He shrugged. ‘I cannot fathom any other reason for your presence.’
She glared at him, shaking her head. ‘Yeah, well, you’re wrong...’
‘I doubt that.’ His eyes bore into hers and then swept her face. ‘You know, I’ve seen your photo dozens of times. You’re everywhere—on buses, billboards, television. You are beautiful always, but in person you are much more so.’ He frowned, as though he hadn’t intended this to be a compliment. ‘If Laurence thought I would lose my mind and simply agree to sign on the bottom line, then he played an excellent bargaining chip.’ He dropped his head lower so his lips were only inches from hers. ‘I suspect one night with you would be worth half a billion pounds.’
Desire was like a tidal wave crashing over her.
‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she murmured, but didn’t move away.
His lips twisted cynically. ‘I know what the rumours say. I know that you and Clive Angmore had an affair that almost ended his marriage, despite the fact he was in his sixties and you were barely legal.’
Her heart strangled at that familiar accusation. It was surprising how much it hurt coming from Cesare. After all, she’d lived alongside Clive’s lies for a long time—she’d thought she’d developed a thicker skin than this. But hearing Cesare shame her for the supposed affair cut her to the quick.
‘And you blame me for that?’
‘No.’ His eyes were thoughtful. ‘As I said, you were just a teenager.’
If she’d been surprised by the hurt his accusation had caused then his next statement was a balm she also hadn’t expected. ‘Surely you’re too intelligent to believe everything you read in the paper?’
‘Not everything,’ he murmured, the words drugging her with their sensual tone. ‘But I’ve also observed that the old adage “where there’s smoke, there’s fire” is often true.’
She compressed her lips. It bothered her so much that he had clearly bought into all the rumours, was so believing of the image that the press had created of her ‘out of control’ lifestyle.
‘You’re wrong, Mr Durante.’ She deliberately reverted to the use of his formal name. ‘I’m here to support my cousin, and nothing more.’ Her voice wobbled a little, but she was pleased with the coldness of her tone. And now, finally, she side-stepped him, gratefully breathing in Durante-free air.
No, not gratefully. Wistfully. She would have been grateful if she’d stayed exactly where she was, because in a matter of seconds she suspected he’d have been kissing her.
Her mind splintered apart at the very idea and a rush of warmth pooled low in her abdomen.
‘Stop.’ She couldn’t say why she obeyed, but her legs remained perfectly still, unmoving, her face tilted towards his. He was watching her carefully, as though he could peel away her layers and see something deep inside.
‘I came here tonight with a sense of amusement. I am not a man to be baited by a beautiful woman. And yet...’ He lifted his hand to her cheek once more, his eyes roaming her face thoughtfully.
‘And yet?’ Her voice was croaky.
‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.’ He didn’t move but she felt as though his body was touching her, pressing into her, and her stomach twisted into a billion knots.
‘I’m not bait,’ she insisted. If only he knew that her experience with the opposite sex was completely non-existent.
He brushed aside her words with a flash of his eyes. ‘I want you to come home with me tonight.’ Before she could say anything in response, he lifted a finger and pressed it to her lips. ‘It will have no bearing on my decision with the hedge fund. Business is business.’
He paused, his eyes devouring her inch by inch. ‘Pleasure is pleasure.’
His finger against her lips moved to outline her Cupid’s bow. ‘Come home with me because you feel what I feel. Come home with me because you’re as fascinated by this as I am.’ He leaned closer so his warm breath buzzed her temple. ‘Come home with me because you want me to make love to you all night long, until your body is exhausted and your voice hoarse from crying my name over and over again.’
She sucked in a sharp breath. Words were beyond her.
‘Come home with me, Jemima.’
Her knees were weak, her pulse insistent. She swallowed but her throat felt thick; everything was out of whack.
She couldn’t seriously be considering this. Cesare Durante was a renowned bachelor, a self-made billionaire who had no time for relationships that lasted more than a few days. She hadn’t needed to run his name through an Internet search to know that—it was an established fact. He wasn’t offering anything except one night—sex.
He obviously bought into the articles in the press, the ones that made it look as if she spent her life getting hammered at parties and sleeping with any guy that moved. She’d lost track of how many fictional relationships she’d been in, secret marriages she’d walked out of, how many times she’d been pregnant, dumped and broken-hearted. How many times in rehab, fighting with other models, all of it preposterous and laughable—except she didn’t often laugh about it. She simply didn’t read the stories any more.
Her manager had hired an exceptional public relations guru who only contacted Jemima when a story wouldn’t die, something Jemima was required to respond to, but otherwise Jemima let the papers run their fictional pieces while she got on with her real life. And that was about as far removed from the public’s perception as it was possible to get. She spent more time with her hands wrangling tulip bulbs than they did any man.
He had the wrong idea about her. He’d be disappointed if he learned she had precisely zero experience in bed. And she didn’t want him to be disappointed in her.