the firm pressure of his hands.

‘Now, take off those wet shorts.’

She spun round to face him. ‘No! No—I—’

He took a single step towards her and reached out. She had to bite her lip against the gasp that sprang from her, the flicker of fiery arousal that licked up her belly in anticipation of his touch. But he only took hold of the shirt and started to do up the buttons. Through a mist of agonizing desire, she glanced up at his face.

His eyes gave nothing away.

He had moved upwards and was now buttoning the shirt over her bare breasts. She was aware of the painful thrust of her nipples against the fabric and closed her eyes for a second in blissful submission.

‘There. Perfectly respectable. It almost comes down to your knees, so you’re perfectly safe to take off your shorts. I won’t look.’

Her eyes fluttered open and she swung blindly away from him, fumbling with the stiff button of the wet denim. But her hands were slow and clumsy with confusion. ‘I—can’t.’

‘Then allow me.’

Gently he drew her towards him. Unable to raise her eyes to meet his, she watched, mesmerized, as his long elegant fingers undid the button of her shorts, aware of the flat plane of his tanned stomach only inches from her own. His thumb brushed the quivering flesh of her midriff, sending a cascade of shooting stars up her spine, almost making her knees give way beneath her. Slowly, he tugged down the short zip and, slowly, deliberately slid the wet denim downwards. Helplessly she felt her hips wriggle beneath his hands, as if they had a mind of their own and were desperate to free themselves of the layers that separated her from him.

He dropped to his knees in front of her and she let her head fall backwards, lifting her hands and instinctively winding them into her wet hair as she fought to keep control of the murmurs of pleasure his touch aroused in her. His warm hand slid down one leg, then the other, stopping at her foot, his fingers tracing a swift arc of fire across her instep before gently picking it up and making her step out of the shorts. Looking down, she saw him bent before her, his tousled dark blond hair contrasting with the paler gold of the skin of his bare shoulders, beneath which the muscles flexed and rippled. Dimly she was aware of her own fingers twisting her hair into knots of desire, and she opened her eyes as he straightened up before her.

His thumb kneaded her parted lips, his fingertips caressing the hollow beneath her jaw, then trailing down the long, exposed column of her throat as she arched her back and pressed her hips to him.

She ached.

His fingers crept into the damp tangle of her hair, supporting the heavy weight of her head as she waited for his lips to meet hers. He brought his head down to brush his mouth against the side of her neck, where the pulse beat frenziedly beneath her damp skin.

‘Time to go,’ he murmured dryly. ‘A-list celebrities can be very touchy about complete strangers having sex in their bedrooms.’

Her eyes flew open as he drew away and bent to scoop her discarded shorts up off the floor. Without looking back, he walked perfectly steadily across the room to the door.

Anna dragged a hand across her burning lips and swore softly.

Striding after him, she caught up with him in the doorway and snatched her clothes from him. Then she ran ahead of him down the stairs and out into the sunlight.

Closing the front door behind him, Angelo paused briefly and rubbed the frown from his forehead.

Careful, he warned himself, but his knuckles were white on the large iron door handle. He needed to get this deal completed and return Anna to the safety of dry land, because if this carried on much longer he knew his resolve wouldn’t hold and he’d have to bed her.

He wanted to, but he’d glimpsed a vulnerability in her that scared him. It was that moment when he’d done the buttons up on the shirt. It had made him think of Lucia.

He shook his head and gave the door a last little push to check that it was closed properly and turned to go down the steps. He could see her walking ahead of him down the path back to the gate that led to the jetty, the tails of his shirt reaching just above her knees. She was sexy as hell, he thought, and she had walked into this situation with her eyes wide open—she must be pretty sure of herself to have done that. As he watched, she dragged a hand through her hair, making the pink streaks flash in the sun. A sardonic smile spread across his face.

