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Dammit man, chill out.
I returned to my seat to nurse the last of my wine—to cool off and get this insatiable hunger into perspective. It occurred to me
that it was probably a good thing I would be gone for the next two days, and once I returned there would be no time, for the first few days at least, for me to pursue Edie, because I would be far too busy—and so would she.
I hadn’t lied, this week-long house party was important to my business—and I was not about to allow my desire for Edie Trouvé to get in the way of achieving everything I wanted to achieve. I’d been planning this event for months. I was on the verge of expanding the Allegri Corporation. I needed investors I could trust, and deciding who I did and did not want to invite into financial partnerships was crucial. I couldn’t afford to get distracted from those goals.
But after those initial impressions had been made, and assuming Edie was as adept at what I was hiring her to do as she seemed, there would be time at the end of the week to indulge ourselves.
Assuming she chose to do so.
I stroked my thumb over the crystal, watched the red wine sparkle in the candlelight. The pounding in my groin increased as something raw clawed at me.
What would I do if she chose not to come to me?
I took a fortifying gulp of the expensive vintage, let the fruity flavours burst on my tongue—the moment of uncertainty reminding me unpleasantly of the boy I’d once been.
I swallowed and coughed out a rough laugh, realising how ludicrous the direction of my thoughts was.
The throaty sound—arrogant and assured—echoed off the antique furniture which had once belonged to a Portuguese prince. But which now belonged to me.
Don’t be a damn fool, Dante. She wants you, just as much as you want her—you’re not that feral kid any more.
This attraction was all about sex—and chemistry—I’d told her so myself.
I finished the wine.
All I had to do now was wait. And, luckily, I had something much more important to focus on than satisfying my libido—namely taking Allegri to the next level—to keep me busy in the meantime.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I BLINKED INTO the crisp morning light as it shone through the huge picture window in the guest villa’s bedroom and checked the brand new, state-of-the-art smartphone I had been given a week ago by Joseph Donnelly as part of my employee package.
Pleasure rippled through me at the thought of another day working as part of Dante’s elite management team. We’d been up till two o’clock last night, going through the individual reports by each member of the team. Dante had presided over the meeting in his office and even though it had been the middle of the night, the energy and enthusiasm in the room had been addictive.
I’d come to love those late-night meetings, when the guests had retired to their villas and we would gather—two other women and three men, all several years older than me—to pore over our individual reports and observations of everything that had gone on during the day and evening. Yesterday, Dante’s events manager had arranged a flotilla of yachts and sailing boats to take the guests and the team to a picnic on a private island off the coast. There had been a lavish lunch arranged, not what I’d call a picnic, then water skiing and snorkelling safaris—and, for the less athletically inclined, sunbathing—in the afternoon, followed by an evening barbecue and then a night sail back to base for the evening rounds of poker and vingt-et-un. Dante had rather cleverly subbed all the guests a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of chips for the week, with the promise that any profits they made by the end of the week would be theirs and any losses written off as a gesture of goodwill.
Last night’s poker session had been my first chance to really shine. Everyone had been much more relaxed than the first night and, as a result, had bet more freely. I’d been able to gather much more data on their attitudes to risk. And when I’d detailed it all during our nightly round-up, in front of the other members of the team, and Dante, I’d felt Dante’s encouragement—and his approval.
I was proving myself. Showing that his investment in me was worth it. I felt like a valued member of his team and it was intoxicating.
Pulling back the covers, I raced into the adjoining walk-in wardrobe and found the selection of swimsuits Nina had picked out for me. So far I’d only worn the one-piece ones, too shy to be seen by Dante wearing anything as skimpy as the bikinis she had selected.
My skin flushed.
Yesterday, Dante had asked me to join his crew for the evening sail back to La Villa Paradis and I’d imagined he’d had his eyes on me the whole time. Of course, he hadn’t; that was just my overactive imagination. Since our dinner four days ago, he’d been nothing but professional with me. But it had still been a heady feeling—remembering the way he had looked at me that night at supper and the things he’d said.
I pulled the tiny triangles of blue Lycra out of the drawer and slipped them on. I’d never worn a bikini before which, considering I was half-French, was probably sacrilege.
I wasn’t ashamed of my body; I’d inherited my mother’s physique, slim but curvaceous. But I’d never worn anything so revealing before. Instead of feeling over-exposed though, awareness shimmered over my skin. And I imagined Dante looking at me, and liking what he saw, my breasts cupped by the stretchy fabric, my round hips and flat stomach displayed to their best advantage. I’d never felt so young and alive and carefree. And Dante was responsible for that, for freeing me and my sister from our debts and bringing me here and showing me he had faith in my abilities. I hadn’t realised until these last few days of working with Dante and his team, and not having to worry about the basics—such as where the next meal was coming from—how much the last year, and even the years before that, had dragged me down with worry. I was only twenty-one years old, but I’d been burdened with so much grief and responsibility ever since our mother had died that I hadn’t felt young in a long, long time.
I took a deep breath and flung the pashmina away which I had planned to wrap around my shoulders. I slipped on a pair of sandals and grabbed a towel from the pile in the bathroom.
There were three private beaches on the estate, with steps leading down to them from the extensive gardens. Two were large stretches of open sand well stocked with loungers, a beach bar where staff served a range of food and drink from 11:00 a.m. onwards, and hot showers so the guests could rinse off before returning to their accommodation. But two days ago I had found a tiny cove at the far end of the headland. The beach was a small crescent of white sand and there was an outdoor shower to rinse off and an unstaffed beach shelter furnished with lounging couches and a fridge stocked with delicacies. Despite those amenities, it was obviously too low-key for the guests because no one seemed to use it. I’d been there several times for a morning swim and had yet to meet anyone else there.
As a result, I had come to consider it my own private beach. I headed through the gardens for the entrance to the steps down to the cove, breathing in the fragrant scent of flowers, listening to the tinkle of the water fountains, admiring the view across the headland of the pastel-coloured houses of Villefranche on the other side of the bay.
My spirits were high, buzzing at the thought of taking an early morning swim in the cool blue ocean in my revealing bikini.
