Книга - The Virgin’s Shock Baby

The Virgin's Shock Baby
Heidi Rice


The Italian’s one-night heirVulnerable Megan Whittaker has orders to find out if tycoon Dario De Rossi plans to acquire her father’s business. Reluctantly agreeing, she doesn’t expect to be so distracted by their searing chemistry that she ends up in his bed!Dario does have takeover ambitions, but when Megan is violently punished for her night with the enemy, he feels honour-bound to protect her. They escape to Italy, but this commanding businessman soon discovers a deeper problem. Not only is Megan suffering from amnesia, meaning she believes they’re engaged and passionately in love…but she’s also carrying his baby!When one night…leads to pregnancy!







The Italian’s one-night heir

Vulnerable Megan Whittaker has orders to find out if tycoon Dario De Rossi plans to acquire her father’s business. Reluctantly, she agrees, but doesn’t expect to be so distracted by their searing chemistry that she ends up in his bed!

Dario does have takeover ambitions, but when Megan is violently punished for her night with the enemy, he feels honor-bound to protect her. They escape to Italy, but this commanding businessman soon discovers a deeper problem. Not only is Megan suffering from amnesia, meaning she believes they’re engaged and passionately in love...but she’s also carrying his baby!


‘Dario, are you even listening to me?’

He forced his gaze back to Megan’s face. Her pale skin had acquired a healthy sun-burnished glow in the last week, her cheeks now a bright scarlet hue even more tempting than that damn bikini. He wanted to lick that fluttering pulse in her collarbone so much that he could almost taste her sweet, spicy aroma on his tongue.

The way he had every night in his dreams.

Her eyes had widened. Was that trepidation or shock he could see in them, their misty green bright with stunned knowledge? Then she rolled her lip under small white teeth and everything inside him shattered. All the smart, practical, moral reasons why he couldn’t taste her seemed to explode in a cloud of nuclear fallout.

‘Stop biting your lip,’ he said, his voice a low, husky croak he barely recognised as his own.

‘Dario! Don’t speak to me like that.’

He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and hauled her to him.

Then all coherent thought fled as his lips landed on succulent skin and his hands captured the lush curves that had finally pushed him over the edge into madness.


One Night With Consequences (#ue13e894a-90cb-58a7-a491-45287bdf6ee0)

When one night…leads to pregnancy!

When succumbing to a night of unbridled desire it’s impossible to think past the morning after!

But, with the sheets barely settled, that little blue line appears on the pregnancy test and it doesn’t take long to realise that one night of white-hot passion has turned into a lifetime of consequences!

Only one question remains:

How do you tell a man you’ve just met that you’re about to share more than just his bed?

Find out in:

The Sheikh’s Baby Scandal by Carol Marinelli

A Ring for Vincenzo’s Heir by Jennie Lucas

Claiming His Christmas Consequence by Michelle Smart

The Guardian’s Virgin Ward by Caitlin Crews

A Child Claimed by Gold by Rachael Thomas

The Consequence of His Vengeance by Jennie Lucas

Secrets of a Billionaire’s Mistress by Sharon Kendrick

The Boss’s Nine-Month Negotiation by Maya Blake

The Pregnant Kavakos Bride by Sharon Kendrick

A Ring for the Greek’s Baby by Melanie Milburne

Engaged for Her Enemy’s Heir by Kate Hewitt

Look for more One Night With Consequences stories coming soon!


The Virgin’s Shock Baby

Heidi Rice






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI RICE lives in London, England. She is married with two teenage sons—which gives her rather too much of an insight into the male psyche—and also works as a film journalist. She adores her job, which involves getting swept up in a world of high emotions, sensual excitement, funny, feisty women, sexy, tortured men and glamorous locations where laundry doesn’t exist. Once she turns off her computer she often does chores—usually involving laundry!

Books by Heidi Rice

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

Vows They Can’t Escape

One Night, So Pregnant!

Too Close for Comfort

Mills & Boon Modern Tempted

Beach Bar Baby

Maid of Dishonour

Cupcakes and Killer Heels

The Good, the Bad and the Wild

On the First Night of Christmas…

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/) for more titles.


To Bryony, who made sure I gave this story the depth it deserved.

And Daisy, who talked me off the ledge a few times while I was doing that!

Dario, Megan and I thank you both sincerely.


Contents

Cover (#u03b010ff-477e-54c3-9bd3-1aa9da85d6d7)

Back Cover Text (#uea0f4bd4-fe60-57db-9fd3-ce882d1dd605)

Introduction (#u319a3ce6-5189-52f9-81e4-258531ab16c8)

One Night With Consequences (#ub0bc0552-e8b3-5ba5-9069-fd699c429690)

Title Page (#u90400189-8843-5c33-afe9-13ba277d950e)

About the Author (#u87adc246-9e81-5519-80b3-b2df6fad9fd9)

Dedication (#ue8265e4e-e5a7-5651-864c-9a83d44cd8e9)

PROLOGUE (#u019383fb-8bc1-5851-84d3-7aab5ece0621)

CHAPTER ONE (#uf42fbdd4-004f-5b59-93a3-7ba8c8e6f136)

CHAPTER TWO (#ue4deb577-4dfa-5689-9be4-dc33b6bae203)

CHAPTER THREE (#ufe40495d-2a18-54b2-82e4-9c6b867a5e5e)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE (#ue13e894a-90cb-58a7-a491-45287bdf6ee0)

‘DARIO DE ROSSI IS escorting you to the Westchester Ball tomorrow night and you need to seduce him while you’re there.’

‘What? Why?’ Megan Whittaker was fairly sure she’d just been transported into an alternate universe. An alternate universe that was two hundred years past its sell-by date. Either that or her father had lost his mind. Whichever way you looked at it, the demand he had just levelled at her from across his walnut desk in the Manhattan offices of Whittaker Enterprises, without even the hint of a smile on his face, was not good news, because he did not appear to be joking.

‘To save Whittaker’s from possible annihilation,’ her father snapped. ‘Don’t give me your whipped puppy look, Megan,’ he added. ‘Do you think I would ask this of you if there were another option?’

‘Well, I...’ She wanted to believe him, even though she knew his love for Whittaker’s had always taken precedence over his love for his daughters.

But unlike her sister, Katie, Megan understood that. Having spent the last four years working her way up to head her own tiny department at Whittaker’s, she didn’t begrudge him his dedication to the company that had been in their family for five generations.

She also didn’t really begrudge him a request so outside the norm for a father to a daughter, or indeed a boss to his employee. She knew that to be successful in business your personal life had to suffer, and personal loyalties could be tested. But this was... Well... It wasn’t even rational. What possible reason could there be for her to seduce any man? Let alone a man like De Rossi, a corporate wolf who had risen through the ranks of New York business society in the last ten years to become one of its prime movers and shakers.

Quite apart from anything else, if her father was looking for a femme fatale, surely he must know Megan was not the best candidate for the job.

She simply did not have the necessary temperament, equipment or experience. She had always been more comfortable in business suits and flats than cocktail dresses and heels. She found going to the beauty salon tedious, the concentration on her appearance a waste of time and money. Her intellect and her work ethic were so much more important. And after the few fumbled encounters she’d had at college, she’d been beyond grateful to discover she comprehensively lacked her mother’s voracious and indiscriminate libido. At twenty-four, she was still technically speaking a virgin, for goodness’ sake! These days she would much rather spend her small amount of free time watching TV boxsets with a nice glass of Pouilly Fuissé, than finding a man—especially as the judicious use of a vibrator could take care of her needs without all the awkwardness and disappointment.