She was nothing like that other little girl he had let down all those years ago in the orphanage. Lucia had been a child—a vulnerable child—who had relied on him as her only source of support in a harsh, loveless world, and he would never forgive himself for what had happened to her. But this was different. Anna was strong and spiky and rebellious—she could look after herself. He was just imagining the trembling little girl beneath the surface.

His expression was stony as he set off down the path after her.

He’d ring his PA as soon as they were back on the yacht and see if she’d had any word from Ifford’s people about what the hell was going on at their end. The sooner those papers were signed the better. For his sanity.

Storming back into her cabin, Anna slammed the door behind her and threw herself on to the bed.

She wanted to scream, she wanted to tear things up, she wanted to smash Angelo Emiliani’s perfect face to a pulp.

But mostly, she admitted to herself with a low moan, she wanted to have sex with him. Wild, uninhibited, magical, mind-altering sex.

For about twenty-four hours.

She rolled over and buried her face in her arms. The situation was unbearable. She was in the middle of nowhere with the most beautiful man she could imagine and he was playing some kind of sadistic game with her. She remembered her conversation with Fliss—how she’d said that he had a reputation for being icy cool. She hated men like that—the kind who messed with your head—and, Lord knew, there were plenty of them around. Always the best-looking ones, of course, the ones who would pursue you and flatter and flirt until you succumbed and slept with them, and then you wouldn’t see them for dust. Until you spotted them again across a crowded bar, doing exactly the same with someone else.

Roseanna Delafield wasn’t going to be a notch on anyone’s bedpost.

She’d kept herself well clear of all that; packed her heart on ice and buried her desires beneath a thick layer of cynicism and denial. But here she was, stranded at sea with nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide from the feelings he’d unleashed in her.

Bastard.

She sat up, suddenly blindingly, furiously angry. How dared he put her through this, with no concern whatsoever for her feelings? No—worse than that. He wasn’t unconcerned about her feelings—he was actively enjoying watching her squirm. Roughly she shrugged off his shirt and slipped back into her bikini. So what if it was still damp? At least it didn’t carry his scent on it, tantalizing her.

Restlessly she paced the length of her small cabin, her mind racing, trying to think up a plan to get away from him. With no contact with the outside world, she could hardly claim a sudden death in the family or some similar crisis. Besides, she doubted whether Angelo Emiliani would be human enough to let a little thing like that change his plans. Business, maybe, but a personal matter …

She stopped dead.

That was it.

She groaned out loud, cursing her own stupidity. Of course—why hadn’t she realized? He hadn’t brought her here to try to change her mind. He’d brought her to keep her out of the way until the sale had gone through. What he didn’t know was that that wasn’t going to happen without her going to Nice to sign the papers.

That changed everything. She was in no hurry to leave now. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she found she was holding all the aces and the game had started to get a lot more interesting.

At seven o’clock precisely there was a knock at her door. Despising the treacherous leap of excitement in the pit of her stomach, Anna yanked it open.

It was Paulo, the steward.

‘Dinner is served in the saloon, signorina.’

‘Oh. Thank you, Paulo, but I’m not dressed. I don’t have anything else to wear …’

‘It would be no trouble to find something, if you would be more comfortable, signorina?’

‘No,’ she said curtly, ‘I don’t mind, but I thought that maybe Signor Emiliani might object.’

Walking down the corridor in the direction of the saloon, Paulo turned and grinned. ‘I don’t think so, signorina. Here on Lucia we have a pretty laid-back dress code, and the evening is still beautifully warm.’

The sliding doors of the saloon were open and soft orchestral music was pouring out of the sound system into the warm air. Anna could see the table beyond, softly lit against the pastel-hued evening. It was beautiful, but as she approached her heart sank.

‘There’s only one place set, Paulo … Is Signor Emiliani not dining?’

Paulo didn’t quite meet her eye. ‘I’m sorry, Signorina Field, but he has a lot of work to do. He’s very busy taking calls right now, but he might be able to join you later. In the meantime, please take a seat. Would you like some champagne or is there anything else I can get you? A cocktail?’

