Page 16

As I switched off the shower, I heard someone enter the cabin bedroom. I dried myself hurriedly, the towel rasping against my over-sensitive skin like sandpaper. I felt tender, sore and different—my emotions still reeling from what had happened earlier. I’d woken feeling dazed, and ashamed after what I’d let Dante do. After what I’d begged him to do.

‘At least you know what all the fuss is about now, Evie,’ I murmured to myself.

Boy, did I…

I flushed as I wrapped my wet hair in a towel, then dragged on a bathrobe.

I could still hear movement in the cabin’s bedroom. Gathering my courage, because I couldn’t hide from him for the rest of my life, I eased open the door. Only to be nonplussed when I spotted a young man in crew uniform busy laying out a selection of women’s clothing on the newly made bed. And no sign of Dante anywhere.

The steward blushed to the roots of his hair, before apologising in Italian and disappearing out of the cabin door.

My own cheeks heated when I heard Dante outside, issuing a series of orders in Italian to the young steward.

When Dante walked into the cabin I was still standing in the middle of it like a dummy.

He wore a towel wrapped around his hips and nothing else. My gaze snagged on those spectacular abs before tracking to the wound on his side, no longer covered by the bandage. The stitching was livid against his tanned skin.

Sympathy pulsed as my gaze rose to his face.

The silence vibrated between us, his assessing stare making me aware of all the places where he had touched me earlier. But then he spoke to me in Italian, in the same demanding tone he had conversed with his employee.

I caught the word vestiti, which I thought had to refer to the clothing on the bed, but that was about it.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ I said, then started to babble—because, nerves! ‘I don’t speak much Italian. Mia’s very good at it. She’s a natural linguist, but I haven’t learned much at all yet…’ I trailed off, feeling smaller and more insignificant by the second when he continued to regard me with that stony expression on his face.

Unlike Mia, I’d always had a bad habit of wanting to please people. Even the guy who had kidnapped me and then reduced me to a puddle of hyperactive hormones, apparently.

‘Just stop talking, Evie, you’re making it worse,’ I whispered to myself. ‘He doesn’t even want you any more.’

I winced as soon as the words left my lips, aware he had heard them. But before the wave of humiliation could strike again, I remembered he didn’t speak English any more than I spoke Italian. Even so, my blush intensified when his eyes narrowed.

He probably thought I was nuts now as well as clueless, muttering to myself like a loon. Could this get any more awkward? Doubtful.

The tap on the door was a godsend, even though I wasn’t that pleased to see the young steward again—with us both standing semi-naked in Dante’s stateroom.

The boy made a point of not looking at me though, his head lowered as he placed a pair of women’s high heels by the door and shot back out of the room.

It occurred to me that Dante was the boss of everyone on the yacht, not to mention a hardened criminal who hadn’t even been slowed down by a gunshot wound and months spent at the mercy of his sworn enemy—so he probably overwhelmed everyone. Not just me.

But it wasn’t the power that emanated from him that had me shifting back when he approached me.

He gripped my chin, lifting my gaze to his. He leaned close enough to run his nose over my cheek and gather a lungful of my scent. I trembled, the gush of desire in my tender sex from the minimal contact startling me.

He laughed, the sound arrogant but also pleased with my response, instead of angered by it as he had seemed to be earlier.

So he did want me, even though he had left me to sleep alone. The knots in my belly tightened—the fierce desire tangling with the crippling guilt.

I was close enough to smell the sandalwood scent of his cologne and see the dark rim around his irises.

He spoke in Italian again, words I didn’t understand, but there was no doubting the lust in his eyes this time. But then he released me abruptly and nodded at the clothing. The instruction in Italian to get dressed was something even I could understand.

I scrambled to do as he demanded, while he crossed the room to the large built-in wardrobe.

He lifted out a dark grey designer suit and waistcoat and laid them on the bed, then found fresh boxers and a crisp white shirt in his dresser. I had wiggled into the pricey designer lingerie under the robe, then sat to draw silk tights on in the meantime. Next, I tugged on the expensive red velvet minidress. The stretchy fabric fitted me like a glove, hugging my hips and breasts, but when I spotted my reflection in the wardrobe’s mirrored door, I sucked in a breath. I’d never worn anything this luxurious or revealing before in my life. The effect of the push-up demi-bra and the gown’s plunging neckline meant my stiff nipples were barely contained—while the skirt rose so high up my thighs the hem only just concealed the purple lace of my new panties.

My gaze tracked to Dante, who was standing behind me, as he dropped his towel, apparently unconcerned by his nakedness. I stared at his cock which even unaroused looked intimidating.

Moisture flooded my panties while I watched him, unobserved, in the mirror’s reflection as he dressed himself with practised efficiency, his movements graceful and fluid despite the wound in his side. All the tender, sensitive spots he had exploited throbbed in unison, even though I was still ashamed of how enthusiastically I had responded to his touch.