‘Yes.’
God, he was—why the heck hadn’t she been able to put him out of her mind? Why had he somehow got under her skin and into her blood like this? ‘I don’t even like you.’
His look was one of wry amusement. ‘Then it’s just as well I’m not asking you to like me.’ He moved his head closer towards hers, so when he whispered she could hear every syllable of his words. ‘Liking one another has nothing to do with what we are. I am asking you to be my mistress, not my girlfriend. It is a simple yes or no question.’
She swallowed. It wasn’t simple, it was complex, but only because she wished she felt more strongly opposed to this. She wished she were outraged or violently offended. She was neither.
In point of fact, she was intrigued and excited. Yes, excited. A month ago, Cesare had woken a part of her that she hadn’t even realised was dormant. He’d stirred her to life and, no matter what she might think of him personally, she had no doubt he was just the man with whom to explore this sensual side of herself.
Perhaps she could approach this exactly as he suggested: as a business arrangement. Oh, not in the sense that he was bankrolling Laurence. That had to be removed from her mind. This was a decision about whether she wanted to sleep with Cesare, whether she wanted to become his mistress—for a short period of time. It was about what she stood to gain from this—not financially, so much as physically.
Her eyes clashed with his and something locked in place inside her, something vital. She could make her peace with this situation because deep down she knew that it was her choice. He was providing an option, but she was only accepting because she wanted to.
‘I have the Feranti e Caro fashion show next week,’ she murmured, hearing herself and knowing there was acquiescence in the words.
‘Cancel it.’
Angry heat fired in her belly. ‘No way. I can’t. This is my career and I won’t let them down. I don’t ever cancel a show once I’ve agreed to it.’
His lips compressed, his expression impossible to interpret, until finally he nodded. ‘Fine. One night.’ His eyes flared. ‘Otherwise, you are mine.’
She wanted to tell him that people couldn’t belong to people, that the idea of ownership was ridiculous and patriarchal, that it offended every level of her feminist heart. But she knew, even as those words flew through her, that a part of her had belonged to him the moment they’d met, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever get it back.
Excitement buzzed through her; pleasure and anticipation, as well. It would have been easy to forget why she’d come to him, easy to forget her cousin and what she owed him.
Cesare made that impossible, though. ‘I will advise my lawyers to contact Laurence. It will take a few days for the funds to transfer.’ His eyes locked to hers, then he spun away, stalking towards his desk. He scrawled something on the back of a business card then crossed to her once more, his manner strictly business.
‘Friday—meet me here.’
She dropped her eyes to the card, reading his confident scrawl.
Hotel Sable d’Or, Cannes.
He pressed a finger to her chin, lifting her face towards his, something in his eyes that spoke of promises and needs. ‘Don’t disappoint me.’
Her lips parted on a sigh—a sigh that was part promise and all hope. ‘I won’t.’
And then he dropped his head to hers, this kiss slower, more enquiring, as though he were tasting her, teasing her. It still had the same effect: her knees threatened to buckle beneath her and her mind went blank. It was all too brief, though.
‘Dream of me.’
She nodded, because she knew she would, just as she had been, and his laugh was soft. ‘I will make you forget whoever it was you slept with after me. I will ruin you for any other man, uccellina.’
* * *
Thud. Thud. Thud. One foot after the other. Faster. Better. His eyes flicked to his watch, checking his pace and then his heart rate, but only for a second. Don’t take your eyes off the goal. He dipped his head forward, keeping his frame in its most aerodynamic state, and continued to run. Rome passed him in a blur, as it did every night, his body at one with this ancient city, her secrets breathing into his soul, ancient wisdom soothing him in a way he hadn’t known he needed until he’d found his way back here.
He liked to run to the outskirts of the city, to the borderline slum in which he’d spent the first five years of his life. To stare at the building—it was still there—with the peeling paint and the boarded-up windows, the wall with faded graffiti as though even vandals preferred not to come into this part of the city. He liked to listen to the sounds, to breathe in the smells and to remember—this was where he had started in life.
And always at the back of his mind, no matter how hard he ran, no matter how much he achieved, no matter what his bank balance was, Cesare carried with him a latent fear, a certainty that if he didn’t keep running, keep working, keep amassing his fortune, he would end up right back where he’d begun—broke, alone, sad and so hungry he
could feel the walls of his stomach squeezing in on themselves.
He was thirty-five years old: that time in his life was decades ago, yet the memories were trapped inside him in a way that showed they’d never fade. Despite all that he’d earned, Cesare could never forget the little boy he’d been then—oftentimes grubby, weary, a boy people would cross the street to avoid. How ironic that he could now command the attention of world leaders, of kings and queens and, most importantly, of women like Jemima Woodcroft...
* * *
She’d been to Cannes many times and to this hotel, though never to the penthouse. This expansive, stunning living area—stretching the entire footprint of the hotel—was beyond her wild imaginings. Decadent in the French rococo style, with ornate pieces of antique furniture, it was sumptuous and romantic.