The gown was sculpted so precisely it made him wonder if she had room for underwear beneath. His best guess was no.
And her hair— Dio! Her hair! Flowing free to her waist, it shimmered like a golden cape as it flowed in thick, glossy waves down her back—a back that was naked, he noticed as she turned around. The gown had been cut high at the front, yet it dipped practically to the swell of her buttocks at the back.
‘Shall we sit down?’ he suggested, feeling the need to get out of range of all the hungry male glances.
‘Why not?’
Why not? Because he wanted to take her straight to bed.
Tonight was shaping up to be the most extreme form of torture he’d ever known. He led her to the table and pulled out her chair. He was determined to make her feel at ease, relaxation being a prerequisite for seduction.
He employed the best chefs in Rome and the food was delicious. Cassandra ate little at first, but he tempted her until she met his gaze and grinned. After that she relaxed enough to steal titbits from his plate. And she was charming to his guests. He’d never had a dining companion like her before. They usually took their lead from him— waiting for him to initiate a conversation or to introduce them to one of the other guests. Cassandra simply spread her natural charm about, and everyone, from the starchiest diplomat to the snootiest aristocrat, soon fell under her spell.
‘You’ve hardly eaten anything,’ she pointed out towards the end of the meal.
‘I’ve been too busy watching you,’ he admitted.
Her cheeks flushed red, and then she turned to answer a question from the guest on her other side.
Marco was looking at her in a way that made her body yearn for more than a bath and a good night’s sleep. His eyes were so wicked and confident that it was becoming hard to remember why she was here, which was to be a seat-filler and not his companion. From mud to magnificent, she mused wryly as she surveyed the glittering throng. It still seemed incredible that one minute she had been in the garden and the next she was here—
‘Would you like to dance?’
‘What?’ She stared at him stupidly.
‘I said would you like to dance?’ Marco repeated. ‘More specifically, would you like to dance with me?’
Dance with Marco di Fivizzano? Was he mad? She had two left feet and a sense of rhythm to rival a rhino’s. She had to quickly change her expression when she realised that she was staring at him open-mouthed as if he had suggested they have sex on the table.
‘You do dance?’ he pressed.
‘I have been known to.’ But on her own—most likely jigging along to the latest hit tune. This kind of dancing, though—the up close and very personal variety—she wasn’t very good at that at all.
‘We’re the only people left at the table,’ Marco pointed out, glancing around.
‘And you’re worried that people will talk if you don’t dance with me?’
His lips slanted as he raised a brow.
Okay, so Marco wasn’t worried what people thought, but maybe she was. She was happy to help out by chatting to his interesting guests, but anything more than that... She glanced down a table lit by legions of candles that cast a warm glow over the glittering crystal and silver. What was she doing here in Marco di Fivizzano’s fabulous penthouse in the best part of Rome?
What would her mother think about it?
That she was holding a candle to the devil?
She felt a stab of pain, realising that she’d been too young when her mother had died to have a clue what she’d say.
‘Just say yes,’ Marco advised, standing up.
As he broke into her thoughts, she looked up blankly. If she remained seated, people would notice, and this event was for charity. So she stood and walked as if in a dream as Marco led her towards the dance floor. Anticipating his touch was stealing the breath from her lungs. When he actually touched her, she knew she might faint.
Don’t be so ridiculous, she told herself firmly as he drew her into his arms. It was the most amazing feeling... But she had to look on this as a job with perks, and nothing more.
‘Relax.’ He laughed softly in her ear, making a tingle race down her spine as he added, ‘I can’t dance with a board.’
‘And I can’t dance with you at all. I did warn you.’ She definitely couldn’t—shouldn’t be dancing with a man who made her feel like this. She was bound to trip over her dress or step on his feet—
‘I’ll lead,’ he murmured, as if there was any doubt.