She spoke with a calm control he hadn’t expected.
‘You’ve made me curious about yours. You haven’t even known me a day and yet you speak of me with derision and contempt. That can’t possibly be based on who I am, seeing as you barely know me. It must be because of who you are. And your hang ups. You think less of me because I come from money.’
* * *
She had surprised him and he hadn’t liked it. At all.
Her insight had been rapier-sharp. He’d judged her because of what he’d presumed her to be, and that was hardly fair. He’d have never made his mark in business if he’d carried such assumptions alongside him.
He swirled his Scotch, his eyes resting on the now dark sky.
Was she asleep? She’d finished her dinner abruptly after her incisive comment and scuttled inside. He’d listened to the sound of the sink being filled and dishes being washed, all the while pondering the mystery of Cressida Wyndham.
When Art had said his daughter was coming to inspect the island Rio had instantly formed preconceptions. He knew enough about Cressida to know what to expect. But since she’d arrived she’d defied each of the ideas he’d held. She’d fallen into the water...and laughed. She’d accepted the humble accommodation without complaint. She’d read her book, and she’d thanked him for cooking. Hell, she’d done the dishes.
None of that fitted into the way he’d envisaged someone like Cressida behaving.
She’d been right. He didn’t like her. He didn’t like women like her.
How could someone like Rio, who’d been raised in abject poverty, feel anything but resentment for the kind of indulged lifestyle that had been made available to the Cressidas of the world?
His thoughts wandered distractedly to Marina. The heiress he’d thought himself in love with many years ago. She’d been beautiful, too, and she’d seemed interesting and genuine. But she’d taught him an important lesson: never trust a beautiful woman who cared only for herself.
He leaned back on the deck, his eyes lingering on the silver streak of the moon reflected in the water. His mother had tried to provide for him. Had she not become ill, undoubtedly their lives would have been comfortable. His expression was grim as he remembered that sensation of hunger and worry. Even as a young boy he had been sent to school in uniforms that were a little too small, shorts that didn’t quite fit, shoes that were second-hand and badly scuffed.
All the while his wealthy father had refused to intervene. And now he’d given him this! A parting shot. A last insult. An island that intrinsically reminded him of Piero and all the ways he’d failed Rio and Rosa.
CHAPTER THREE
SHE WAS IN AGONY.
Being tortured alive with every bump.
The bike was old, yet powerful, and the man drove it with expert ease. Still, there wasn’t a road so much as a track, and she had to keep her arms wrapped tight around his waist, her legs squeezed against his. She could feel his heart racing beneath her hands, smell his intoxicating masculinity, and her stomach was in knots.
Every hitch in the road brought her womanhood closer to him, bouncing her on the seat. Needs long ago suppressed were being pushed to the front of her mind. Heat flamed through her and it had nothing to do with the morning sun that was beating down on her back.
Tilly had never been into cars or bikes. She liked nice, smart, kind men. Men who had blond hair and white teeth and clear blue eyes. Who called her mum ‘ma’am’ and liked to watch the football with her dad and Jack.
Nice guys.
There was nothing ‘nice’ about Rio Mastrangelo, but her body was sparking with a desire she’d never felt before.
She angled her head, focussing on the view of the island as the bike climbed higher, around the track, but it was no use. Her eyes saw the glistening ocean, and the spectacular greenery between them and it, but in her mind she was imagining making love to Rio on top of this very bike. Straddling him and taking him against the leather seat.
She was ashamed of herself!
Then again, she’d woken up in a state of confusion and arousal because she’d dreamed about him. Dreams that had made her body sensitive. And that sensitivity was not being helped now, by the bumping of the bike along the road. Nor by the feeling of his pow
erful legs moving inside hers. The broadness of his chest and the rise and fall of his back.
She was in trouble.
Cressida might have no trouble getting into bed with strangers, but Tilly didn’t do the whole casual sex thing. She wasn’t a prude, but she’d never really wanted any guy enough to ignore common sense. She wanted the fairy tale. She wanted to meet a man who swept her off her feet and offered love and happily-ever-after.
Rio would never be that.
What he would be was a sensational lover.