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Marcos loved him with all his heart. Though it saddened him to think of how the boy had come into their lives, he was very happy they were the ones who’d adopted the child once his mother had died so tragically. Armando would have a good life as a Navarre. And, when he was old enough, he would know about his mother. Both Marcos and Francesca agreed that was important.
Ingrid came to take Armando for his bath, and Francesca collapsed into a chair.
“Wore you out, did he?”
“Lord yes,” she said, taking a sip of the cool lemon ice water one of the girls had brought out. He watched her, felt a well of emotion as she set the glass down and gave him a funny little look. “What?”
“I love you, Francesca. You are the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“You don’t have to keep telling me I’m beautiful. We’ve been married for almost two years now. I’m not worried you’ll let another woman turn your head.”
“But you are beautiful. Extraordinarily so. I tell you this because I mean it.” He leaned over and kissed her. “If you would like to retire for a siesta, I could show you how beautiful you are to me. I am aching to do so.”
Her smile turned wicked. “Marcos Navarre, are you trying to corrupt me?”
“Every chance I get,” he vowed. He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. She made a little sound of pleasure in her throat when she discovered he was already hard for her.
“Oh my,” she said. “I’m looking forward to that siesta.”
“Let’s go then.”
“Do you two ever stop?”
Francesca jumped up and went to hug the old man who’d hobbled onto the veranda. “Jacques, how are you feeling? Did you sleep well?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he said.
She helped him into a chair and poured a glass of wine for him. “And your sleep?”
He took an appreciative sip. “I slept like an old man of seventy-seven should sleep. Stop fussing, Francesca. Now you two go on and do whatever you were going to do, don’t mind me. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the view.”
“Then we will enjoy it with you,” Marcos said without hesitation. Francesca smiled at him, and he thought once more what a lucky man he was. Tonight, he would show her just how he felt. And every night for the rest of their lives.
Pleasured in the Playboy’s Penthouse
Natalie Anderson
About the Author
NATALIE ANDERSON adores a happy ending, which is why she always reads the back of a book first. Just to be sure. So you can be sure you’ve got a happy ending in your hands right now—because she promises nothing less. Along with happy endings, she loves peppermint-filled dark chocolate, pineapple juice and extremely long showers. Not to mention spending hours teasing her imaginary friends with dating dilemmas. She tends to torment them before eventually relenting and offering—you guessed it—a happy ending. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, with her gorgeous husband and four fabulous children.
If, like her, you love a happy ending, be sure to come and say hi on facebook/authornataliea and on Twitter @authornataliea, or her website/blog: www.natalie-anderson.com.
For Soraya—you are so generous and supportive, always dropping everything to read in a rush and then getting back to me so quickly and so helpfully … and this one was some rush, wasn’t it? I am really looking forward to repaying you in kind so very soon.
CHAPTER ONE
DID she want a ‘sex machine’ or a ‘slow comfortable screw’? Choices, choices … and tonight Bella was struggling with decisions. The names were all such appalling puns, she didn’t know if she’d be able to ask for one without blushing. Especially as she was sitting all alone in this bar—on a Friday night. The bartender would probably panic and think she was coming on to him. But as she looked at the gleaming glasses lined up behind the counter and the rows of bottles holding varying amounts of brightly coloured liquid, her taste buds were tickled. It had been a while since she’d had anything more indulgent than whatever was the cheapest red wine at the supermarket. Surely she was justified in having something fabulous to celebrate her day? And as this weekend had already burned one huge hole in her savings, she might as well make it a crater.
She looked back at the cocktail list, but barely read on. She’d waited all day for someone to say it. Someone. Anyone. It wasn’t as if she expected a party—a cake, candles or even a card. It was a frantic time getting everything organised for Vita’s wedding, Bella understood that. But surely even one of them could have remembered? Her father perhaps?
But no. She was just there, as usual, in the background, like the family cat. Present, accounted for, but blending in as if part of the furniture. It was only if she had some sort of catastrophe that they remembered her. And she was determined to avoid any catastrophes this weekend. This was Vita’s special time. As uncomfortable as Bella felt, she was determined to help make the weekend as wonderful as it could be for her sister.
Volunteering to oversee the decorating had been her best idea. It had meant she’d been able to avoid most of the others. And honestly, she’d felt more at home with the waitresses and staff of the exclusive resort than with her own family and their friends.
When she’d paused at lunchtime she’d looked up and seen them out walking along the beach. The island of Waiheke looked as if it had been taken over by an accountancy convention. In truth it basically had. They were like clones. All wearing corporate casual. The men in fawn trousers and open-collared pale blue shirts. Tomorrow they’d be in fawn again only with white shirts for the wedding. Afterwards, they’d saunter on the sand in three-quarter ‘casual’ trousers, overly colourful Hawaiian shirts, with their pale feet sliding in leather ‘mandals’. They all had crisp cut hair, and expensive sunglasses plastered across their faces. The women were using their e
ven more expensive sunglasses to pin back their long, sleek hair. Her tall, glamorous cousins, her sister. They were all the same. All so incredibly successful—if you equated money, highflying jobs and incredibly suitable partners with success.
