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‘Go on,’ he encouraged, perching his bottom on the edge of the desk, stretching his long legs in front of him, crossed at the ankles.
She ignored the throb low in her abdomen, the instant recognition of power and strength, the memory of how those legs had held her to the wall, pinning her with total ease, or straddled her body as he moved inside her. She looked away, her mouth dry. ‘Perhaps I will have some water,’ she said, stalking across the room to where the drinks were set up. She poured a small glass with hands that weren’t quite steady and sipped from it, then shut her eyes as her stomach instantly rejected the offering.
Damn it. She pressed her fingertips to the bench, blinking, willing her insides to calm down, not to be ill. Not here! Not now!
‘At the risk of appearing rude, I don’t have all day.’
It was exactly what she needed to bring herself back to the moment. She spun around, then wished she hadn’t when the room swayed a little. ‘You’re so far past appearing rude,’ she promised firmly. ‘And I won’t take much of your time.’
His eyes were studying her and she hated that. She hated that he could probably read every emotion that crossed her face, every feeling that was shredding her insides.
‘Go on,’ he prompted.
‘Don’t rush me.’
His laugh was sardonic. ‘You just told me this won’t take long.’
‘Yes, well, it doesn’t help when you’re staring at me as though you’d like to...’
* * *
She didn’t finish the sentence but that didn’t stop the immediate flash of desire in response to her suggestion. His expression softened as he allowed himself to do exactly what she’d said—to stare at her openly, to run his gaze over her body, remembering it precisely, and then lift to meet her eyes.
‘I’m staring at you,’ he corrected finally, ‘like a man wanting a woman to get to the point.’
* * *
That wasn’t completely true. Like Scheherazade’s King, he was willing her to spin out a story to elongate this encounter.
He was, frankly, still reeling from the fact she was here, in his office. In the weeks after that night, he’d thought about calling her. Hell, he’d contemplated flying back to England, driving to Bumblebee Cottage and demanding she listen to him—ideally in bed.
If she understood the nature of their families’ dispute, perhaps she’d look more sympathetically on his offer.
But he’d done neither in the end. Because he couldn’t think of seeing her again without seeing her as she’d been that night. The look of betrayal and hurt on her face had made him feel, almost for the first time in his life, ashamed.
And he’d hated that.
So he’d relegated her to the back of his mind, to his ‘past’, and told himself he’d forget about her.
Because she was a diSalvo, and what point was there in trying to get her to forgive him?
There were more issues between them than a simple one-night stand.
Wrong thought. Wrong thought. His mind threw up the memories and he sank into them, remembering her body, the sounds she’d made as pleasure had caressed her, the way she had kissed him as if her very life depended on it.
‘Have you reconsidered?’ he prompted, thinking of his more than generous deal to buy her shares in Prim’Aqua—and the way he was deliberately tanking diSalvo interests around the globe. Did she know?
‘No—’ she narrowed her eyes ‘—my shares aren’t for sale. And I don’t think you’ll be able to do anything to hurt Carlo either. He’s very shrewd, great at what he does. You’re no threat to him.’
Antonio almost smiled. She wasn’t the first person to underestimate him, but truly she couldn’t be more wrong.
‘We’ll see.’ He shrugged with the appearance of calm.
Her eyes narrowed and he had the sense that she was analysing him now, looking for hidden meanings. ‘You really hate my family, don’t you?’
He expelled a soft breath. ‘Is it any wonder?’
Her neck moved delicately as she swallowed, and he realised suddenly that she looked tired. Beneath the make-up she wore—another change since the night in Bumblebee Cottage—he detected the hint of darkening beneath her eyes and a pallor that hadn’t been there before.
