JEMIMA’S STOMACH ROLLED with a stormy kaleidoscope of butterflies. Anxiety burst through her, but even as the lift ascended to the top floor of Durante Incorporated’s offices here in Rome and she gnawed on her lower lip, wondering if there was any alternative to this, she knew there wasn’t.
She had to do this.
Her eyes, shielded by the over-sized sunglasses she often wore, flicked to the lift control panel. Buttons lit up as the lift crossed the floors until finally it arrived on the twenty-seventh. Jemima was pretty certain she’d left her stomach and every single one of her nerves down in the marbled lobby.
She’d dressed carefully for this meeting. Where she usually liked to fly under the radar, she felt she needed all her Jemima Woodcroft armour at her disposal today. Conversely, she hadn’t wanted it to look as though she’d gone to any effort whatsoever. A pair of skinny jeans, a loose-fitting blouse a crisp white in colour, with a bright beaded necklace she’d bought at Camden Market and a pair of stilettos to give her a little extra height—and courage. Her clutch matched her necklace and she kept it tucked under her arm as she approached the central reception bay. Here, it was like another version of the lobby downstairs—all high ceilings, marble floor, bright and sun-filled, beautiful and extravagant. Everywhere she looked breathed ‘success’.
‘I’m here to see Cesare Durante.’ His name flew from her lips and sparked a deluge of memories, the same memories that had been tormenting her night after night since she’d stalked out of his London home and sworn she’d never think of him again.
If only.
She had thought of him without meaning to. It had been hardest of all to keep him at bay when she’d been showering. Naked, her hands had run over her body, touching her flesh as he had, stirring memories and wants so that desire had begun to simmer inside her all the time. Anger was there too, anger at the way he’d reacted and treated her, but the pleasure of what they’d shared refused to be dimmed, regardless of what had come afterwards.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No.’ Jemima removed her sunglasses. ‘But he’ll want to see me. We’re...old friends.’
The receptionist lifted her head belatedly, swiping at her silky black hair, pushing it back from her face. As her eyes landed on Jemima, she showed obvious surprise, and Jemima tamped down on a familiar feeling—part resentment, part amusement. It was easy to tell the moment people recognised her.
‘Jemima Woodcroft?’
Jemima’s smile was kind. ‘Yes.’
‘Oh, wow. Okay, I’ll just let him know you’re here.’
‘Thank you.’ She dipped her head forward in acknowledgement. A few moments later, moments in which Jemima’s fingers fidgeted unstoppably, moments in which she began to imagine that perhaps he wasn’t going to see her after all, the receptionist appeared at Jemima’s side.
‘This way, ma’am.’
Her feet made a clickety-clack noise as she crossed the reception area. When they approached two wide, glass doors, Jemima knew she was seconds away from seeing him again. Her insides were trembling; she employed every technique at her disposal, everything her professional training had taught her, to hide any outward appearance of nervousness. He couldn’t know how he affected her, nor what this visit was costing her pride!
The receptionist opened the door and stood holding it. Jemima expelled a soft breath, dug her nails into her palms and pushed into his office.
And immediately wished she hadn’t.
It was so, so very him. Dark timber floors, sleek and elegant, unbelievably masculine in its decor, and there was a faint hint of fragrance, something like pine needles and orange peel, that made her tummy loop around and around in circles with the rush of her memories.
Within seconds she’d taken in the details of the room, looking around on autopilot until her eyes landed on him with a heart-stopping thud and she had no scope left to notice anything else.
Oh, God.
A month. Four weeks. Thirty days. In that time she’d travelled to Istanbul for a magazine shoot, to Paris to film a video for an airline, but no matter where she’d fallen asleep, her dreams had been filled with Cesare, and her dreams were so torturously vivid that she’d woken up again and again and reached for him, as though her fingertips would connect with his warm, toned flesh.
She stared at him now as a drowning man might a lifeline. He wore a suit, dark blue with a tinge of grey, that set off the depth of his tan beautifully, teamed with a white shirt and a pair of brown shoes which she’d bet were hand-stitched. At his wrist there was a gold watch, and his dark hair was brushed back from his brow. He looked strong, vital and unbelievably sexy. She stared at him, wishing she’d pushed her glasses back onto her face, wishing she had some kind of shield, some sort of protection against this.
Images came to her unbidden. Memories of his mouth on her breasts, on her sex, of his tongue running over her body, tasting her, tormenting her, driving her completely wild. Her nerve endings began to tingle; she felt as though her feet had lifted up off the ground.
‘Miss Woodcroft.’ His use of her surname brought her to the present with a thud. She wasn’t here to walk down memory lane—all ten yards of it. She was here on business. She was here for Laurence—that was the only reason she had for weakening and seeing him again. Memories of how desperate her cousin had been when they’d spoken on the phone two nights earlier surged through her now, making it easier to push past her anxiety and desire and focus almost exclusively on the purpose of her visit.
‘Mr Durante,’ she responded in kind, her eyes subconsciously icing over.
‘Thank you, Olivia.’
The door clicked shut behind the receptionist, leaving them completely alone. Jemima was conscious of everything. Her breathing and his, the space between them, the rustle of his suit as he crossed the room to a kitchenette. He pressed a button on a machine and a thick, black liquid began to fill a white ceramic cup. ‘Coffee?’
She shook her head, then cleared her throat. ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’
His eyes lifted to her face, scanning it thoughtfully, then he removed the cup from the machine and cradled it in his hand. ‘Then perhaps you can explain what you’re doing here?’