‘Someone’s buying up all our stock,’ her father said, the vein pulsing at his temple starting to disturb Megan. ‘I’m almost certain it’s him. And if it is him, we’re in serious trouble. We’re exposed. We have to stay his hand. That means making sacrifices for the good of the company.’

‘But I don’t understand how...’

‘You don’t have to understand. What you have to do is get an invitation back to his penthouse so we can discover if it is him. If you can find out which of our shareholders he’s targeting that would be even better. Then we might have some hope of keeping the bastard off our back until I can secure new capital investment.’

‘You expect me to seduce him for the purposes of industrial espionage?’ Megan tried to clarify where her father was going with this, as something became devastatingly obvious to her. He had to be exceptionally stressed to believe she could pull such a plan off with her limited skills, which meant the company must be in serious financial difficulties.

‘You have your mother’s face and figure, Megan. And you’re not a lesbian... Are you?’

Her face coloured, the heat racing up her neck, the impatient enquiry mortifying her. ‘What? Of course not, but...’

‘Then what’s the damn problem? Surely there must be enough of that oversexed bitch in you somewhere to know how to seduce this bastard. It’s built into your DNA, all you have to do is locate it.’ Her father was becoming increasingly frantic. The bitterness in his voice at the mention of her mother made Megan’s stomach knot.

Her father never mentioned her mother. Not ever. Alexis Whittaker had abandoned all three of them—her father, herself and her little sister, Katie—not long after Katie’s birth, and had died ten years ago when her Italian boyfriend’s Ferrari had plummeted from a clifftop road on the island of Capri. Megan could still remember her father coming to tell her the news at her boarding school in Cornwall, his face white with an agonising combination of grief, pain and humiliation. And she could remember the same hollow sensation in her stomach.

Her mother had been a social butterfly, stunningly beautiful, flamboyant and reckless—with everyone’s life including her own. Megan could barely remember her; she’d never come to visit her daughters, which was why their father had shipped them off to board at St Grey’s as soon as they were old enough.

The hollow confusion had turned to panic though, when paparazzi photos of her and Katie at the funeral had appeared on the Internet. They had been forced to leave the only real home they had ever known, chased out by the photographers wanting to get a glimpse of the ‘grief-stricken’ Whittaker sisters, and the salacious whispers about their mother’s infidelities, spread by some of the other girls at St Grey’s. Her father had moved them to an apartment ten blocks from his own on Fifth Avenue in New York, employed a housekeeper and a security guard, enrolled them in an exclusive private school and made the effort to visit them at least once a month. And eventually the media storm surrounding Alexis Whittaker’s wicked ways and her untimely death had died down.

But ever since Megan had been ripped away from St Grey’s, she had promised herself two things: she would protect the sister she loved from the fallout of her mother’s disgrace, and she would work herself to the bone to prove to her father that she was nothing like the woman who had given birth to them.

And up until this moment, she had thought she’d succeeded. With her second objective at least. Katie, unfortunately, appeared to be almost as wild as their mother, despite Megan’s best efforts to tame her rebellious temperament.

Megan, though, had concentrated on making her father proud. She’d got a first at Cambridge two years ahead of her peers in computer science. And then an MBA at Harvard Business School specialising in e-commerce. To prove herself worthy, not just to her father but to her colleagues at Whittaker’s, she’d refused his offer of a vanity position and had instead started on the ground floor of the building in Midtown. After six months in the mailroom, she’d applied for an internship in the tech department. It had taken her three years to work her way up the ladder from there, rung by torturous rung. Her recent promotion had put her in charge of the company’s small three-person e-commerce department, finally proving once and for all that her mother’s shameful behaviour had no bearing on who she was. Until this moment.

How could her father even consider asking her to seduce De Rossi? Did he expect her to have sex with the man, too?

‘I can’t do it,’ she said.

‘Why the hell not?’

Because I’m about as far from being De Rossi’s ideal woman as Daffy Duck is from Jessica Rabbit.

‘Because it wouldn’t be ethical,’ she managed, recoiling from the hot flash of memory from the only time she’d ever met De Rossi in the flesh.

He’d certainly made an impression.

She’d heard of him, but the gossip hadn’t prepared her for the staggeringly handsome man who had arrived at the Met Ball with supermodel Giselle Monroe hanging off his arm like the latest fashion accessory. The brute force of his powerful body had barely been contained by the expertly tailored designer suit, and his bold heated gaze had raked over her when they’d been introduced by her father. The knowledge in his ice-blue eyes had disturbed her on a purely visceral level. And set off a thousand tiny explosions of sensation over every inch of exposed skin.

She’d been careful to avoid De Rossi for the rest of the evening, because she’d known instinctively the man was not just tall, dark and handsome, but also extremely dangerous—to her peace of mind.

‘Don’t be naïve.’ Her father flicked a chilling glare at her. ‘There are no ethics in business. Not when it comes to the bottom line. De Rossi certainly doesn’t have any, so we can’t afford to have any either.’

‘But how did you even persuade him to take me to the ball?’ Megan said, becoming desperate herself.

‘It’s a charity ball. He’s paying for a table. You’re going to be Whittaker’s representative there. I asked him to escort you as a courtesy to me; he’s a member of my club.’

So she had officially become a pity date—which would have been mortifying, if her father’s ulterior motive wasn’t a thousand times worse.

‘De Rossi’s only weakness that I could find is for beautiful women,’ her father continued in the same deceptively pragmatic tone. As if he were talking sense, instead of insanity. ‘Not that it’s exactly a weakness. He’s never been foolish enough to marry one of them, unlike me. And he never keeps them longer than a few months. But he’s between women at the moment, according to Annalise, who keeps up with this nonsense,’ he said, mentioning his mistress. ‘And he never has one out of his bed for long. Which gives you all the opportunity you need. He’ll be on the hunt and I’m putting you in his path. All you need to do is get his attention.’ The dispassionate statement had shame burning the back of Megan’s neck. ‘Get an invite to his penthouse on Central Park West,’ her father continued. ‘Once he takes you there, you can get access to his computer and his files. Computers are your forte, are they not?’

That he’d thought this scenario through in such detail wasn’t helping the chill spreading through Megan’s abdomen—or the flush of awareness flaming across her scalp. ‘But anything he has on there will be password protected,’ she said, trying to be practical.

‘I have his passwords.’

‘How?’

‘It’s not important. The important thing is to get access to his computer before he changes them. Which means acting quickly and concisely.’

And setting her up as some kind of Mata Hari? The idea would almost be funny if it weren’t so appalling.

‘You can’t ask me to do this,’ said Megan. She’d always strived so hard to please her father, to prove herself worthy of his trust. There weren’t many things she wouldn’t do for him, but this request scared her on so many levels. ‘You wouldn’t ask me to, if I were your son,’ she added, trying to appeal to her father’s sense of justice. He wasn’t a bad man, he was fair and, in his own gruff, distant way, he loved her and Katie. Obviously he was so stressed he had completely lost his grip on reality. But he had to be under a huge amount of pressure, if De Rossi was sniffing about the company.

