‘I’ll see you up to your room,’ he said abruptly.
‘There’s no need.’
‘There’s every need,’ he argued. ‘You’re jet-lagged and probably feeling disorientated.’
She certainly was—but her disorientation wasn’t being helped by the fact that he was there. That the closeness of his powerful body was taunting her with the elusive promise of pleasure. And it was wrong for all kinds of reasons. Wrong because of Nat and wrong because it was Zak.
Weariness swept over her—a potent combination of not enough sleep or food, with a glass of rich red wine thrown in to further complicate it. Her body felt drained and her legs were shaky as they walked to the elevator, which was fortunately busy enough to preclude any kind of conversation. The lift doors opened on to the thirty-second floor and Zak followed her out, but as she reached her room and began to fumble in her bag for her key-card she felt herself stumble slightly. Felt Zak’s hand automatically reach out to steady her and Emma stiffened as he gripped her.
His fingers seemed to sizzle through the thin material of her floaty top—almost as if they were scorching the skin which lay beneath. She could feel the thready patter of her heart and her breathing suddenly became as laboured as if she’d been running.
For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes as time and place merged, the background of his fancy hotel blurring into insignificance so that all she could see was the darkened pewter of his burning gaze. And in that moment she wanted him. Wanted him in a way which wiped all reason from her sleep-deprived brain.
‘Zak,’ she whispered, although she didn’t know why she said it—and, in view of her reluctance to say it earlier, it now seemed like an intimacy too far.
Zak heard the soft temptation of her voice and a powerful desire washed over him. Let her go, he urged himself savagely—but his body stubbornly refused to obey. Still his hand gripped the slim column of her arm and he was loath to pull his fingers away from the softness of her flesh.
He looked down at her, mesmerised by her closeness and the way she was looking at him. Her green eyes had grown smoky and her lips had parted in unconscious invitation and he knew that if he were to dip his head, he could claim them in a kiss which would combust. He imagined pulling her hungrily into his arms. The jut of his hips against hers and the silent circling of his heavy erection against her feminine softness. The urgent journey to her room and then the discarding of clothes until he felt her naked against him.
He could hear the powerful beat of his heart as the idea became a tantalising possibility and he could almost taste the desire which hovered in the air around them. She would let him do it. He knew she would. She would part her thighs and urge him into her sweet, molten tightness. Sweet heaven. Should he take her? Should he?
The vivid images playing in his head were almost his undoing until he forced himself to picture the sordid aftermath of such a coupling. Of confessing to his brother what he had done. Of having to look into her cheating face the next morning. He let his hand fall to his side, self-disgust hardening his lips into a savage line of contempt, appalled at his own weakness.
Was this how she had lured Louis Patterson? And then Ciro D’Angelo? And after that his brother? Like an earth-bound siren who could captivate men with her pale eyes and hair and the promise of her soft, curvy body?
He took a step back. ‘You said you were tired,’ he said harshly. ‘In which case, I’ve always found it better to go to bed on your own.’
And with that, he turned on his heel—leaving Emma staring after him, her lips trembling as she registered his withering contempt. Aware that she had been chastised for something she hadn’t even realised she’d been doing.
CHAPTER SIX
THE next morning Emma found an envelope shoved underneath her door and knew who it was from, even before she’d opened it. The stark black words seemed to leap off the expensive cream paper as her trembling fingers ripped it open.
“We neglected to talk about your work last night. Meet me in the lobby at ten. Zak.”
And that was it. No endearment. No polite wishes expressed that he hoped she’d had a comfortable night. Which of course, she hadn’t. The long hours of travel hadn’t helped at all, and she’d woken at four thirty absolutely buzzing and unable to get back to sleep. She’d lain staring at the unfamiliar room and remembering those strange and provocative moments in the corridor, when she could have sworn that Zak was about to kiss her. When she’d wanted him to kiss her. And that had only been the beginning of what she’d wanted—she who had sworn off men and all the bitter fall-out of emotional attachment.
Had she gone completely crazy last night—or had she just been suffering from the potency of jet lag and wine? Opening up the blinds, Emma stared out of the window at the green oasis of Central Park. Either way, she wouldn’t be making a fool of herself by repeating it.
Putting Zak’s note down on the dresser, she showered and dressed—and ordered breakfast from room service. She crunched her way through toast and jam, forcing the food down because she knew she needed it, rather than because she really wanted it. But at least the coffee was good and strong and afterwards she felt much better.
But she was nervous when she arrived in the lobby and more nervous still when she saw Zak with his back to her, standing talking into his cellphone. How she hated the fact that her nerve-endings prickled into life when she saw him—when all she wanted to feel towards him was a cool impartiality. He was wearing a steel-grey suit and she was suddenly glad that she’d pulled something smarter from her wardrobe. She got the feeling that, in this city, clothes meant business.
He turned and saw her, terminating his call in a couple of brief words. His grey eyes narrowing, they scanned her with unwilling assessment.
Emma wondered what he saw. Had she failed on the sartorial front again? she wondered. Were a new sweater and pale jeans—stretchy enough for any ladder-climbing—still a little on the casual side for the wealthy hotelier’s taste? He was coming towards her now and it was impossible to read his thoughts from his expression. The pewter eyes were shaded by thick black lashes and his rugged olive features were as hard as marble.
To Emma’s embarrassment, her own colour had started to rise—along with the realisation that the cold light of day had done nothing to lessen her desire for him. That last night had not been some erotic, one-off blip.
But now she had to act normally. As if she hadn’t poured out her life-story to him over dinner last night and let the daylight in on the shadowy world of her past.
‘Good morning,’ she said, summoning up the brightest smile from her repertoire.
Zak noted the dark shadows beneath her eyes, which were at odds with the studiedly cheerful note in her voice. ‘You look tired,’ he observed.
‘That’s because I am.’
‘Been emailing my brother all night, I suppose?’ he enquired caustically.