'Fourteen.'
'Before I met you.'
'Yes. Anyway, I left school.'
'How did they die?'
'My father was a budding racing driver when he met mother. Later he tried powerboat racing, then he changed to hot-air ballooning, and they went missing over the Atlantic in a balloon. Satisfied?' She didn't like talking about their death. She had been completely devastated. They had been such a laughing, happy family, and she had felt so lost. Then her grandmother had spent the last few months of her life impressing upon Parisa that she was the sole heir, and stressing the responsibilities that went with it, pointing out the dangers of impulsive behaviour—and then her grandmother had died as well. Parisa had cried herself to sleep for months. Didi and Joe had done their best but it wasn't quite the same as one's own family. Over the years she had found the loss easier to manage. But it still hurt, and the loneliness lingered.
'You take after him.'
'No, I do not.' She had loved her parents dearly, but she had spent most of her adult life determined to quell any spark of recklessness in her own nature.
'All right, don't get excited. Who took care of you when you lost your parents and grandmother?'
She looked across the table and was surprised to see a fleeting glimpse of some emotion in his black eyes.
'The family solicitor. Anyway, I finished school, went to university, and I now teach sport at an independent school, south of London, in Sussex.' She hurried to finish her life history, telling the truth, but not all. 'Now, what about you?' she asked. 'I know you're Italian and have a mother and cousin Tina. You successfully blackmail people, enough to buy a casino, and probably have quite a few dubious connections if this plane is anything to go by. Do I need to know any more?' she asked snidely.
For a second she thought she had gone too far. His tanned face flushed dark with some inner rage; his black eyes narrowed on her face, hard as ice. She watched as his fingers clenched on the knife in his hand. But by a terrific effort of will he brought his rage under control and leant back in the chair.
'No. I think you have me covered very well, Parisa. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to.' And, picking up a briefcase from the side of the chair, he shoved the plate and cups along the table, banged the case down, and opened it. Withdrawing some papers, he began to read, completely ignoring Parisa.
She was pleased, she told herself, and, laying her head back against the sofa, she closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. For three days she had been living in a state of nervous tension, and finally nature had caught up with her. She felt her eyelids droop, and her last conscious thought was that he had not denied her taunt about his other crooked activities…
The trip to Italy was forced upon her: there was no way she could have lived with herself if she had allowed Luc to destroy Moya's life; but she had to be on her guard at all times...
Parisa stirred, her lips parting on a sigh. She was curled up comfortably, her head resting against soft fabric, one hand burrowed between hard heat and soft warmth. She rubbed her face against the welcoming wool, trying to ignore the low sounds bringing her back to consciousness. With a wide yawn she opened her eyes. For a moment she was disorientated.
'We have almost reached our destination, Parisa.'
Oh, God! Her head was nestled against a very masculine shoulder, but worse—much worse—somehow one hand had slipped very intimately under his sweater to the tanned midriff she had admired earlier. She jerked upright, her face flushing crimson. She looked sideways at Luc. He was watching her, his dark eyes amused, and with a trace of something more she refused to acknowledge.
'My...my hand. I'm sorry... You should have woken me. She stuttered to an embarrassed halt.
'Don't be—I am not. Frustrating, but very pleasant,' he opined smoothly. 'Unfortunately we are about to land in five minutes.'
Parisa jumped off the sofa and almost ran to the aircraft seat, and buckled herself in without daring to look at him. She should have known better than to try to apologise. The man was a sex maniac, with his Margot, and trying it on with Moya and heaven knew how many more.
Gritting her teeth as he sat down beside her once again, she closed her eyes and made herself keep her hands tightly clasped in her lap. Refusing to give in to the terror the ground rushing up to meet them induced in her, she opened her eyes.
'Oh, my God! The sea!' she exclaimed, and all her good intentions flew out of the window as she grabbed Luc's arm with both hands.
'Genoa Airport—the approach is over the sea,' Luc said calmly. 'Nothing to worry about.'
She turned frightened eyes up to his and, before she could speak, his dark head bent and his mouth covered hers, hot and hard against her softly parted lips. She stared up at him through a hazy blackness. Her breath stopped. His tongue touched hers, teased the roof of her mouth, and she closed her eyes against the blazing light she saw in his. Her pulse rocketed as the most shocking hot, pleasurable sensation rushed through her. His groan of pleasure made her realise just what she was doing, and she began to struggle, but suddenly she was free.
Luc leant back in his seat, and calmly unfastened his seatbelt.
'You had no right to do that...' Parisa spluttered, amazed at his cool control when she felt as though she had been run over by a ten-ton truck. 'Our bargain is strictly business.'
'So it is, Parisa, but you've got to admit it worked: you never noticed the landing.'
She glanced out of the window. He was right, damn him! Silently fuming at his arrogance, she swiftly unfastened the seatbelt, picked her handbag off the floor and, making sure he moved first, she slowly stood up. The steward held out her coat, and she slipped it on, tying the belt around her small waist with a vicious tug. She was still shaking from the force of his kiss, and hating herself for it. That is the last time he will catch me like that, she swore, as she meekly followed Luc's broad back down the steps of the airplane. Think of David, she told herself.
The Customs officer appeared to know Luc, as the two men conversed in rapid Italian. Parisa, standing stiffly with her passport held in front of her, hadn't a clue what was said, but recognised 'fidanzata' The officer turned to her, a brilliant smile on his olive-skinned face, and by the voluble speech he made she guessed he was congratulating her. She gave him a weak smile in return, and muttered one of the few Italian words she knew. 'Grazie.'