She knew enough about De Rossi’s business practices from the financial press to know that once his conglomerate got their hooks into your stock you were as good as dead in the water. He was famous for asset stripping. If he really was planning a hostile takeover, he could reduce Whittaker’s to rubble in weeks, a legacy company destroyed in a heartbeat simply to feed his insatiable appetite for wealth at any cost. But her father’s solution was beyond desperate, not to mention illegal, and doomed to failure. She had to make him see that, and find another way.

‘If I had a son and De Rossi was gay, that would be an option.’ Instead of looking persuaded, the tic in her father’s cheek went ballistic. ‘As neither is the case, it’s a moot point.’

The blush seared her skin, the knot in her stomach tightening into a hollow ball of anxiety. It was no good, she was going to be forced to state the obvious.

‘De Rossi might as well be gay for all the interest he’s likely to take in me. He dates supermodels.’

And I’m hardly supermodel material.

At five-foot-five, and with the lush curves she had inherited from her mother, Megan had felt like an over-endowed pixie next to the slim, stunning woman who had fawned over De Rossi at the Met Ball.

But Megan’s lack of appeal to men had always felt like a boon. She didn’t want to become any man’s decorative accessory. Especially not a man like De Rossi, who even on their brief acquaintance she suspected was as ruthless with women as he was in his business dealings.

She could control those mini explosions. They were nothing more than a biological reaction.

‘Don’t sell yourself short.’ Her father huffed, looking exasperated now as well as desperate. ‘You have enough of your mother’s charms to attract him if you put your mind to it.’

‘But I—’

‘If you don’t do it, there’s only one other person I can ask.’

Megan’s panic downgraded. Thank goodness, he had someone else he could ask. She would not have to even attempt something that was bound to humiliate and degrade her, and was extremely unlikely to be successful. ‘Who?’

‘Your sister, Katie.’

The panic went from ten to ninety in a nanosecond.

‘But Katie’s only nineteen,’ she cried, shocked. ‘And she’s in art school.’

After an endless string of school expulsions and acting out against their father’s authority, Katie had finally found her passion as a talented and brilliant artist. And she didn’t give a fig about Whittaker’s.

‘An art school I pay for,’ her father remarked, the dispassionate expression chilling Megan to the bone. Katie and her father had been at loggerheads for years—ever since the sisters had moved to New York after their mother’s death. It had taken Megan months to persuade their father to pay for the exclusive academy that had only offered Katie a partial scholarship—something she had never told her sister. She didn’t know how Katie would react if she discovered their father was paying some of her tuition fees and was prepared to pull the plug on the dreams she’d worked so hard for to save Whittaker’s. But Megan doubted it would be good.

‘Your sister is also as reckless and wild as your mother,’ her father added. ‘Given the right incentive, I think we both know she’d pass this assignment with flying colours.’

No, she wouldn’t, she’d be crushed, Megan thought.

Katie was as lively and spirited as Megan was cautious and grounded. But for all her recklessness, she also had an open and easily bruised heart—and absolutely no regard for business ethics or expediency. Katie would be appalled that their father could ask such a thing of either one of them. And Katie’s own worst enemy was usually Katie. She was volatile and unpredictable, especially if she was hurt. So much so that Megan had no idea what she’d do if forced into this situation by their father. She could have a mad passionate affair with De Rossi or annoy him so much he’d destroy Whittaker’s just for the hell of it. But one thing was for sure, putting a hothead like Katie into the path of someone as ruthless as De Rossi would be a car crash of epic proportions, and Katie would be the one who got destroyed.

‘The only reason I haven’t already asked her is because she knows nothing about computers,’ her father said. ‘And De Rossi likes his lovers more mature, according to Annalise,’ he added. ‘You’ve got a better chance. But if you leave me with no choice I will have to explain to your sister that if she wants to stay at her fancy art school she will have to—’

‘Okay, I’ll do it,’ Megan jumped in, before her father could state the unthinkable. ‘I’ll give it my best shot.’

Even if her best shot had very little chance of being a success, her pride and her ethics felt like a small price to pay to save her sister from heartbreak—and Whittaker’s from guaranteed annihilation.

‘Good girl, Megan,’ her father said. ‘Take the day off tomorrow. Annalise will accompany you to select an outfit suitable for the occasion and take you to her beautician to get you properly prepared.’

‘Okay,’ she said, feeling dazed at the enormity of what she had just agreed to—and how ill-prepared she was for the challenge. Annalise’s alluring sense of style and supreme sexual confidence had always intimidated Megan.

‘Don’t disappoint me. Whittaker’s is counting on you,’ her father finished, dismissing her as he turned back to the papers on his desk.

‘I know and I won’t,’ she murmured, trying to sound confident.

But as she returned to her small office on the building’s tenth floor, the pressure of what she had to achieve sat in her belly like a brick. An annoyingly hot brick seeping an uncontrollable and completely unregulated warmth throughout her body.

She didn’t feel confident; she felt like a sacrifice, about to be staked out in the wolf’s lair, with nothing to protect her but a designer gown and heels and an overpriced beautician’s appointment.


CHAPTER ONE (#ue13e894a-90cb-58a7-a491-45287bdf6ee0)

‘NO WAY, KATIE. You need to stay in your room when he gets here.’ Megan’s hand trembled as she picked up one of the diamond drop earrings Annalise had loaned her to match the sleek, blue, satin, floor-length gown it had taken her father’s mistress an eternity to select during their endless shopping expedition that afternoon. The sting as the thin silver spike penetrated the rarely used hole in her lobe did nothing to calm the rapid flutter of Megan’s heartbeat. She breathed deeply and picked up the other earring. She needed to stop hyperventilating or she was liable to pass out before De Rossi even arrived.

‘But I want to meet him, to make sure he doesn’t take advantage of you,’ Katie said, the fire in her eyes accompanied by a petulant pout. ‘He’s rich, arrogant and scarily gorgeous. You’ve got zero experience of guys like him. Did you see the cover shot of him on that boring business magazine you get? He even looks hot in one of those stuffy suits.’

Yes, she had seen the magazine, she’d even re-read the interview with De Rossi to give herself some useful topics of conversation. But all the article had really done—illustrated with all those photos of him looking broad and muscular and indomitable—was make her panic increase. And Katie’s misguided attempts to protect her were not helping.

‘What if he tries to ravish you?’ Katie added, the battle she’d been waging for the last two hours—to stand between Megan and De Rossi’s super-human seduction skills—starting to wear on Megan’s already frazzled nerves.

De Rossi was due to arrive in less than five minutes and Katie’s misguided reading of the situation was the last thing Megan needed. But she would never tell Katie the truth. That the only thing standing between them and financial ruin was Megan’s mission to seduce De Rossi—not the other way around—because that would only make Katie worry more about Megan’s date in the lion’s den. And Megan was already panicking enough for both of them.

She’d spent most of her life shielding her sister, ever since the day she’d stood beside a nine-year-old Katie at their mother’s graveside and held her as her little sister shed real tears for a woman who had abandoned them.

She was not about to stop now.

But sometimes shielding Katie from the realities of life could be very trying. Megan poked the second earring into her earlobe with an unsteady hand and absorbed the sting, attempting to tune out Katie’s next offensive.

