He didn’t want Ida in his life. Never had. Yet the idea his wife, the woman on whom he’d bestowed the proud Brunetti name, was shacked up with another man and working as a prostitute, or something close, shattered his dignity.
Cesare slid into the seat after her, stretching his legs as she gave her address to his driver.
It was good they wouldn’t see each other again after tonight. He didn’t like the heated, uncomfortable emotions she stirred.
So it was a surprise when, as they drove through the dark, wet streets of London, he found himself thinking, not of the business he’d come to finalise, but about the one thing pride and common sense dictated was off-limits. How satisfying it would be to strip Ida slowly bare.
He’d remove one item of provocative clothing at a time before losing himself in the soft, slick warmth of her femininity. He’d listen to her gasps as he pleasured her and hear the sound of his name, only his, on her lips, as he took her to screaming climax again and again before finding his own completion.
Cesare’s breath atrophied in his lungs and he had to drag in oxygen, his heart hammering, his groin tight as if gripped by a vice.
It was good that his self-control was strong enough to withstand such tawdry temptation.
Wasn’t it?
CHAPTER FOUR
HERNEIGHBOURHOODWASworse than he’d expected. It wasn’t a street where anyone would choose to live.
Cesare recognised the signs from some of the community building work he’d done, part of his grandfather’s determination to ensure he didn’t grow up as an entitled kid with no idea how the other half lived. It had been hands-on work and had left him with a respect for those who survived the difficult circumstances life threw at them. And a distaste for those who preyed on the vulnerable. The pimps, pushers and stand-over men.
Was Joe Ida’s pimp? Ice crackled along his bones at the idea.
She’d been selling drinks, not her body at the club, but in a place like that lines blurred. She dressed as if she were for sale.
His belly cramped down on nausea as he followed her into a cement shell of a foyer then up a couple of flights of bare steps. His nose wrinkled at the smell of the stained walls.
Easier to think about the rundown building than Ida’s slim, net-clad legs in those ridiculously high patent leather shoes. Or the possibility that she sold more than drinks at that club.
She stopped outside a dingy door and fumbled with the key. Did she have cold fingers because of her skimpy clothes? Or was she nervous?
The possibility took Cesare aback.
Earlier Ida had been wary but not afraid. He’d read surprise when she saw him, swiftly followed by indignation and resentment. She was clearly a woman used to standing up for herself. Nothing like the fake innocent she’d played before their wedding.
She pushed the door open but it jammed, a chain rattling across the gap.
‘Jo? It’s me.’
At the sound of the guy’s name a confusing welter of feelings rose. So Joe was in the flat.
Cesare moved closer then wished he hadn’t when he caught the fresh scent of hyacinths. As if Ida had been working in a spring garden instead of a strip club.
There was another rattle then the door opened so Ida could slip in. It was already closing when Cesare jammed his foot in the gap.
‘It’s okay, Jo, he’s with me.’
Cesare’s half-formed assumptions about her boyfriend died as he shouldered his way in and saw the figure behind the door. A slender woman with a short cap of black hair, wary eyes and a massive bruise fading to yellow all down one side of her face. She looked about sixteen. Until he looked closer and realised she was much older.
Her face was taut with surprise melded with anxiety as her gaze climbed to meet his eyes.
‘I mean no harm,’ he murmured, instinctively seeking to reassure.
She said nothing but jerked her head once and turned to shut the door. The chain and a bolt had been inexpertly fitted and, by the look of it, recently. Instinct prickled. What had prompted its installation?
‘I’m Cesare Brunetti.’
Slowly he held out his hand. The girl looked at it for what seemed an age then slipped her hand in his. ‘Jo Randall.’