‘Champagne is fine, thank you.’

It was irritation that was hardening like cement in her chest, she thought grimly. Not disappointment. Not hurt. She was annoyed by his rudeness, that was all. Yet again he had managed to make her feel about two feet tall, and about as sophisticated as a school kid. There was no way she was sitting down at that ridiculously big table to eat on her own, she thought mutinously, wandering over to the deck rail and looking out over the darkening ocean as uniformed crew brought out numerous dishes and plates arranged with food.

She wasn’t hungry. Or not in a way that could be satisfied by eating.

The evening was a cliché of romantic perfection—the flaming sun just dipping down into the sea, spreading shimmering trails of rose pink across the glassy surface, but its beauty only intensified the yearning inside her. Finishing the glass of champagne, she trailed restlessly back into the saloon, where a nineteen-fifties style jukebox stood against the wall.

She surveyed the selection with a measure of disdain, which quickly turned to grudging respect. Angelo Emiliani had better taste than the average billionaire property tycoon, she thought sourly. Or maybe when you were as rich as he was you had ‘people’ to choose your music for you? She programmed in a few songs she liked, upped the volume and drifted back outside again.

The table stood under a sort of canopy created by the mezzanine floor of the deck above which projected outwards, supported by slim chrome pillars. Passing it, she pulled off an artichoke leaf and trailed it in warm hollandaise before lasciviously sucking it.

Oh, God. Why did everything have to bring her back to the same agonizing place?

The lights from the saloon spilled out over the deck, casting long shadows in the hazy evening. The sun had disappeared now and the stars were beginning to come out in little glittering groups, like celebrities at happy hour, but there was nothing else to see. She felt all alone—a beacon of burning desire adrift on a darkling ocean.

There was a whirr and click from the jukebox as one track ended and another one began. She moaned softly as she recognized it. Nina Simone—'I Put a Spell on You'.

The music was like a match to a petrol-soaked rag and the longing she had been trying to extinguish inside her burst instantly into flame. Slowly, languorously she reached out and grasped the chrome pole at the front of the deck and leaned outwards, swinging lazily around it, automatically hooking her legs up and snaking around in a sinuous arc.

She hadn’t practised all summer. But she hadn’t forgotten the moves.

Walking around the pole, she grasped it high up and stretched her legs out wide, twisting her body around and spinning gracefully to the ground. She repeated the move, this time curling around the pole in a foetal position, her knees tucked up. The music informed her movements—slow, indolent, but ripe with sensuality. Shinning to the top of the pole, she wrapped her thighs tightly around it, gasping in exquisite pain at the pressure of the cool chrome on her burning flesh. The memory of Angelo’s hands on her waist as they danced last night filled her head, driving her to the brink of oblivion. Eyes closed, head tipped back in an agony of remembrance she spread her legs wide and swivelled down before climbing up again.

Her body pulsed with longing for his touch, the warmth of his breath on her neck. The music held her in thrall, throbbing through her as she let her body twist and curve almost of its own volition, every move an expression of desperate need. Dropping backwards in a sinuous arc, she gripped the pole near the floor and cartwheeled back to her feet as the music finished.

For a second there was silence.

Then Angelo’s voice, cold and steel-edged.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

He was on the deck above, waiting for another call from London, when he heard the music. Recognizing it, he gave a wry smile as remembered sensations from last night crowded into his mind, driving out all thoughts of business.

He got up and walked over to the railing, leaning his back against it, reliving the dance. How long had they swayed together like that, oblivious to the rest of the world? Minutes? Hours? He didn’t have a clue, he realised, and in his rigidly timetabled, efficiency-driven world that was unheard of. He’d let go of everything, in a way that was completely alien to him. He’d felt young. Carefree.

And Angelo Emiliani had never done young or carefree.