‘I can’t believe you won’t even let me meet him. All I want to do is make sure he knows not to mess with you.’ Katie stood defiantly behind her, every sinew in her slim, coltish body fraught with challenge and righteous determination. ‘At least promise me you won’t let him lure you back to his love nest on Central Park West.’

‘His what nest?’ Megan would have laughed at the term, if her heart hadn’t just jumped into her throat.

‘Don’t look like that.’ Katie rolled her eyes, frustrated. ‘That’s what they called it in Giselle Monroe’s piece in the Post. Didn’t you read it?’

‘No, I did not, and you shouldn’t have either. It’s salacious gossip.’ The last thing she needed to read was the model’s kiss-and-tell account of De Rossi’s sexual prowess when she was nervous enough already.

‘According to Giselle,’ Katie continued undeterred, ‘the guy’s insatiable in the sack. He can make a woman—’

‘Katie, for goodness’ sake, shut up!’ She swung round on the stool. ‘I didn’t read it, because I didn’t need to. This isn’t a proper date.’ Even if the memory of one look from the man was still giving her goosebumps a month after the fact. ‘Dad asked him to escort me. He may not even turn up.’ The hope that he might have forgotten the arrangement had guilt coalescing in her stomach to go with the panic.

She was Whittaker’s only hope. She’d promised to do this thing, even if the computer codes buried in her purse were burning a hole in her conscience.

The sound of the front door buzzer made them both jump.

‘So he’s not gonna show, huh?’ Katie said, looking triumphant.

Megan cursed under her breath, and stood to check out her reflection. The gown was sleek and simple in its elegance, the bias-cut satin snug enough to enhance her curves without offering them up on a platter. Or at least, that was what Annalise had insisted.

Diamonds sparkled in the thin straps that held up the bodice, which plunged low enough to entice but not low enough to give Megan an anxiety attack. Yet. A faux-fur wrap to hold off the night-time chill in late April, and four-inch heels—which were as high as she could go without risking a twisted ankle—an elaborate up-do that held her unruly hair in some kind of order, a five-hundred-dollar make-up session and the delicate diamond drop earrings completed the outfit. Annalise had told her the ensemble screamed sophistication and purpose, rather than panic and desperation.

Megan wasn’t so sure.

She heard the front door of the apartment being opened by their housekeeper, Lydia Brady, and the low murmur of a deep masculine voice.

Awareness rippled up her spine and she grasped her sister’s wrists. ‘Stay here, Katie, I’m warning you. This is going to be humiliating enough without you there making me feel even more self-conscious.’

Katie pulled her hands free, the spark of defiance disappearing for the first time in hours. ‘Why would it be humiliating?’

‘Because I’m not his type and he’s only taking me as a favour to Dad.’

And Dad expects me to seduce him. Somehow. And then commit a crime to save Whittaker’s.

‘What do you mean, you’re not his type?’ Katie’s gaze travelled over Megan’s outfit, the appreciation in her wide green eyes making Megan’s heart pound even harder. ‘You look absolutely stunning. Just like Mum. I wish I had at least a few of your curves.’ She flung her arms around Megan’s shoulders, holding her tight for a few precious seconds. ‘You’re going to knock his designer socks off, you silly moo,’ Katie whispered in her ear, before she drew back. Warmth suffused Megan.

Even when she was being a pain in the backside, Katie was Megan’s greatest cheerleader and her best friend.

‘Which is precisely why you need me there to make sure he doesn’t get any ideas,’ Katie added, in case Megan hadn’t figured that out already after the four-hour campaign. ‘Are you absolutely sure you don’t want me to threaten him with my kick-boxing skills?’

‘You gave up kick-boxing after two sessions,’ Megan pointed out.

‘What if I threaten to macramé him to death instead, then?’ Katie offered—probably only half joking. ‘I did a killer macramé piece for my course.’

The chuckle that popped out of Megan’s mouth was part gratitude and part hysteria. Whatever happened with De Rossi, her life was likely to be irrevocably changed once tonight was over. Because she’d either be in his bed, or in a prison cell. Her sister’s silly joke helped to ground her, though, and confirm what she already knew: that protecting Katie and her dreams, and protecting Whittaker’s, were worth sacrificing her self-respect and throwing herself at De Rossi tonight.

All Megan had to do was figure out how to do that without having a nervous breakdown.

Lydia Brady stepped into the room. ‘Mr De Rossi has arrived, Megan.’ The older woman smiled. ‘You look beautiful, dear.’

‘Thank you, Lydia.’ Nerves screamed across her bare shoulders, and the hot brick in her stomach sank lower.

Letting go of her sister’s hands, she walked towards the dressing-room door, affecting the expression she had practised in the mirror for hours last night. Polite, confident and, she hoped, at least a little alluring.

Her heels echoed on the marble flooring as she made her way down the corridor, but as she turned into the apartment’s plush lobby area all the air seized in her lungs and her steps faltered.

Dario De Rossi looked up from adjusting his cuffs, his crystal-blue eyes locking on her face like a tractor beam, and sending a sizzle of electric energy through her body.

The man looked devastating in a tux. Tall and broad, his powerful body only made more intimidating by the classic black tailoring, which emphasised the magnificent width of his shoulders, the leanness of his waist and the length of his legs.

How tall was he? At least three inches above her father’s six feet.

She took a careful breath and forced herself to carry on walking, grateful her wrap covered her cleavage when the assessing gaze roamed down, setting off a series of mini explosions and making her insides grow hot.

‘Buonasera, Megan.’

His English was so perfect, with only the slightest hint of his Italian heritage, it felt strangely intimate to have him greet her in his native language. The way the deep husky rumble of his voice skated across already oversensitive flesh, though, was not as disturbing as the dark flash of hunger in his eyes as she drew level.

‘Buonasera,’ she said, answering him in Italian automatically.

He lifted her fingers to his mouth, startling her, and pressed his lips to the knuckles.

The gesture should have been polite, gallant even, but for the way his thumb slid across her palm as he lowered her hand, sending arrows of sensation darting up her arm, and into her torso.

She tugged her hand out of his grasp, shocked by her response, as his gaze roamed up to her hair.

‘The colour is natural?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied, disconcerted by the approval shining in his eyes.

His firm lips lifted in a smile that managed to be both amused and predatory, as if he were a panther, toying with his prey.

‘I hope I did not offend you,’ he said, the intimacy of his gaze contradicting his apology. The bright blue gaze then dipped to her toes and back, sending seismic ripples over her skin and igniting every pulse point like a firework.

‘Relax, cara mia.’ The rough chuckle scraped across her nerve-endings.

A fiery blush crept up her neck. Was he mocking her?

She looked down at her hands, and forced her fingers to release their death grip on the diamond-encrusted purse. Annalise had told her that looking like a lamb being led to slaughter would not entice any man.

Breathe. Remember to breathe. Breathing is good.

But when she raised her head, he was doing that laser-beam thing again, as if he could see right through her—to the soon-to-be felon beneath.

‘I’m sorry, I’m tired,’ she mumbled. ‘I’ve had a very busy day.’

Could she actually sound any more inane? Where was all the scintillating conversation about his business acquisitions that she had been working on for hours?

‘Doing what?’ he asked.

‘Shopping for this dress, mostly. And getting my hair and nails and stuff done,’ she replied honestly. Until today she’d had no idea that trawling the designer boutiques of the Upper East Side and spending four hours getting waxed and plucked and pampered to within an inch of her life was more exhausting than hiking up Kilimanjaro.

