The word breathed its way through her mind and she quickly muted it. There was nothing romantic about this. He’d thrown her out of his home, more or less, when he’d realised she’d been a virgin, and a month later he’d propositioned her right back into his bed. Romantic? Ha!
She strode through the double-height living room, with its floor-to-ceiling glass windows framing a view of the moonlit French Riviera in one direction, with boats lit golden and bobbing on the gentle waves, and in the other of this beautiful, billionaire’s playground—equally glamorous hotels, and shops that made this part of the world so renowned.
For Jemima, though, the pleasure in Cannes had always been in the gardens.
The city was—and had been for a long time—home to some of the world’s wealthiest residents, and the public gardens were a testament to that. Jemima could lose hours alone in the Jardin des Oliviers, wandering the olive grove, finding her way onto the perfectly lush grass and sitting people-watching, a large hat and sunglasses the perfect disguise to avoid being easily spotted here, where people were well-trained in picking out the celebrities in their midst.
It was a warm, sultry evening and the wind that lifted off the Bay of Cannes was fragranced with salt. She breathed it in deeply, trying to calm the furious beating of butterfly wings against her belly.
The money had cleared the day before. Laurence had been like a new man—the stress he’d carried for over a year dissipating completely. ‘It’s going to be okay, Jem. It’s really going to be okay.’
And maybe he was right. If the hedge fund returned to the black, then it would mean relief was at hand for Almer Hall, and the enormous debts that encumbered the property. Perhaps, after a decade of fretting about the state of the grand old home and the burden of keeping it in the family, things were finally going to get easier.
The sound of a door clicking had Jemima spinning where she stood in time to see Cesare enter. For the first time since they’d met, he wasn’t wearing a suit. Instead, he was casually dressed in dark denims and a pale-blue polo shirt, the collar lifted a little in a way she suspected was a result of movement rather than a contrived attempt at fashion.
His eyes swept the room and landed on her almost as though he hadn’t expected her to be there. The second he saw her, he began to move, his body striding towards her as if on autopilot. She stood where she was and all she could think was that she must look like a deer in the headlights. She spent her life projecting an image—she was paid well to do exactly that—but there was something about this man that made it hard for her to act as she meant.
‘Hello.’ The word emerged soft and husky.
He stopped short, as if waking from a dream. ‘Jemima.’ A muscle jerked in his jaw as he regarded her with eyes that showed an unmistakable hunger. He swept his gaze over her face, and she was glad she’d dressed up, glad she’d worn her usual armour. A face with the minimum of make-up and a body in a killer dress. Brightly coloured with spaghetti straps, long and floaty, it was somehow sexy without being obvious, and she loved it. His eyes roamed her body in a way it didn’t occur to her to mind because her gaze was indulging its own feast, devouring him limb by limb until, satiated, she drew her attention back to his face.
‘Here I am,’ she murmured. ‘One mistress, reporting as ordered.’
‘Bought and paid for?’
‘Not quite.’ She heard the cultured tones creep into her voice and saw his eyes flash with something like contempt.
‘Did you speak to your cousin?’
She nodded slowly. ‘He’s very pleased.’
Satisfaction crossed Cesare’s face. ‘I can imagine.’ He lifted a hand then, his eyes boring into hers in a way she found impossible to look away from. ‘Five hundred million pounds, and likely the need for more in six months.’
It was so much money. The idea that he’d paid that simply to get her back into bed was a strange realisation to grapple with. On the one hand, it was completely flattering—she had no doubt he could have, and had had, any woman he wanted. But it was also troubling, because it was a fortune to gamble if Laurence didn’t know what he was doing.
‘I’m sure it will return well for you.’ Her voice didn’t ring with conviction.
‘We’ll see.’ His hands dropped to her shoulders, to the straps there, pushing at them slowly, his expression droll, his eyes holding a silent challenge. ‘You’re over-dressed.’
Her heart skidded through her chest; her eyes slowly lifted to his as desire slammed into her. ‘Am I?’
‘I’d prefer you to spend the next two weeks naked,’ he said, a hint of amusement in the words.
The very idea of being naked in this hotel, waiting for him, existing for their coming together, filled her with an all-over rush of heat that engulfed her soul in flames.
‘And you’d be naked too, I presume?’ she responded acerbically, and was rewarded with a smile. A true smile that shifted his whole expression and made her heart thump harder.
‘Certamente.’
She hadn’t worn a bra under the dress, so when he pushed the straps farther and it slipped to the ground she stood before him in a lace thong and stiletto heels, her hair tumbling about her shoulders.
Cesare took a couple of steps back, his eyes traversing her body with impunity, lingering on the curve of her breasts, the swell of her hips. Everywhere he looked her skin seemed to tingle, as though it was his fingertips dragging across her slowly, feeling her, touching her.
When he lifted his attention to her face, there was accusation in his expression, a look of resentment that made no sense. But it was gone again so quickly that she wondered if she’d imagined it. His cheekbones were slashed with dark colour, just as they’d been in his office when he’d reined in their explosive passion.
She didn’t want him to rein in anything now.
‘You’re wearing clothes,’ she pointed out huskily.