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Besides, she knew how these things worked.
She’d watched how her handsome, arrogant brothers had dealt with women in their bachelor days; she’d listened to her sisters rant and rave and sometimes sob when errant lovers broke their hearts.
“Emily,” Marco said again, the urgency in his voice so real she could almost see it, just as Charles pulled the Bentley to a stop at the hotel.
She reached for the door handle. Charles got there first. Beyond him, the night doorman held open the door that led into the lobby.
Door after door lay ahead.
The one to the private elevator. The one to the suite.
The one to her bedroom.
It had a lock. She would turn it, take off this beautiful gown, the so-sexy-they-made-her-ache bra and thigh-high hose and thong. She’d put on—What?
She didn’t have her suitcase. That meant no sweats. No PJs. No oversized T-shirt. Comfort clothes, all of them. There was a bathrobe in the sumptuous bathroom. She’d wrap herself in it, climb into bed and sleep until morning.
Then, in the light of the new day, things would be simpler to define.
Marco followed her out of the car, through the door, through the lobby and into the elevator. She stared straight ahead as it rose; she felt his eyes on her but she wasn’t going to turn toward him.
The door slid open and they stepped into the suite. Moonlight seeped through the terrace doors and windows and dappled the marble floor.
“Goodnight,” she said, and started down the hall.
Marco came after her. He clasped her shoulders. She closed her eyes. She could feel herself starting to tremble.
“No,” she whispered, but he was already turning her toward him, slowly, slowly, his hands warm on her skin, his eyes, when finally she was facing him, so dark and deep that just looking into them made her feel breathless. “No,” she said again, but even as she said it, his arms were closing around her and she was turning her face up for his kiss.
CHAPTER TEN
Emily had said “no.”
She’d said it twice.
He had not imagined it—but now she was in his arms. Her face was turned up to his. Her lips were parted, her breathing erratic. He could feel the race of her heart against his chest.
Still, a gentleman would have hesitated. A gentleman would have asked, “Are you sure?”
But he was not a gentleman.
He had never been one, not really. What he was now—a man who owned homes on two continents, and an island and a plane—was what the world saw.
Inside, where it counted, he was still a street kid who’d grown up poor and damned near homeless; he was a guy who’d fought no-holds-barred battles to get where he was today.
So, no.
He wasn’t a gentleman.
That was his secret.
He dressed like one. He lived like one. The hand-tailored suits and handmade shoes. The elegant homes. The Ferrari, the Mercedes, all the cars, all of it.
Elegant on the outside.
Lean and hungry on the inside.
It was the reason he went after whatever he wanted without hesitation. He knew, he had always known, that no one would simply give him what he wanted.