‘Have you, now?’ he said, the wry tone making her realise the statement made her sound like a spoilt debutante fishing for a compliment.

Humiliation washed over her.

She knew from the articles she’d devoured about him in the last twenty-four hours that he had been born into one of Rome’s most notorious slums. He had to know what true exhaustion was. Everything else about his origins was sketchy, something he refused to talk to the press about, but that simple nugget of information had only intimidated her more. She could well imagine how hard De Rossi must have fought to escape his origins—and how hard he would fight now to keep hold of what he had. And what he wanted to acquire.

Her skin burned, her nipples tightening as his gaze met hers. The cool blue was not as icy as she remembered it from their first brief meeting. His lips quirked.

‘It was time and money well spent,’ he said, the casual compliment making the flush flare across her collarbone.

Then, to her astonishment, he lifted a hand and tucked his forefinger under her chin. The soft brush of the knuckle was like a zap of electricity, firing down to her core as he lifted her face.

She stiffened, stunned by the enormity of her response to a simple touch. She struggled not to jerk her head away, to submit to the proprietorial caress, despite being brutally aware of the heat now blazing on her cheeks.

What was going on here? Because the amused quirk on his lips had disappeared. Why was he looking at her so intently?

He drew his thumb across her bottom lip.

‘You are very beautiful in your own unique way,’ he said, his gaze lifting to her chignon. ‘Especially that hair.’

He sounded sincere. Why did that make tonight seem all the more terrifying?

She forced a smile, trying desperately to pretend she wasn’t burning up inside. But she couldn’t resist the involuntary flick of her tongue to moisten lips dried to parchment. He focused on her mouth, and a soft indrawn breath escaped her at the hunger in his eyes.

‘The colour reminds me of a naked flame,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you’re as fiery in bed?’

The heat swelling in her abdomen settled uncomfortably between her legs at the boldly sexual comment. She ought to say something provocative back.

But she didn’t feel provocative, she felt stunned. And hopelessly aroused. And completely out of her depth. Already.

Dario De Rossi wanted her. And while that should have been very good news, because she was supposed to be seducing him, the power dynamic did not feel as if it was in her favour. Surely her thighs wouldn’t be trembling under that hard, heated gaze if it were? She searched her mind for something to say that wouldn’t clue him in to how inexperienced she was.

Annalise had told her in no uncertain terms that De Rossi would not find her gaucheness appealing.

Think, Megan, think. What would Mata Hari do?

‘That’s for me to know,’ she finally managed, allowing the desire her body couldn’t seem to control to show in her voice. ‘And for you to find out, if you dare.’

‘There’s not much I wouldn’t dare, cara,’ he said, the cynical edge in his tone disturbingly compelling.

His hand dropped, and she couldn’t prevent the tiny sob as her body softened in relief.

She was playing a very dangerous game. But she had no choice. She had to brazen this out, pretend she was much more knowing and experienced than she actually was.

Sweeping his hand out in front of him, he smiled, and she became a little fixated on those firm sensual lips.

‘Let’s get you to the ball, Cinderella.’

She pushed out a strained laugh and walked past him, only to tense as his hand settled on the base of her spine. Sensation flashed down to her bottom, but she carried on walking, acting as if the feel of his hand wasn’t burning through her clothing.

The ride down in the lift was excruciating, the deceptively light touch driving her insane. He kept his palm there the whole time, guiding her where he wanted her to go, and not letting her stray more than an inch from his side with the subtlest of gestures. But even so, the heat grew.

As they walked out of the apartment building, past the doorman, her nerves were screaming, the controlling pressure so light it was torture not to stretch against his hold. Her body waged a battle between wanting to kick off her heels and race away from him down the street, while another, much more elemental urge had her longing to ease closer to him and let the heat of his body overwhelm her.

The night chill caught her hair, making the tendrils the stylist had spent an hour carefully teasing out of the chignon dance against her neck. She shivered, the skin there already oversensitised by the feel of his gaze boring into her from behind.

The sleek black limousine was parked at the kerb, a man in a dark suit and a cap waiting for them. The chauffeur opened the door and tipped his hat, giving her a polite smile.

She eased into the shadowed interior, the split in the long skirt of her dress pushing open to reveal her thigh almost up to the hip.

She heard a gruff intake of breath. And had to tamp down on the desire to escape out of the other side of the vehicle. The cool leather pushed against the backs of her knees through the dress.

‘The guy’s insatiable in the sack...’

‘What if he tries to ravish you?’

Katie’s foolish observations came back to haunt her as De Rossi folded his big body into the seat beside her. His wide shoulders filled up the opposite side of the car and made the spacious, luxury black leather interior feel unbearably cramped and claustrophobic.

He leant across her to grasp the seat belt. She pulled back, his face inches from hers, his scent surrounding her. Sandalwood and musk and man. But as his eyes met hers he only smiled again and pulled the seat belt down to click it into place, his knuckles brushing her hip.

‘Why are you so skittish, Megan?’ he asked.

‘I’m just a little nervous, Mr De Rossi,’ she blurted out, then glanced around the car searching for a plausible excuse. She was supposed to be flirting with him, making him think she was available for a quick fling, not quaking like someone standing on a fault line. ‘About the ball. I don’t want to let my father or the company down. It’s my first time representing them at such a prestigious event.’ Which was actually true; ordinarily that responsibility alone would be reason enough for her nerves.

The warm proprietorial palm settled over her leg, and gave her knee a quick squeeze, touching her again in a way that made her feel owned.

‘My name is Dario.’ His jaw clenched and she noticed the bunched muscle, twitching. Was it possible she was affecting him as much as he was affecting her?

The thought thrilled her on some visceral level, but disturbed her more.

The possibility of playing him at his own game was almost as terrifying as the endorphins careering through her for the first time in her life.

‘We are on a date, remember,’ he murmured.

‘Thank you for agreeing to escort me,’ she said, finally remembering her manners. ‘It was nice of you.’

‘Nice?’ He seemed amused and surprised by the suggestion. ‘Not many women have accused me of that.’

She could well imagine. ‘My father really appreciated you doing us this favour.’ More than De Rossi would ever know. Hopefully.

‘There is nothing to appreciate,’ he said, cryptically. ‘I only do favours when I expect something in return.’

‘What do you expect from me?’ she said, then realised how suggestive it sounded a moment too late. ‘I don’t mean...’ she stumbled. ‘I just...’

‘I expect nothing from you, Megan.’ He cut into her rambling denials with the skill and precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. ‘I did this favour for your father.’

Those staggeringly blue eyes studied her, the knowledge in them unnerving her even more. Sensation skittered down her spine, making her breath seize in her lungs, the car’s interior now devoid of oxygen. Did he know the real reason her father had asked him to escort her tonight? Was this charade already doomed to failure?

‘Don’t look so terrified, cara,’ he said, and she tried to school her features not to give away her fear.

‘I promise not to bite. Unless you want me to,’ he said, before touching the intercom button to inform the driver to proceed.

Pinpricks rioted over her skin as the car whisked away from the kerb and she imagined those straight white teeth nipping at all her most sensitive places.

She forced a smile, attempting to shake off the sensual fog he seemed to weave around her so effortlessly.

