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He felt his body stir. Even though it had been sated time after time on hers. He gave a low laugh. Time enough to indulge—he was going to be here for as long as he wanted Anna Delane, for as long as she still fed his appetite for her—but right now there was another appetite he wanted to feed. It had been a long time since dinner the night before.
He walked inside the bedroom, picked up the house phone by his bed, and gave his order for breakfast. As he replaced the receiver he let his eyes rest on the woman sleeping in his bed.
She really was extraordinarily beautiful—and never more so than now. Her black hair streamed over the pillow, tumbled and tangled. Her skin was white against the white sheets, black lashes splashing on her cheeks. She was breathing softly.
He gazed down at her.
There was something strangely vulnerable about her.
He frowned slightly.
Vulnerable?
That was the last word he should apply to Anna Delane. Even when he hadn’t even known her for a thief she’d radiated attitude. Sharp-tongued, difficult—a troublemaker.
And a hypocrite. Oh, yes. His eyes narrowed. A fully paid-up hypocrite! He’d known from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, when she’d met his look, that she was sexually responsive to him. She’d made no secret of it at all as he’d looked her over and signalled to her that he liked what he saw. And she’d signalled back her response to him clearly enough, all the way through that evening when he’d kept her at his side. Hell, what did she think he’d done that for? Obviously it had been to tell her that he was sexually interested in her. And yet when he’d moved in on that response she’d turned on him like a harpy. Even though she’d been halfway to bed with him when she’d done so.
And then, then to subject him to a tirade of virtuous outrage as if she’d never melted like warm honey in his arms—when all along…all along, she’d been nothing but a thief. Daring to steal from him—and making the Levantsky jewels her target. A thief without any sense of shame, or guilt, or contrition. A cool, conscienceless, self-seeking, thieving piece!
But she hadn’t been cool when he’d been inside her, when she’d been crying out, threshing in orgasm. She hadn’t been cool when he’d held her afterwards, her body shaking, convulsing in the aftermath, her hair tangled, her brow sweated, her breathing rapid and shallow, her heart beating like a frantic bird beneath her ribs.
No, she hadn’t been cool then…
He turned away and headed for the en suite bathroom. Gazing down at Anna Delane and remembering how she’d been in his arms a few short hours ago was not a good idea right now. He wanted breakfast—time enough for more sex later.
A lot more sex.
He hadn’t had nearly enough of Anna Delane yet—she had a whole lot more to make up for before he’d be done with her.
‘Would you like to swim?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Take the catamaran out? Or the launch?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Do you want to see the rest of the island?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘As you wish.’
There was no baiting amusement in Leo’s curt voice now. Merely mounting irritation. He picked up his coffee cup and drank, then set it down again. His eyes rested on the woman sitting opposite him.
She was reading a book. A thick paperback that was absorbing all her attention. But then everything and anything absorbed her attention except him. Of him she took no notice whatsoever. She was shutting him out of her existence. She never looked at him, or met his eye, or talked in anything other than the briefest, tersest replies.
She’d been like that since he’d sent for her.
The fact that he’d had to do so had been a source of irritation in itself. He’d come out of his shower to find his bed empty. She’d simply disappeared. It hadn’t bothered him. He’d assumed she’d merely gone back to her own room to shower and dress.
But she still hadn’t appeared even when he’d despatched one of the staff to tell her that breakfast would be on the terrace. He’d eaten on his own, then sent for her again.
That time she’d come down.
And had stalked stiff-backed across to the table just as she had done the night before. As if she’d never spent the night in his bed.
She’d been wearing dark glasses, completely concealing her eyes. Dark glasses, and her hair back in its punishing knot, and wearing tight black leggings and a long-sleeved sweat top. Completely inappropriate for a hot tropical day.
She’d sat down, totally ignoring him, and turned instead to the maid, requesting a pot of hot water and some fruit.
Then she’d twisted her chair slightly towards the sea view, crossed her long legs, opened her book and started reading.