He couldn’t afford to do them now either, he reflected ruefully, trying to re-focus his brain on the matters in hand. Countless phone calls to just about every contact in his address book had failed to come up with anything concrete on an Anna Field, and Ifford’s solicitors were being extremely vague about when the contract on the château could be signed. French law dictated that the signatures of all interested parties had to be obtained, and it was taking some time to make the necessary arrangements. Angelo sneeringly assumed that the English aristocracy didn’t work to the same imperatives as the rest of the business world.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he turned to look out over the serene ocean, and that was when the light from below caught his attention.

Or not the light, exactly. The shadow.

The lamps from the saloon spilled out on to the deck below, throwing a perfect silhouette of Anna on to the smooth boards, like a screen projection.

She was dancing.

Not just dancing … She was …

Dio mio …

It should have been sleazy, but it wasn’t. Watching her, he was astonished by her graceful strength, by the smooth, elegant precision of her moves. She snaked around the pole with catlike neatness. Like a ballerina.

She’d surprised him again, he thought bleakly as the music came to an end. Surprised him and intrigued him, while all the time evading him. The girl was like a nuclear explosion in the centre of his well-ordered life.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

She scrambled to her feet, her chest rising and falling quickly, a thin sheen of sweat on her skin. Angelo crossed the deck with swift, savage strides. His face was as impassive as always—glacial in its calm—but she could see a muscle flicker in the lean plane of his jaw.

He stopped in front of her.

She tilted her chin defiantly, but behind her back her hands gripped the pole to stop her knees from giving way beneath her. The look in his eyes was blistering.

‘I was bored.’

He gave an incredulous rasp of laughter and ran a hand through his unruly mane of gold.

‘Bored?’

And then their mouths met and his hands were on the pole above her head, trapping her in a cage of his body. Her fists flew to his rock-hard chest, beating against the solid wall of muscle, while their tongues fought and meshed in the hot cavern of their mouths. She felt her hands slide round his back, her fingers helplessly kneading his silken flesh, her nails convulsively digging themselves into his skin.

Still he held on. Apart from his mouth, he wasn’t touching her at all, his arms braced against the metal pole, his head bent to hers. But his kiss was hot, savage and full of hunger.

Suddenly she ducked under his arm, stooping low and swinging out from the pole as he had seen her do as she had danced. Straightening up on the other side, she looked at him with naked desire.

‘Yes. Bored. You’re always working.’

He took a step backwards and gave her a hard, appraising smile. His eyes glittered with lust.

‘I have to try to stay one step ahead of you and your friends.’

Idly, slowly, lazily she shinned up the pole and swung around at the top, arching herself down towards him.

‘You’re wasting your time.’

‘Am I?’

He reached out a hand and traced a languorous finger around her belly button, flicking the silver bar there, never taking his eyes off her face. He saw her eyes darken and her eyelids flutter at his touch and was ready for her as she shivered and faltered. Snaking an arm around her waist, he lifted her down. Her legs closed around his waist as tightly as they had gripped the pole, her strong dancer’s muscles squeezing him.

‘Well, maybe I shouldn’t wast any more time, then,’ he said harshly, carrying her through the saloon. His mouth was set in a grim line, his fingers hard on her ribs. She felt a delicious flutter of fear and anticipation as he kicked open the door to her cabin. He looked down at her for a moment, his expression dark and savage.

‘I might not know who you are, Anna Field, but I know what you want.’

She whimpered. And then, almost without knowing how, her hands were in his hair, her mouth crashed and ground against his as he dropped her on the bed and tore at the fastening of his shorts. Her fingers closed around the back of his neck and she pulled him down beside her. Holding his face in both hands, she looked into his eyes with an expression that threatened to tip him over the edge of desire into total abandonment.

Her mouth closed over his again while her hands slid down the length of his arms to his wrists. Her fingers circled them in a steely grip as she hauled herself up so she was sitting on top of him. Without tearing her mouth from his, she edged her hips upwards until her knees rested on his outspread arms. The kiss deepened. They were tearing at each other’s face with their mouths, grinding, rasping, devouring.