This was going to be the longest night of her life. Her physical reaction to him was too intense, too overwhelming. How was she supposed to survive an evening in his company without telling him every one of her secrets?


CHAPTER TWO (#ue13e894a-90cb-58a7-a491-45287bdf6ee0)

DARIO DE ROSSI WATCHED AS his date finally appeared from the bathroom on the far side of the ballroom. That was the third time in the last hour that she’d deserted him to go to the powder room. And freshen up, as she’d put it.

She didn’t need freshening up. Her dewy skin was lightly flushed, the colour riding high on those apple cheeks, on the rare occasions when she’d been close enough for him actually to see her face. And when she wasn’t in the powder room, she was engaged in the most vacuous of conversations with everyone but him, her light breathy laughter making every pulse in his body stand on high alert.

She was not what he had expected.

He had known, of course, the second that Lloyd Whittaker had approached him in the club yesterday morning and asked him to escort his daughter to the ball, that the request was part of the man’s last-ditch attempt to save his company. The fool had finally realised who was buying up his stock and had probably thought throwing his daughter at Dario would soften the blow. It wouldn’t be the first time a business rival had believed that he could manipulate Dario through his enjoyment of the opposite sex—or believed the garbage written about his love life in the tabloids. Giselle’s recent hissy fit in The Post hadn’t helped in that regard.

It also certainly wouldn’t be the first time a powerful man had used and degraded a woman he was supposed to love and protect.

The brutal flash of memory had his gut twisting sharply. He took a sip from the bottle of Italian lager the hosts had imported especially for him and waited for the sensation to pass, while he watched Megan Whittaker make her way towards him.

She took the most circuitous route through the crowd, he noted, stopping to talk to a series of her father’s acquaintances, every one of whom, Dario observed as his fist plunged into the pocket of his trousers, seemed to think it was okay to look down her cleavage.

The dress—plunging low enough at the neckline to leave not nearly enough to the imagination—had made his heart slam into his throat and dried up every molecule of saliva in his mouth when she’d walked down the hallway of her apartment. And quite literally taken his breath away when she’d eased onto the seat of the limousine and revealed a mile of toned, tanned thigh. Which had to be an optical illusion, because the woman, despite all those impressive curves, didn’t even reach to his collarbone in her ice-pick heels.

He downed the last of the beer, and dumped the empty bottle on a passing waiter’s tray, deciding that he’d let Megan off the leash long enough.

He’d only agreed to this date out of curiosity. Because he was bored. He’d wanted to see what foolishness Whittaker had planned—especially as he had remembered the daughter from a tedious event a month ago that he’d attended with Giselle. Strangely he had remembered her eyes, that deep intense green had captivated him, but only for a moment, before she’d ducked her head. She’d avoided him for the rest of the evening. So he’d found it amusing that Whittaker had decided to push her into his path tonight. To do what exactly? Seduce him into releasing his stranglehold on a company her old man had been running into the ground for years?

The idea was so preposterous he had been convinced it couldn’t actually be true. That such an apparently inexperienced girl should be used for such a purpose seemed beyond even Whittaker’s ability to mismanage the situation. But he’d decided to play the scenario out, mostly for his own entertainment. He’d had no date for the ball, Megan Whittaker had already intrigued him, and he would enjoy proving that he was not the barbarian her father obviously assumed him to be. He was perfectly capable of resisting the charms of any woman—even if he hadn’t had one in his bed for over a month.

But then his date had surprised him. Stunned him even. And he didn’t like to be surprised, much less stunned. She was nervous, yes, and had an artlessness about her, which might have been why he had considered her so inexperienced a month ago, but beneath that was an awareness, a physical response to him that was so intense and unguarded it had done a great deal more than simply captivate or intrigue him.

He didn’t like it. He hadn’t expected to want her. Or certainly not this much.

But now he had to decide what to do about it.

If Whittaker had sent her on some cock-eyed mission to seduce him, he wasn’t about to take advantage of that. But on the other hand, if her response to him was genuine, why shouldn’t they enjoy each other for an evening? She couldn’t possibly be that inexperienced. She was twenty-four, well-travelled, and she’d dated at university in the UK, according to the background check he’d had done by his friend Jared Caine, the owner of Caine Securities. And he’d felt the way she’d stretched against the palm he’d rested on the slope of her back as they’d left her apartment—like a cat desperate to be stroked.

She wasn’t an accomplished flirt, but her instinctive response to a simple touch suggested a rare chemistry. What if she was as wild and vibrant as that russet-coloured hair if he got her into bed?

He hadn’t had such a basic reaction to a woman in years, maybe never. He liked sex, he was good at it, but something about Megan had sunk claws into his gut, tearing at his self-control, which he was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore.

He’d sensed her nervousness in the car, so he’d backed off when they’d arrived at the ball, deciding to observe her, and give himself time to figure out what exactly he was supposed to do about the driving need inside him.

But that had obviously been a mistake, because all it was doing was frustrating him more. Truth was, he hadn’t expected the avoidance tactics, but as he watched her pause to strike up a conversation with Garson Charters, the senile old judge who seemed to be as fixated on his date’s cleavage as every other man in the place, Dario knew that was exactly what her frequent trips to the powder room were about. She was wary of him, not all that surprising if her father had told her to come on to him.

The conniving old bastard probably expected her to wheedle information out of him about their business dealings.

So now he had two choices: he could escort her home, or play with the fire between them regardless of her father’s ulterior motives. Whatever happened, though, backing off wasn’t an option, because it went against every one of his natural—and a few unnatural—instincts.

He heard the string orchestra in the adjoining ballroom start up a waltz as he marched through the throng of guests sipping champagne and whispering loudly, and made a beeline for his date.

Her head popped up as he approached, almost as if she had a radar ready to alert her to his presence at a ten-metre radius. Her gaze locked on his for a millisecond and then flicked away, but not before he saw the jolt of awareness cross her features.

Her hunger was as real as his.

She said something to the elderly judge, who still had his beady eyes focused on her cleavage, then began to edge past the guy, heading back towards the bathroom.

No way, not this time.

He caught up with her in a few strides and hooked her wrist, drawing her to a halt. ‘Not so fast, cara. Where are you going?’

The colour in her cheeks deepened, her eyes widening like those of a startled deer. The smoky perfection of her make-up and the hint of glitter on her eyelids did nothing to mask the unguarded sparkle of awareness in the emerald-green gaze.

‘Hi, Dario,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I think I left something in the restroom.’

‘What did you leave in the restroom?’

She scraped her teeth over her full bottom lip, for less than a second, but it sent a shot of heat straight to his crotch.

‘Um...my...’ She paused, obviously casting around for something.

Unlike her father, she wasn’t an accomplished liar.

He stowed the thought. She might be Whittaker’s daughter, but he’d seen little evidence this evening of any deviousness on Megan’s part. She couldn’t even seem to flirt with any degree of sophistication—her desire for him as blatant as her nerves whenever he got within a few feet of her. He could feel the slight tremors in her arm and the pounding beat of her pulse beneath the fingers he had on her wrist.

‘Whatever it is, it will be fine in the restroom until after this dance,’ he said, linking his fingers with hers as he made his way towards the dance floor in the adjacent ballroom.

She followed behind him as they weaved their way through the crowd, her reluctance palpable. Almost as palpable as the quiver of reaction in her fingers. He clasped her hand harder, not sure why he was seeking to reassure her.

