‘Go to hell,’ she said. Her words were ground from her, her mouth barely moving.
He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. I want something out of this...this debacle. Something other than mere money, of which I have plenty. The loan itself is paltry—well, to me, at least. And besides, why should you object? You fell into bed with me the first time easily enough—and you enjoyed it considerably, to my recollection. So why not again? And besides,’ he added, enjoying this moment too, ‘this time around there will be an added bonus for you.’ He paused. Then, ‘If you please me sufficiently,’ he said consideringly, ‘I may make the loan a gift instead.’ He got to his feet. ‘Think it over,’ he said. ‘Then have dinner with me tonight.’
He gave her the name of his hotel and took his leave.
Only as he turned at her showroom door to take one last look at her did he feel something clench inside him, as if steel claws had sprung a trap. Which was strange, really—since it was he who’d sprung his trap on her. But the steel claws inside him clenched tighter, as if closing over flesh.
His own flesh.
Ariana dressed with care. A dark blue evening gown, sleeveless, high under her breasts, with a scooped yoke set with steel coloured beading, narrow skirts falling to her ankles. She wore it with a loose-fitting evening jacket in a filmy material, an even darker shade of blue, that skimmed her arms in batwing sleeves. She wore her hair up, in a pompadour style to give her extra height, along with four-inch satin evening shoes. Every centimetre helped.
She studied her reflection in the cheval glass in her bedroom, remembering, with a wash of nausea, how she’d sat at that vanity unit in the restroom of the Manhattan hotel, wondering if she’d put on too much make-up, worn too tight a dress.
Would it have made a difference if she hadn’t? What if she simply hadn’t gone to Marnie van Huren’s party at all? If she’d made a polite excuse and gone for an early night instead?
So many chances to avoid this moment now, as she stood staring at herself in the long glass, wondering how she had come to this point.
And one chance above all.
She saw herself again, leaving that hotel in Manhattan, saw Luca Farnese turning to her.
‘Have dinner with me.’
She felt her throat thicken. All she’d had to do was shake her head demurringly, murmur,Thank you, but no.And this moment would never have come.
But she hadn’t. And it had.
And now all she could do was this: pick up her evening bag and leave her bedroom, walk out of her apartment on to the pavement below, get into the waiting taxi. Give the driver the name of the hotel.
Luca Farnese’s hotel. Where he was waiting for her. Waiting to make her his mistress.
She felt emotion writhe within her, twisting like a snake. She silenced it, crushed it. She must not allow it. Must allow no emotion at all.
There was one purpose to this evening and one only.
Survival.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LUCAWASINhis hotel suite, pacing up and down. He was not usually restless, and he tried to contain it now. But he could not be still. His mind was too agitated. The absolute self-control he’d exerted over himself that afternoon had taxed him to the limit.
With an effort of sheer will he stopped pacing. Looked about him. The reception room of the suite served as both sitting and dining room, and the table was set for dining.
Intimate dining.
Memory slashed at him...dining in that Manhattan restaurant with her. The woman he’d walked away with from that party, having had no such intention at all. His words inviting her to dinner—to so much more than dinner—had been out of his mouth before he’d been able to stop them or even want to stop them. And from that moment on—from the moment of her consent to let him take her to dine—the rest of her consent had been a given. Not once had she said no to him.
She wanted everything—everything that happened! Gave herself to it—could not get enough of it.
All night long.
It was like a wall crumbling. A wall he’d erected, brick by punishing brick, ever since he’d stood in the early morning in that Manhattan hotel room, looking down at her sleeping form, her hair tousled across the pillow, her body exhausted from their congress...her voluptuous, sensual body.
He knew every silken centimetre of it—had felt it shuddering beneath his, arching like a bow, straining every fibre, spread-eagled for his possession again and again and again... He had gazed down on it, knowing that he must leave her, whatever it took, whatever it cost. He must walk out.
Walk out and claim the woman he had left behind in Italy. The woman who had been lost to him now. Taken from him.
Now all that was left to him was to inflict his retribution on the woman who had cost him his bride—cost him so much more.