Butnever againwould she have the power to do so. Not after tonight. Tonight would finish it. Itmust.
He felt emotion, powerful and raw, scythe within him. Blackness filled the dark sockets of his eyes.
Ariana walked up to the reception desk at the ultra-elegant boutique hotel, converted from a wealthy merchant’s house in thecentro storico.
‘Signor Farnese,’ she murmured.
Her head was high, her spine straight. She would do this in style. Whatever the depths of her humiliation.
The lift swept her up, and as she stepped out she saw the door to the suite opposite was already open—the clerk must have phoned through to announce her arrival. She could almost hear her heart beating, as if a bird were trapped inside her. One whose wings could never break free of its prison.
She walked inside, taking in the antique furniture, the floral display on a marquetry pier table. The only modern touch was a pair of sofas either side of a coffee table, on which was a bottle of champagne and two flutes.
But her eyes went only to the man standing by the window, open to the warm air of early summer. The man who was going to destroy her. Who already had.
Unless...
She felt emotion bite in her throat, bitter as gall. Poisoning her.
But she would not let him know. That, alone, would be her only salvation now.
‘Champagne?’ Luca made his invitation laconic.
‘Why not?’ came the equally laconic reply.
Ariana Killane strolled forward, approaching the coffee table, and picked up one of the empty flutes, a nonchalant air about her.
The flicker of a sardonic smile played around Luca’s mouth. So that was how she was going to present herself—as if none of this mattered to her. Well, he would let her play it that way—for the time being.
His eyes rested on her. She looked magnificent. Appreciation purred inside him. Succumbing to her seductive allure in New York had been madness—every sane particle of his brain had told him so, even while his body had been inflamed by her, wanting only to possess her, to slake itself in her, in his searing desire for her.
But now—now it was very different. He would prove he was master of himself. Permit her no power over him. Only he had the power. And he would use it to the full.
He kept his eyes fixed on her as he opened the champagne bottle, filling both glasses. ‘What shall we drink to?’ he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. It was a taunt, and he knew it—and so did she.
She didn’t answer, and he knew she wouldn’t—her veneer of civility was rice-paper-thin, and he could see her tension in the line of her mouth, betraying the indifference she was feigning.
‘Then I think that to an enjoyable evening is appropriate, don’t you?’ Luca posed the question with a lift of one eyebrow.
Again, she didn’t answer. Her mouth only tightened minutely. In her eyes, deep in their smoky depths, he saw daggers... Swiftly sheathed, the blades concealed.
They only amused him. She had no power to strike him. He would grant her none. Never again.
He took a draught of the softly fizzing champagne, savouring its bouquet, watching her as she did the same, but taking only a small sip, as if it might choke her to drink more.
He lowered his glass, gesturing around the suite with his hand. He would select an innocuous topic to converse on, knowing it was as meaningless as their superficial civility towards each other. But it would serve his purpose all the same. Pass the time until he made his move on her. Broke her power over him.
‘So, from your professional point of view, what do you make of this hotel?’ he invited. It was an open question, posed in a socially inviting voice, deliberately so.
Was she grateful for such a neutral topic of conversation? Her expression gave nothing away. The mask she was wearing over that flawless face was perfect—except for that tell-tale tension in the set of her mouth, and the dark daggers in the depths of her eyes.
‘It’s been excellently and expertly done,’ she said. Her tone of voice matched her air of cultivated indifference towards the reason she was here.
‘Not one of your interiors, though?’
He spoke as if her answer might possibly interest him, but knew she saw through it when she merely said, ‘I don’t do commercial work.’
Luca took another leisurely mouthful of champagne. ‘And how is your business looking?’ His smile was thin, his voice barely concealing the taunt. ‘You will appreciate that I now have a vested interest in your turnover and profits.’