‘What dance?’ she gasped. The confusion in her voice was almost as much of a turn-on as the tremor in her fingers.

He drew her into the ballroom and swung her into the crowd, deftly joining the other dancers as he lifted her arm high and then placed his other hand at the dip of her waist. ‘This dance.’

She matched her steps to his instinctively. He gave her waist a light squeeze, leading her effortlessly into the turn, and dragged her closer. ‘Put your hand on my shoulder, Megan,’ he ordered, pulling her easily into his body, until the length of her pressed against him from shoulder to hip. Those impressive breasts plumped up against his chest.

She did as she was told.

He swallowed around the renewed jolt of lust, willing his crotch to behave itself. At least until they were off the dance floor and he could get her somewhere private. His decision had been made.

Playing with fire it is, then.


CHAPTER THREE (#ue13e894a-90cb-58a7-a491-45287bdf6ee0)

MEGAN WAS IN TROUBLE. In big, broad, six-foot-three trouble. And she didn’t have any viable strategies left to get her out of trouble.

Because her first and only strategy, of hiding in the bathroom until she came up with a better strategy, had just gone down in flames, even though De Rossi had been surprisingly co-operative at first.

But now that strategy had crashed and burned. And she was far too aware of him to come up with another. The deliberate beats of the waltz reverberated in her ears, the sprinkle of light from the chandeliers dazzling her as he swung her around with practised ease.

With his body plastered against hers, she felt overwhelmed by the heat coming off him, the bunch and flex of his shoulder muscles as she clung to the fabric of his tuxedo; and the flare of arousal in his darkened pupils—all proof she wasn’t the only one caught in this maelstrom.

His big body surrounded her, his heady scent frying the few functioning brain cells she had left and sending her hormones into meltdown. She could hardly breathe, let alone think.

The hard planes of his chest pressed against her breast as he whisked her round again. And she stumbled. His muscular forearm braced across her back, lifting her off the floor for a beat.

‘Steady,’ he murmured against her hair as her heels clicked down on the polished parquet. ‘Follow my lead.’

She surrendered as he propelled her round the dance floor, past the envious stares of the women around her. He looked magnificent, lean and graceful in the tuxedo but with that air of raw, rugged masculinity that made the other men stand back.

She felt light-headed, her caution and control obliterated under the tractor-beam gaze she’d felt on her all evening, even when she was busy scurrying off to the bathroom for the umpteenth time.

The music swirled around them, the twinkle of light above them as they weaved in and out of the other dancers disorientating her. It was as if she were in the heart of a kaleidoscope, the colour and light dazzling her and leaving her dazed. Every inch of her skin stretched tight over her bones, so that she could feel each millimetre that touched his: the controlling press of his large palm on her hip, the rise and fall of his breathing, slow and steady against her own ragged pants; the thud of her heart, audible above the glide of cello strings marking the beat.

At last the music ended and he came to a halt. She stepped back as he let her go. Grateful for the space, even if his scent still enveloped her.

‘You dance very well.’ She forced the words out. Wondering if inane chatter might be a viable strategy.

‘Do you wish to leave?’ he replied.

Obviously not.

‘Yes.’ The word popped out on a breathless sigh.

He took her hand to lead her off the dance floor. A few people tried to waylay them, but he marched past as if he hadn’t noticed. Maybe he hadn’t, but she had. She felt as if she had a sign on her forehead—‘woman being claimed’.

Her father’s suggestion came back to haunt her. He’d wanted her to seduce this man, and she’d agreed to try, but why did what was happening now feel as if it had nothing to do with her father, or Whittaker’s, or even rescuing Katie’s dreams?

She wanted De Rossi for herself. No one else.

Her pulse battered her collarbone, her fingers clasped tightly in his rough palm, the prickle of awareness shooting all over her body. He paused briefly to pick up their coats from the cloakroom attendant at the entrance to the elaborate Westchester town house where the ball was held.

The chauffeur-driven car was waiting at the kerb as they descended the steps. Megan’s heels clicked on the paving stones like gunshots, shooting down the last of her caution and control.

Dario didn’t wait for the driver but pulled the door open himself. The dark interior beckoned, but she held back, scared to take the next step.

If she entered the car, this man would be her first real lover. And while that hadn’t felt like an event of any significance up to this second, it felt significant now. Obviously this was just lust, some pheromonal trick her body was playing on her. She wasn’t a hothead like Katie, and she wasn’t a romantic either. She didn’t need the conceit of hearts and flowers to justify a purely physical urge. But she’d never had this urge with any other man. And because of that, she couldn’t do this thing while there was still so much deception between them.

‘Get in the car, Megan,’ he murmured, his voice deep with purpose. ‘Or I’m liable to do something that is going to get us both arrested.’

She turned to find herself surrounded by him again, his arm braced against the roof of the car, her back flush against the door frame; she could feel the thick ridge touching her belly through their clothing.

‘I can’t... I have to tell you something first.’

‘If it’s about your father, and the reason he set up this date, don’t bother. I already know.’

‘You do?’ She pressed a palm to his chest, shock overlaid with bone-deep relief.

The clatter of his heartbeat through the starched linen felt like a validation, silencing the cacophony of objections in her mind. He was as blown away by their chemistry as she was. That was all that mattered, surely? If he knew about her father’s plan, this wasn’t seedy, or underhand, or unethical. It was nothing more than two healthy adults fulfilling a need.

He nodded, his dark hair shining black in the streetlamp. ‘Tell me, are you here for him, for his company, or for me?’

‘I...’

For me. I’m here for me.

But even as the truth rang in her head, she couldn’t voice it. Paralysed by words whispering across her consciousness from another April night, spiced with the juniper scent of gin and selfishness, the words her mother had whispered to her before she left. The last words her mother had ever spoken to her.

‘I have to leave with him, baby. He makes Mummy so happy. Daddy will understand eventually.’

‘I... I can’t,’ she finally blurted out.

She didn’t want to be like her mother, she couldn’t be. Maybe she had the same biological urges, urges she’d tried to deny for so long, but she couldn’t sleep with her father’s enemy and do nothing to try to save him.

‘Why can’t you?’ De Rossi asked.

‘Because it would kill my father if you destroyed Whittaker’s.’

The dark scowl on Dario’s face would have been frightening, if she still had some control of her faculties. Instead it only seemed to spike the fire in her blood. Would a man as ruthless in business as Dario consider changing his mind? Would he stop his pursuit of her father’s company for her? Did he want her that much?

‘I promise you, I have no intention of destroying your father’s company.’ He ground the words out.

She tried to control the foolish spurt of emotion at the concession. But she couldn’t help it. As smart and sensible and grounded as she had always been about life and business, and as aware as she was of De Rossi’s ruthlessness, and his cynicism, she was still moved that he would give her this, because she’d asked it of him.

‘Grazie,’ she said.

His brow quirked, then his lips tipped up in a feral smile that should have been terrifying but was instead terrifyingly exciting.

‘Don’t thank me yet.’ He gave her a firm pat on the backside. ‘Now get in the car.’

She laughed, she actually laughed, as she scrambled inside. All the stresses and strains of the last twenty-four hours floated off into the Manhattan night as the car sped through the evening traffic towards his home—his love nest—on Central Park West.

