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The hours had passed in a haze after Zaccheo flew them from Pennington Manor. In solid command of the helicopter, he’d soared over the City of London and landed on the vertiginous rooftop of The Spire.
The stunning split-level penthouse’s interior had barely registered in the early hours when Zaccheo’s enigmatic aide, Romeo, had directed the butler to show her to her room.
Zaccheo had stalked away without a word, leaving her in the middle of his marble-tiled hallway, clutching his jacket.
Sleep had been non-existent in the bleak hours that had followed. At five a.m., she’d given up and taken a quick shower before putting on that skin-baring dress again.
Wishing she’d asked for a blanket to cover the acres of flesh on display, she cringed as another salacious offering popped into her inbox displayed on Zaccheo’s tablet.
Like a spectator frozen on the fringes of an unfolding train wreck, she read the latest post.
@Uberwoman Hey ConvictLover, that flighty poor little rich girl is wasted on you. Real women exist. Let ME rock your world!
Eva curled her fist, refusing to entertain the image of any woman rocking Zaccheo’s world. She didn’t care one way or the other. If she had a choice, she would be ten thousand miles away from this place.
‘If you’re thinking of responding to any of that, consider yourself warned against doing so.’
She jumped at the deep voice a whisper from her ear. She’d thought she would be alone in the living room for at least another couple of hours before dealing with Zaccheo. Now she wished she’d stayed in her room.
She stood and faced him, the long black suede sofa between them no barrier to Zaccheo’s towering presence.
‘I’ve no intention of responding. And you really shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,’ she tagged on when the leisurely drift of those incisive eyes over her body made her feel like a specimen under a microscope.
‘I don’t sneak. Had you been less self-absorbed in your notoriety, you would’ve heard me enter the room.’
Anger welled up. ‘You accuse me of being notorious? All this is happening because you insisted on gatecrashing a private event and turning it into a public spectacle.’
‘And, of course, you were so eager to find out whether you’re trending that you woke up at dawn to follow the news.’
She wanted to ask how he’d known what time she’d left her room, but Eva suspected she wouldn’t like the answer. ‘You assume I slept at all when sleep was the last thing on my mind, having been blackmailed into coming here. And, FYI, I don’t read the gutter press. Not unless I want the worst kind of indigestion.’
He rounded the sofa and stopped within arm’s length. She stood her ground, but she couldn’t help herself ogling the breathtaking body filling her vision.
It was barely six o’clock and yet he looked as vitally masculine as if he’d been up and ready for hours. A film of sweat covered the hair-dusted arms beneath the pulled-up sleeves, and his damp white T-shirt moulded his chiselled torso. His black drawstring sweatpants did nothing to hide thick thighs and Eva struggled to avert her gaze from the virile outline of his manhood against the soft material. Dragging her gaze up, she stared in fascination at the hands and fingers wrapped in stained boxing gauze.
‘Do you intend to spend the rest of the morning ogling me, Eva?’ he asked mockingly.
She looked into his eyes and that potent, electric tug yanked hard at her. Reminding herself that she was immune from whatever spell he’d once cast on her, she raised her chin.
‘I intend to attempt a reasonable conversation with you in the cold light of day regarding last night’s events.’
‘That suggests you believe our previous interactions have been unreasonable?’
‘I did a quick search online. You were released yesterday morning. It stands to reason that you’re still a little affected by your incarceration—’
His harsh, embittered laugh bounced like bullets around the room. Eva folded her arms, refusing to cower at the sound.
He stepped towards her, the tension in his body barely leashed. ‘You think I’m a “little affected” by my incarceration? Tell me, bella,’ he invited softly, ‘do you know what it feels like to be locked in a six-by-ten, damp and rancid cage for over a year?’
A brief wave of torment overcame his features, and a different tug, one of sympathy, pulled at her. Then she reminded herself just who she was dealing with. ‘Of course not. I just don’t want you to do anything that you’ll regret.’
