‘I can’t.’ Her reluctance wasn’t faked.
‘You don’t want to?’ he murmured, and now his lips brushed hers so her knees felt as though they were going to collapse beneath her. A soft moan escaped without her intention.
But she did. She wanted to go home with him in a way that should have served as a warning. Her hand lifted of its own accord to wrap around his neck, drawing his head lower, her eyes hitched to his. ‘I don’t even know you,’ she pointed out, but the words were so quiet she might as well not have spoken.
‘You know it would be good,’ he replied simply, and she nodded, because she did. But he had no idea—he couldn’t know what he was getting.
This was crazy. It was utterly mad, yet she felt something inside her tip, and all she could think of was how badly she wanted to do this.
It wasn’t as though she’d planned to remain a virgin. Saying no had become a habit, one she was glad of. She’d seen more than her fair share of heartbreak and hurt amongst the models she worked with, models who slept with photographers only to discover the photographer was married, or sleeping with half a dozen other models.
But Cesare was different. He wasn’t in the fashion industry at all; they’d never have to see each other again. She could sleep with him, lose her virginity, discover a little bi
t about the whole sex thing and then get on with her life. Truth be told, she was reaching a point where she felt that her virginity required an explanation and it would be nice not to think about that. Yes, it was a burden, and she’d be glad to be rid of it. And at least with Cesare she could be assured of two things: it would be meaningless and it would be good...
There were a thousand reasons not to do this, but none of them as drugging as the reasons to say yes. Even before she’d come face to face with him, she’d been fascinated by the legend of Cesare Durante, curious about the man who, as the stories said, had gone from being the dirt-poor son of an Italian nanny to one of the richest men in the world. He had the Midas touch, and his confidence was its own source of power and attractiveness. But, now that she’d met him, there was so much more to Cesare, so much more that had caught her completely in his thrall, so she found herself nodding slowly, almost without her knowledge.
‘It has nothing do with Laurence.’
His smile was lightly mocking and, damn it, even that she found sexier than she should have. ‘I would hope not.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘I can assure you, he will be the furthest thing from your mind when I make you mine.’
A frown formed on her features, disbelief and uncertainty being swallowed up by a fierce rush of desire. Make you mine. The words held such a promise of possession and intent that she was already craving him, craving this. Tonight would be the night she lost her virginity and, all of a sudden, she could barely wait.
‘I will make you sing, little bird.’ He murmured the words against her ear, so goose bumps spread across her body. ‘Come home with me.’
Common sense was completely submerged by desire, so she nodded, her hooded eyes finding his a second before his lips crushed hers. ‘Yes,’ she agreed into his mouth, though the word was barely necessary. Her hands wrapped around his neck, her body arching to press to his, her agreement evident in every cell of her body. Still, she said it again, partly to convince herself this made sense and also to reassure herself this was really happening. ‘Yes, Cesare. Yes.’
He lifted his head to stare down into her eyes. ‘Words I am going to make you scream soon.’ The grey of his eyes flashed with a silent promise. Her nipples tightened against the soft fabric of her dress and, when he stepped back, his attention dropped to the tell-tale sign of arousal so that heat flashed in her face. ‘You are going to be begging me to take you, and I am going to enjoy that.’
CHAPTER TWO
CESARE EYED THE beautiful model across the table, a tightness in his body that came from the pleasurable spread of anticipation—the certainty that enjoyment was near at hand.
He threw back a measure of the scotch, relishing the depth of its flavour, the aged quality that was full of spice. Cesare liked a good scotch—the finest. There were many things he could do without, many luxuries he could afford but rarely indulged in, because he’d spent much of his life doing without, sacrificing.
But now he liked nice things, he liked them when he wanted them. Scotch. A great meal with a world-class view. Being able to get in his jet and fly wherever he wanted on a whim. And women. He liked women who were beautiful, interesting, experienced and sophisticated. He liked sex without strings, without complications, sex that could entertain him and satisfy him without requiring him to think about a woman once he’d left her bed.
Jemima Woodcroft was undoubtedly all these things and he relished the chance to get to know her body, to pleasure her and delight in her before relegating her to the back of his mind, as he always did with women with whom he spent a night.
His mind ran at its usual frenetic pace as he analysed the deal Laurence was desperately laying before him, but he was conscious of every single movement Jemima made, every shift of her body, flutter of her eyelids, purse of her lips.
Despite the disastrous state of Laurence’s hedge fund, Cesare could see the value in the offering. There was a lot of chaff, but a few of the investments packaged in with the group were substantial. One in particular stood on the brink of making major market inroads, and there was value in that, value in investing at ground level. It was clear that Laurence didn’t understand what cards he held, or he would be shopping around instead of targeting one investor. If Cesare bailed, Laurence would be sunk.
Good. Nothing suited Cesare better than a desperate negotiator. Desperation made people stupid.
Cesare attributed his success in business to three factors. First, he left nothing to chance. He researched his business options aggressively, arming himself with every bit of information he could. Second, he was hungry in a way no amount of wealth could ever remove. Poverty as a child—so spectacularly in contrast to the extreme wealth that had surrounded him at the grand country houses in which his mother had worked—had left Cesare with a feeling that a blazing fire was always right at his heels, chasing him through life in a way that would never ease. True, it had turned him into a workaholic, but he didn’t see any problem with that. Finally, he obeyed his instincts as though his life depended on them.
His instincts told him Jemima was going to be a fantastic lover; he was relishing the prospect of taking her to his bed, despite the fact he usually gave aristocrats a wide enough berth that he could land on the moon.
Still, there was something about her, and it had nothing to do with her cousin’s predicament.
Cesare’s instincts also told him Laurence was beyond desperate. He could smell the panic in the other man, feel it in his every frantic gesture, in the frequent glances he was shooting Jemima’s way, as though half-expecting her to intervene, to say something to help him.
Jemima, though, was silent. Cesare couldn’t have said how she was feeling, or if she was regretting her earlier agreement. She was one of the few people he’d met in his life that he found difficult to read. Her body language was relaxed enough. She was leaning back in her chair, champagne glass resting loosely between her fingertips—the same glass she’d been sitting on all evening—her eyes following Laurence and then Cesare without making any attempt to join in their conversations.
Knowing what was coming next, he was more than ready to put an end to this portion of the night. ‘Fine.’ He nodded, regarding Laurence carefully. ‘You have my interest.’
‘Your interest?’