Because, despite all the frosty defiance, she looked tired and a little pale and the finest hint of bruising was beginning to darken the sockets of her beautiful eyes. Oddly, he didn’t like to see it. For all he was aware that his siege tactics were a deliberate part of his divide and conquer war of attrition, he had no wish to lay to waste that part of her which had fired his motives in the first place.
So he did absolutely nothing as he watched her turn to walk towards him with her jacket buttoned up to her stiff neck, and her eyes as cold as the Arctic. Coming to a stop in front of him, she reached out to take her scarf first, sliding it off his arm and looping it around her neck before reaching for her coat. He said not a thing as the warm cashmere-wool mix settled across her shoulders, its long length reaching way beyond her slender calves. Nor remarked when, with a careless grace, she slid the long pelt of her hair out from inside the coat, then reached out to take the carrier bag containing her handbag.
‘Goodnight,’ she said, and walked proudly away from him.
It really was a sensational performance. Shame it was all spoiled by the distinct threat of tears he had glimpsed in her eyes just before she’d turned away…
Nothing, she was telling herself as she walked. No words, no expression, no attempt to thank her for the hours she had put in here for his benefit—not even a hint that he was aware of everything else he had put her through today! She hated him, she really did!
But what really hurt was that he’d let her walk away just now. Why should it hurt? she asked herself as she stabbed an angry finger at the lift-call button. What was the matter with her? Was she an absolute sucker for punishment or something? The man was cruel, he played cruel games like a cat would with a mouse before it gobbled its victim up and spit out the bones. Was that what Giancarlo Cardinale had in store for her? A final gobbling up of her before he spit out what was left and walked away?
‘Oh, come on—come on!’ she begged the lift, feeling the tears begin to threaten for real now.
She went to hit the button again—found her fingers clashing with another set of fingers and glanced up to see through a veil of tears—him standing beside her.
Her hand snapped away. ‘Forgotten something?’ she asked, meaning to sound sarcastic, but she only managed husky and wished she weren’t such an emotional fool.
‘No,’ he replied, quietly, levelly. ‘It was you who forgot me.’
The lift arrived. She frowned, not understanding his meaning. Then decided she didn’t want to understand it as she stepped into the lift and turned to press for the ground-floor foyer—when once again his hand beat her to it.
He pressed for the basement. ‘I am driving you home,’ he explained.
Standing there, not half an inch separating her from his whipcord lean, muscle-hardened, arrogant stance, she noticed the bunch of car keys dangling from his lean dark fingers, looked up at his carefully neutral expression, and said, ‘Go to hell,’ thickly, succinctly. Then reached out again to press for the ground-floor foyer, and had her hand firmly captured, stopping her from touching anything—but him.
Sensation hit her in a crackling rush that fled round her system. She tried to break free, got herself pinned for her trouble against mirror-lined walls that sent back reflected images of the two of them from just about every angle. It was mad, compelling. Dark face—white face. Black hair—copper hair. Flashing blue eyes—steady brown velvet. And two mouths coming closer as if unable to resist the hypnotic pull of the other.
‘Don’t…’ she whispere
d in a last-ditch attempt to save herself from disaster.
He drew back. She hated him for it. ‘Do you allow me to drive you home,’ he levelled quietly, ‘or do we return upstairs to—discuss the matter?’
What a choice. The ultimate ultimatum, she recognised, for, despite his level voice, the quiet, calm manner, she knew what was being put on offer here. Escape, the chance to live another day—or capture, in its most consummate sense.
The silence sizzled with hesitation. It ate at her senses and burned in her breasts. His hands were locked on her upper arms, hers were flattened against his rock-solid chest, so she could feel the steady pound of his heart, and the even spacing of his breath. But she could also feel her own heart rattling around as if in a whirlpool—panicking because she wasn’t breathing at all.
The decision was that difficult to make…
If she chose to go back upstairs, he would be the loser here, Giancarlo told himself, because she would be coming to his bed still fighting him, and by tomorrow she would hate him for it.
But he didn’t want her hatred. He wanted her warm and willing and believing that to be with him in his bed was the only place she wanted to be. In fact, it was essential she feel like that. For what good was a single night of passion going to do him when it came to seducing her right away from Edward?
It was the long-term seduction of Natalia Deyton which was the real goal he had set himself—making her want him enough and trust him enough to need him more than she’d ever needed anyone.
But if she chose to go home, he wasn’t sure he could let her go that easily either. She had no idea what her eyes were telling him, he thought tensely. No suspicion that he was being eaten up inside. She was tying him in knots, he freely admitted it. Sensual knots, emotional knots. Greedy, compulsive, frustrated knots that made a complete mockery of the offer to drive her home.
He’d meant to be kind, show her another side to himself that was thoughtful and caring because she’d looked so tired and stressed out. He’d discovered he didn’t like it—didn’t like knowing that her strain was entirely his fault.
‘I need to go home,’ she whispered throatily. And the tears were still there! He wanted to kick himself for making them happen. He wanted to say to hell with it all and simply take her back to his apartment anyway!
They came to a stop and the doors slid open, revealing two fellow tenants waiting to enter, their polite expressions trying hard not to notice the buzz of sexual tension bouncing off the mirrored walls of the lift-car.
Giancarlo straightened away from her instantly. Natalia quickly slid herself past both him and the two others with her head lowered so they couldn’t see her pained embarrassment.
He joined her as the lift doors closed again, leaving them alone in the softly lit car park with a double row of expensive cars.
The Ferrari still stood out as different, squatting low and sleek in its reserved slot, like a black cat waiting to pounce the moment it was given the opportunity.