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Taken.
Taken for pleasure. With pleasure. Taken so that all you had to do was let yourself feel, feel what was happening without guilt or remorse…
“Hey.”
Cheyenne swung toward the door.
Luca leaned against the jamb, hands tucked into the rear pockets of faded jeans, bare feet crossed at the ankles, white T-shirt outlining his shoulders and chest. His dark hair was mussed; there was stubble on his jaw.
He was mouth-wateringly beautiful and when he smiled, as he was doing now, he upped the ante another hundred percent because she had to admit, he had one amazing smile—sexy, innocent, charming and wicked all at once.
His gaze swept over her, head to toe. His smile tilted.
“You’re a sight to warm a man’s heart,” he said softly.
He was a sight to warm a woman’s, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“It’s the outfit,” she said, batting her lashes. “Straight from Paris.”
He grinned. “Who ever knew my old workout clothes could look so good?”
“That’s the thing about fashion,” she said brightly, plucking the purse from the bed. “It’s full of surprises.”
She started toward him. He didn’t move. Her heart banged into her throat. She didn’t want any kind of confrontation. What if he refused to let her leave?
“Going somewhere?”
“Home,” she said in the same bright voice. “I have appointments.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Right. And I have appointments.”
He waited until she reached him. Then, casually, he stretched one arm across the frame and wrapped his hand around the edge of the door.
“I made breakfast.”
“I never eat breakfast.”
“You haven’t eaten since… When? We never got around to dinner at the Horse Sense party.” His eyes darkened. “We never got around to it here, either.”
“Really, I’m not hungry.”
“Eggs. Pancakes. Bacon. Coffee.”
“Sounds great, but I’m still not hungry.”
“I am,” he said, his gaze dropping to her lips.
Her heart thudded into her throat again.
“Well,” she said briskly, “then it’s good that you made breakfast. Please, could you step aside? It’s getting late and—”
“Why are you running?”
“Running? I’m not running. I told you, I have—”
“We haven’t even said good morning.”
“Luca. Last night was—it was—”
“Yes.” His voice was husky. “It was.”
“But it’s morning now, and I have to leave.”
“When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know. I have a busy—”
“Si. As do I.”
There it was, the faint accent, the formal way of speaking that was a reminder he was from a different culture.
“Then you understand that planning ahead can be difficult.”
“But planning is necessary.” He touched his hand to her cheek, threaded his fingers in her hair, and brushed it away from her face. “For instance, you have appointments today.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“And I have to be in Milan on Monday.”
“Milan,” she said gaily, “what a wonderful city! I did a couple of shows there two years ago.”
“You should go back.”
“I will, someday.” She ducked her head a little, to escape the touch of his hand. The feel of it against her hair was—it was disconcerting. But he seemed oblivious to what was happening. He just kept shifting closer.
“Come with me.”
“What?”
She looked startled. Well, hell, he’d startled himself, but now that he considered the suggestion, it was a damned good one.
“I said, come with me.”
“Where?”
He laughed. “To Milan. My business won’t take more than an afternoon. You can shop, do whatever you wish until I’m free.”
“Thank you. That’s a—it’s an interesting offer, but—”
Luca lowered his head and kissed her.
That was all.
He didn’t touch her with his hands, just his mouth.
And his mouth was warm and firm and he tasted of coffee—and the memories of the night washed over her. The feel of his body against hers. The caress of his hands on her breasts. Those lovely, ecstatic moments when she’d been naked beneath him, his to do with as he wanted, and the way those moments had ended, with him untying her hands when she was so hot, so filled with fever for him that winding her arms around him had seemed the only way she could keep from flying off the planet.
She whimpered against his mouth.
He groaned and his lips parted over hers.
For a heartbeat, just a heartbeat, Cheyenne let herself respond. She couldn’t help it. Returning his kiss was everything and she leaned into him, let him taste her, let herself taste him and when she did, he gathered her to him, the length of her body against his, his arms around her, the sensation of being his enough to make her heart beat faster.
What if she said yes, she’d go with him? What if she stepped into this new world for just a handful of days?
Maybe he sensed her hesitation, because he drew her even closer.
“Come with me, dolcezza,” he whispered. “I will make you happy. I will make you forget everything but me.”
Reality flooded in on that soft, oh so masculine promise.
She jerked back, slapped her hands against his chest and tore her mouth from his.
“Is that what you think I want?” she asked. “To become your sex toy?”
He raised his head. The passion in his eyes became bewilderment.
“What?”
She moved quickly, before he could reach for her again.
“Goodbye,” she said. “And thanks for an interesting night.”
Anger replaced bewilderment. An interesting night? Was that what she thought they’d spent together?
She swept past him, her head high.
His swung around and watched her, his jaw knotted.
He could go after her.
Catching her would be easy. Forcing her to take back those words would be even easier. She
’d made the night sound like nothing, but that last kiss had made a lie of her words.
She’d been on the verge of surrendering again.
Another kiss. Another caress. She’d be in his bed…and this time, binding her wrists would not be enough.
She needed to be taught who was in charge.
She needed punishment. The sweetest torment. With his mouth, his hands, his body…
“Cristo.”
Luca sank down on the edge of the bed, lowered his head and plowed his fingers through his hair. What was happening to him? He was turning into a man he didn’t know, and it was her fault, all her fault, all her doing.
He snarled something ugly in the language of his youth. Then he shot to his feet, took his iPhone from his pocket and punched up his contact list. It took seconds to choose a name and number. He barely remembered the face that went with it—she was a banker he’d met a couple of weeks ago at a meeting; they’d talked and flirted and when she’d offered to enter her number on his phone—in case you want to discuss finance, she’d said, with a sultry smile—he’d said he was certain that he would.
Minutes later, he had a date for the evening.
By tomorrow morning, Cheyenne McKenna would be little more than a bad memory.
CHAPTER NINE
His date didn’t go as well as he’d hoped.
In fact, it was pretty much a disaster.
Aldo took him to the lady’s brownstone in Brooklyn. And, of course, he had to double park. There was no parking in Brooklyn. There was no parking anywhere in the city, for that matter. No surprise there, but Aldo—Luca, too—knew Manhattan’s ins and outs.
Why hadn’t he taken a taxi?
Because you aren’t thinking straight, he thought grimly, that’s why.
His date was pretty, he thought as they killed time in a traffic snarl on the approach to the Brooklyn Bridge. Actually, she was beautiful, but she didn’t have hair the color of midnight and eyes the color of a summer sea. She was smart, too, and probably charming, but how could he know that if he didn’t pay attention to what she was saying?
Concentrate, he told himself.
He tried, but he lost half of what she said because instead of listening to her, he was listening to that last exchange with Cheyenne. He had offered to take her to Milan. She had told him she wasn’t going to be his sex toy.
His what?
