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It was him.
Unmistakable this time. How had she ever mistaken anyone else for him? Two years had passed, but he hadn’t changed a bit. He was wearing a dark suit and a slate grey shirt. No tie, open at the neck, to reveal a hint of the chest hair that she knew ran down his muscled wall of abdominals to the waistband of his pants.
Her face drained completely of color, and she gripped her father’s arm even tighter.
“Darling? Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” she nodded, her throat thick with feeling. She’d spent two years telling herself that her night with Dante Velasco had been a beat out of time. That it had been an aberration. An experience that would never, could never, be repeated. In fact, she’d even come to doubt the strength of what she’d felt. It seemed so unbelievable, to have fallen to his bed within minutes of meeting him. It was as uncharacteristic as it had been stupid.
Her pale blue eyes shone with distress, but the rest of her face was carefully kept blanked of emotion. “I just thought I saw someone I knew.”
“’Fraid not. All a bunch of Cressida’s uptight friends.” He pulled a face. “Shame that Rosie and whatshisface couldn’t make it.”
“Whatshisface?” She remarked with a small smile that almost hid her inner turmoil. “Luca Abramo is one of the best known names in the country, thanks to the recent acquisition of that airline.”
“Oh, yes, well, I liked him anyway. And I always like your Rosie.”
Maggie nodded. She wished they were there too. Rosie always knew just what to say to make Maggie feel better. Even Rosie had no idea about Maggie’s relationship with the Spanish wine baron, and it was better kept that way.
“Dad, I’m just going to go and check on something in the, um, in the kitchen.”
He lifted his brows in an expression of mock fear. “Don’t let Cressida see you. She’s told me I’m to intervene if you so much as go near an apron.”
Somehow, Maggie managed to say something amusing in response. Her mouth moved but her brain didn’t engage. She even smiled as she walked away from him, but inside, her stomach was a swirling pit of anxiety.
What the hell was he doing there?
Of all the places she had hoped against hope to see Dante Velasco, this was not one of them.
Even as she’d fled the party, she had
known he would follow her.
As she stepped out of the drawing room and moved in the direction of the kitchen, he placed an arm under her elbow, and silently propelled her into the closet beneath the stairs. It occurred to her to wonder how he knew such a closet existed, but the thought disappeared as quickly as it had entered her mind. He was a man who seemed to know everything.
The closet was dark, and musty, despite the fact Cressida had made sure the cleaners had run over the mansion with a fine tooth comb in the week leading up to the party. He dominated the small space with his size, scent and the glowering set of his features. Maggie was shaking like a leaf, her body in some sort of sensory overload as it finally sunk in. It was him.
“What are you doing here?” She whispered urgently, her body pressed as far back against the wall as possible.
“Shut up,” his voice was firm. He put his hands on her hips and pulled her forward, connecting her with his body. “Do not speak.”
Maggie opened her mouth to make some indignant remark, but he took advantage of it and lowered his lips, taking complete possession of her. She moaned, low in her throat, as remembered sensations flooded through her. Bit by bit, her body seemed to lose strength, until she was gripping his shoulders as much for support as a need for contact.
“Do not speak,” he repeated firmly, lifting her skirt and gripping her butt with his bare hands. The cupboard was dark, but she could just make out his outline from a tiny sliver of light that the crack in the door allowed. His expression was tormented, and furious. “I could wring your neck, do you know that?”
Maggie was not afraid. Though his anger was impossible to comprehend, she did not fear him. She knew the passion that ran through him found expression in sensual pleasure rather than violence. “And why would you do that?”
He seemed to be waging some kind of silent battle, his face contorted with emotion as he struggled to silence what he knew he should not say. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” He demanded finally, his fingers firm on her shoulders.
“Find out what?” She responded with genuine innocence.
He hissed from between his teeth. “That you set me up!” He shook his head. “You are the lowest of the low. Worse than a prostitute, for you did not give me the decency of knowing I was a party to a business transaction.”
She gaped, her mind blown open by his assertion. So many questions, she said the first one that came to mind. “How did you find out?”
He shook his head, waving her question aside. “It is of no importance. I do know, and I hate you for what you did. To me, and no doubt dozens of other poor arseholes who were hooked by your gorgeous body and willing sexuality.”
Maggie bit down on her lower lip. She’d never slept with a single one of her targets until that night. And she’d not gone on an agency job since. “It’s not like that,” she said quietly, desperation making her voice quiver.
