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A possessive streak he hadn’t realised he owned coursed through his body. If he’d noticed the flash of the cameras, he couldn’t say. If he’d told himself it was for appearances’ sake, rather than the desperate need to feel her lips against his, it would have been a lie.
He pulled her to him—a move that was becoming increasingly familiar and ever more welcome—until he was an inch...a breath...away from a kiss that he already knew would enflame the burning furnaces of his desire. Something that would have the power to take away the painfully fierce anger boiling in his chest as he thought of his father, as he thought of his own actions.
He teased them both, watching the hazel flecks of her eyes dissolve into sea-green depths. Over the din, the shouts and cries of the crowd around them, he heard her gasp, saw the moment surprise sizzled into expectation and want, and pushed the moment further. To when nothing else could be seen, heard or felt—when it was just the two of them.
When he could make her realise that this wasn’t for the press, for Bartlett, for anyone else other than him and her.
And then he took what he so desperately wanted.
* * *
Emma felt her hand creep up towards Antonio’s neck, pulling him deeper, forging them together with tongue and teeth. She laved his tongue with her own, brought the thumb of her other hand to the corner of his mouth, relishing the sensual power she wielded now, daring him to taste her. Taste more of her.
She gave no thought to anyone around them, no feeling for the concern as to where this might lead, and it thrilled as much as terrified her. She matched his almost desperate movements with her own, taking everything he had to give and offering her all in return.
He had turned her into a wanton woman and she shamelessly claimed him for the world to see. She wanted to imprint herself on him, wanted to eradicate the memory of all who had come before her. Wanted to be the only thing he needed.
‘That’s enough, you two,’ Dimitri called out, bringing Emma crashing back to the present.
She slowly pulled back, satisfaction stretching through her to see Antonio Arcuri as dazed and shocked as she felt.
‘No,’ she whispered, for his ears only. ‘It’s not enough,’ she said with a gentle shake of her head—before she turned a beaming smile on Antonio’s friend and relinquished her hold on Antonio to accept a glass of champagne .
‘Gentlemen. Congratulations,’ she said, in a surprisingly steady voice.
* * *
Three hours later and the promised storm had bruised the sky a deep purple, but for all its bluster it had still failed to break. The wind was whipping up the leaves around the trees that lined the streets below, reminding Antonio of the crowds of people surrounding the winner’s gate earlier. The press had burst upon them in a hail of flashbulbs, firing questions about the next two races, to be carefully deflected by three men who knew better than to engage with the paparazzi.
Mason McAulty, the female jockey whose name was now on everyone’s lips, had been discreetly spirited away by John, moved on to prepare for the next race in Ireland almost before her feet had left Veranchetti’s stirrups.
Danyl, who had watched her go with the same frantic energy of the storm, had barely commented on the win—as if both relieved and concerned by it—and had simply stalked through the halls of The Excelsus towards the private function room that had been prepared for the closing event of the Hanley Cup’s first leg.
It was a glamorous affair, attended by royal dignitaries, international syndicates, horse breeders and owners. Models hung from arms like accessories, but none took Antonio’s notice. A waiter passed by with a tray full of the finest champagne, but even the promise of cool nutty flavours and frothy light bubbles wasn’t enough to disguise the taste of Emma still on Antonio’s tongue.
It was addictive. He wanted more. And he never wanted more.
He made his way over to the bar, looking for a drink that would succeed in refocusing his tastebuds. Bartlett would be there to celebrate the Winners’ Circle’s success, although he was still to confirm whether he would choose his father or him. But Antonio knew. He would be chosen in the end. He was now sure of it.
Dimitri was at the bar, his brooding presence enough to create a wide berth around him, clear of people. Danyl was still looking out over the race course through the windows as the first drops of promised rain slung themselves against the glass. In contrast to the gloss and sheen of revelry that dusted the other guests, the members of the Winners’ Circle seemed consumed by their own demons.
Dimitri reached behind the bar, ignoring the frown from the barman busy with another customer, grabbed a glass and poured Antonio a drink from the bottle of obscenely expensive
whisky beside him. Dimitri threw an impressive stack of pesos onto the bar, which mollified the barman.
‘Why does this feel like a wake rather than a victory?’ Dimitri demanded. ‘Come on—we’re celebrating!’
Antonio cast a glance in Dimitri’s direction. There was a light in his eyes that Antonio hadn’t seen for far too long. ‘What is it?’
Dimitri’s gaze was fierce. ‘They got him! The SEC have finally brought civil charges against Manos,’ he said, spitting out the name of his half-brother, ‘and my name is finally and completely cleared.’
‘Now, that I can drink to,’ Danyl said, and he leaned over and poured himself a large helping of whisky.
‘It’s been a long time coming,’ Antonio added, ‘but well worth the wait.’ He savoured the burn of the alcohol in his throat.
‘I’m sorry that I can’t stay for longer,’ said Danyl. ‘I have to fly home. My mother has been talking about brides and babies again.’
Dimitri choked on his drink. ‘Nothing, and I mean nothing, would tempt me into taking a bride, let alone having a baby,’ he said, slamming his glass down on the bar. ‘But it seems that the same cannot be said for Antonio.’