Then suddenly she threw her head backwards, gasping triumphantly. Her knees pinioned his arms to the bed on either side of him. Eyes glittering, she looked down on him.

‘Got you’ she whispered throatily.

He gazed up at her as a slow smile curved his bruised lips, making those little brackets at each corner of his mouth. Sinuously he edged downwards beneath her, so that her crotch was centimetres from his mouth.

He breathed out. Heavily.

She moaned as the heat of his breath fanned the fire raging through her pelvis and caressed her more intimately, more delicately, more thoroughly than she had thought possible. Her eyes closed in blissful submission, then flew open again as she felt the first stroke of his tongue.

‘Oh, God. Oh—oh, Angelo—’

He felt the shudder that shook her whole body.

‘Take them off,’ he breathed.

Her hands went to her bikini bottoms and she rose up on her knees as she frantically tugged them downwards. He watched her, waiting for the moment when she would have to lift her knees to remove the tiny scrap of white fabric, and as she did so he flipped her over so she rolled on to the bed beneath him.

In one fluid movement he was astride her.

‘Got you.’

She jerked and bucked under his thighs, half rising up on her elbows, wanting to fight, but wanting to surrender more. He inserted a knee between her hot, writhing thighs, separating her legs and spreading them wide open. Growling, snarling, she pushed her hips upwards, questing for the hardness of him that she could see but not touch, almost deranged with the need to feel him inside her.

Watching him slide on a condom was almost more than she could bear.

With one slow thrust he entered her, and felt a sudden shock, like lightning through his veins at the momentary look of vulnerability that passed across her face, the soft gasp that sprang from her sweet mouth. Surely she couldn’t be…?

‘Anna?’

He withdrew, and she let out a cry of pure desperation, arching her hips up towards him again. Her eyes locked into his, any trace of hesitation vanished in the blistering heat of her need. Sensing his uncertainty she pressed her fists against his chest, clawing, beating, every blow an expression of her longing. He thrust slowly into her again.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered harshly, almost despairingly.

Her eyes were a dark abyss from which she looked at him with hopeless desire.

‘I don’t know. I’m—oh, God—’ He thrust into her again. ‘I’m whatever … you want me … to be.’

He leaned forward, low over her face, brushing her lips with his as he withdrew again.

‘Or everything I don’t want you to be.’

He thrust into her again. Through a haze of ecstasy she looked up at him.

‘That’s …’ she breathed out, closed her eyes and slid a hand around his neck, pulling his head down to hers so that her lips caressed his ear ‘… that’s what you like. That’s why I’m here.’

With a primitive growl he gathered her to his chest and then they were rolling and fighting and writhing together in a tangle of limbs and hands and mouths, until finally Anna arched her back and let out a shout of rapture that drifted across the dark ocean. In silent joy Angelo held her shuddering body and let go, feeling his own release like a triumph.

Her hair fanned out on the pillow, black and pink. He looked down at her, at her heart-shaped face, her flushed cheeks, her swollen mouth with its perfect Cupid’s-bow lips smudged and reddened. Silently she looked back. Defiant, but defeated by her own need.

She must have slept, or at least fallen into that deeply relaxed state of total, contented submission. The next thing she knew Angelo was gently easing his arm out from beneath her head and tugging the sheet over her naked body.

‘Hmm? What are you doing? Where are you going?’

He leaned over her, his perfect face as blank and pale as marble in the moonlight.

‘I’m going back to my cabin.’

‘No! Stay! You can’t just leave like that, after we … after that.’ She stretched out a hand towards him, suddenly bereft. He captured it and kissed her fingertips, then placed her hand softly down on the bed.

He stood upright, looking terrifyingly remote and heartbreakingly gorgeous.

She struggled into a sitting position, clutching the sheet to her breasts as she watched him walk towards the door. ‘Angelo—’ she called out, unable to stop herself. He turned.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ He shook his head, unsmiling. ‘Sex is for sharing. But I sleep alone.’ And with that he was gone.