Whittaker’s would be saved. Her father could stop freaking out about losing the company that had been in their family for generations and she could have this night of erotic exploration with a man who made her blood bubble and fizz beneath her skin, without a single regret.

It took ten minutes to drive through the moonlit park, a few hardy and fearless joggers still peppering the well-lit streets as they passed Belvedere Castle’s fairy-tale turrets. Megan felt almost as fearless as those intrepid joggers when the car drew to a stop and Dario got out. He hadn’t spoken during the journey, and neither had she. But the fever of anticipation stirring her blood made her fingers shake as he helped her out of the car.

‘So this is your love nest?’ she said.

‘My what?’ he asked as she tilted her head to take in the two towers of the art deco building, the ornate and opulent architecture a luxury statement from a bygone era.

But the laugh at his puzzled expression got trapped in her throat as he escorted her into the building, past the doorman and a receptionist, until he reached the antique lift. The intricate iron filigree gates opened as the uniformed operator beckoned them inside.

‘Good evening, Mr De Rossi.’ The man in his late-fifties tipped his hat at Megan. ‘Miss.’

‘Buonasera, Rick.’ Dario’s tone was clipped, his hand gripping hers so tightly she could feel her pulse punching. ‘This is Megan Whittaker.’

‘Nice to meet you, Rick,’ she said, her voice distressingly husky. Heat scorched her neck. How many other late-night lovers had Rick been introduced to on their way up to Dario’s love nest?

The term felt quaint instead of romantic—which was for the best, she decided. She wasn’t here to make love, but to have sex for the first time.

Suddenly the enormity of what they were about to do occurred to her. They hadn’t even kissed yet. What would that firm sensual mouth feel like on hers? How would his body look naked? She assessed the width of his shoulders in the perfectly tailored designer coat. He was a well-built guy; what if all of him was as generously proportioned? Would it hurt?

Should she tell him she’d never actually gone all the way before?

Her pulse rabbited against her collarbone as she watched the gold arrow above their heads swing in an arc signalling the floors.

Despite the antique design, the lift whisked them up to the twenty-sixth floor without a single creak. Too soon, and yet not soon enough. Dario bid the operator goodnight and led her into a palatial lobby area. Fresh flowers stood on a side table, the only touch of softness against the sleek modern lines.

Shrugging off his coat, he dumped it on an armchair, then lifted her wrap off her shoulders. Despite the warmth pumping out of a central air system, she shivered.

Callused hands settled on her bare shoulders and he turned her to face him.

His handsome face, rigid with desire, should have frightened her, at least a little bit. But somehow it felt compelling, for him to want her so much. His thumbs glided over her collarbone. His fingers curled around her nape with exquisite tenderness. And trapped her in place. Then his lips. Firm, sensual, and unapologetic, slanted across hers, triggering a tsunami of sensation.

Her breath got trapped somewhere around her solar plexus. The hard, unyielding line of his body imprinted itself on her curves, making her want to yield. Instead of demanding or devouring, his lips were coaxing, gentle, until her mouth opened on a huff and his tongue plundered.

He explored, exploited, taking control of the kiss. Shivers of awareness reverberated in her core, then his fingers fisted in her hair to angle her face so he could go deeper, take more. Her heart beat violently against her ribcage, like the wings of a trapped bird trying to escape. She plastered herself against him, absorbing the heat of his body, and kissed him back, her tongue darting out to duel with his. The sudden feeling of weightlessness was as terrifying as the desperate flare of longing, the shocking well of desire surging up her torso to obliterate everything but the sight, the sound, the taste of him. Earthy and raw and so staggeringly real.

The kiss could only have lasted for a few moments, but still she staggered, unsteady on her feet, when he lifted his head abruptly. His brows lifted, his eyes flaring hot, and she wondered for a second if he were as stunned as she was by the intensity of feeling that had passed between them.

Taking her hand, he led her down the corridor and into a huge, double-height room. A majestic sweep of stairs led to a mezzanine level, the deep leather sofas along the back wall the only furnishings. Huge floor-to-ceiling leaded windows looked out over the dark expanse of Central Park, the lake and the twinkle of lights from the East Side skyline beyond.

She could see her own reflection in the mullioned glass, her breath heaving in and out, her satin curves shimmering in the light from the hallway as he stood behind her. He glided his thumbs under the gown’s diamanté straps.

‘Yes?’ The low question shattered the silence.

‘Yes,’ she managed around the thickening in her throat.

He eased the straps over her shoulder blades. The rasp of the gown’s zip seemed deafening. Satin caught at her waist, and then slid down to pool around her feet, revealing the lacy royal-blue lingerie Annalise had insisted on buying to go with the gown.

Her breath hitched painfully as she heard the click of her bra releasing. He dragged the lace straps off her shoulders to slide down her arms. Her heavy breasts were released from their confinement. His lips caressed her neck, suckling on the pulse point as his hands covered the swollen mounds, his fingers circling her nipples.

Sensation tugged at her sex as he rolled the rigid peaks between thumb and forefinger, plucking then squeezing. Her knees went liquid, and a strong arm banded around her waist to hold her up. Her pale flesh shone white against his darkness.

His lips caressed the side of her neck as he growled. ‘I can’t wait any longer to have you.’

She pulled away and turned to face him. Her pulse was going berserk. She dragged a precious lungful of air into her lungs and tasted him, the subtle aroma of sandalwood and clean laundry detergent.

His thumb skimmed her cheek. The gentle touch had all her nerve-endings springing to high alert.

No man had ever looked at her with such hunger in his eyes. She absorbed the heat and intensity and it felt like a benediction, a celebration of everything she was that she had always been terrified to admit to.

The heat between her legs melted into a puddle of need, making her skin sensitive and her senses alert to the scent and taste of him, the rough sound of his breathing.

She squeezed her thighs together. ‘Neither can I,’ she said.

* * *

Dario stared at the girl in front of him—an artless seductress whose acute awareness of his touch had been torturing him all evening.

He had become spellbound by his own lust. He’d never wanted a woman this much, so much he wasn’t sure he could be gentle—and that frightened him. He could actually read every one of her emotions as they flitted across her face, her attempts to wrestle them under control almost as bewitching as the hard peaks of her breasts, which begged for his mouth.

Need coiled hard in his gut, the pounding in his crotch unbearable.

He cupped her breast. She jolted but didn’t draw away.

‘Are you sure, cara?’ He wanted no lies or obligations between them. He’d promised not to destroy her father’s company. But it had never been his intention to destroy it, only to take it from the man...tonight, when the final deal with the last of Whittaker’s shareholders went through at midnight.

‘Yes,’ she murmured.

He threaded his fingers in her hair, loosening the up-do. As the soft, silky strands teased his fingertips, her scent curled around him, fresh and vivid, and heat powered through his body. Her eyes widened, her breathing coming in harsh pants now. And he knew she felt it too, that tug of yearning, the driving need to finish what they’d started.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, mesmerising him, and calling to every one of his baser instincts, instincts he’d spent a lifetime trying to control.

Need overwhelmed him as he lifted her into his arms. Placing her on the couch, he lowered his head, unable to resist the pull of that lush mouth a moment longer.

He heard the soft gasp, tasted her excitement and her trepidation. It could only be a trick of the night, this veneer of innocence. No woman could be innocent and drive him this insane, but even so he enjoyed the challenge as he coaxed and cajoled, tempting her with his tongue.





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