her—the eye-mask now awry, the milky pale skin and the utter lack of anything under that thin jersey nightdress. It clung to her fine bones and tiny curves. As beguiling as he remembered, though maybe her breasts were rounder, fuller …
‘What are you—? Why are you—? I told your guy I wasn’t coming.’
He dragged his eyes back to her face. Heard a noise at the end of the corridor. The concierge was peeping, making an ‘everything all right?’ face, wielding a pass key. Rocco nodded, put up his hand to keep him back.
‘Let me in, Frankie.’
She seemed almost to choke out her answer. ‘No!’
‘Okay, I’ll wait here—get dressed.’
‘I’m. Not. Coming.’
He was slightly amused. Slightly. The irony of the situation was not lost on him.
‘We’ve been here before, querida, only last time it was you on the other side of the door. Remember?’
And there it was—that wildness he had seen all those years ago. That almost wantonness she’d exuded that he’d found exhilarating, intoxicating. She leaned out into the corridor, to check who was there, then looked right up at him. He drew his eyes away from the gaping lines of her nightdress, followed her gaze.
‘I can’t believe you’re actually standing here!’
‘It would be better if I came in. As I recall, that was your preference last time.’
‘I was sixteen! I made a mistake!’ She blazed out her answer.
Then she gripped her arms round herself. All that happened was that the neckline of her nightdress splayed open even more, letting him see right to the tip of one small high breast. He reached forward, gently lifted the fabric and tugged it back into position, ignoring her futile attempts to swat his arm away.
‘Why don’t we discuss that inside?’
His hand hovered, then retracted. He badly wanted to touch her, but he was nothing if not a reader of women and he sensed she was going to need more than a pep talk to get her on-message.
‘You made yourself perfectly plain the last time we met. And I don’t have any wish to spend any more time with you. I told your guy. I couldn’t have been plainer.’
‘The last time we met was four hours ago. You were in my horse transporter. You came looking for me.’
She was so wild, standing there in next to nothing. He was getting harder and harder just looking at her. Memories came of her slipping into his bed, waking him up with her naive little kisses and her hot little body. Him literally pushing her out of his bed—like rejecting heaven.
Her eyes blazed. ‘I came looking for our bloodline, not you! You arrogant ar—’
He put his finger on her lips where they framed the word he knew she was about to launch at him. Her eyes widened even more.
‘Don’t belittle yourself, querida.’ He lowered his voice, stepped closer. ‘Go inside, get dressed, and I will take you to the party and tell you everything you want to know about your ponies.’
But lightning-quick she grabbed for his hand and tried to pull it away. The sleeve of her nightdress fell lower and the pull of the fabric strained on her breasts. Her nipples, twin buds, drew his eyes—and, damn it, the flame of heat coursed straight to his groin.
‘I call it as I see it, and I see you as an—’
He couldn’t hold back. She fired him, inflamed him. He wanted to taste her so badly. He had to contain her, have her mouth under his.
She lifted her arms to push him and he scooped her wrists together, pinned them behind her. Then he heaved her against him and crushed her insolent mouth. Fragile but strong, she strained and stiffened and held her lips closed. Which just drove him wilder! He could smell her desire. He could taste her passion. So why was she so intent on keeping him back?
He gripped her head and stared into her eyes.
Her hands flew to his wrists. She dug in her nails. She flashed and fumed and forced out her breath through the clenched teeth in her mouth. But she didn’t pull back, and he needed to know. He grabbed her hips and ground her into his hard, throbbing length, felt her sweet mound and watched her shocked face.
And he saw. Oh, yes. Oh. Yes. She told him. Her eyes closed. Her head dropped back and she moaned. Dark and deep and long.
That was it. All he needed to know.
He thrust her away, spun her round, slapped her backside.
‘Get in there. Get dressed. Meet me outside. You have half an hour.’
He’d had to get back onto the street—get some air. Calm his blood.
So he’d been right all these years when he’d wondered if he was idolising a memory. If she really had fired him up as fast and hard as his youthful body had ever experienced.
He really should have been given a medal after that weekend. The utterly overt way she’d tried to seduce him had been sweet, but he doubted her family had thought so. And they hadn’t known the half of it.
From the first moment when he’d seen her in filthy jodhpurs to her sidling up beside him at dinner as he’d tried to keep focussed on the deal he was supposed to be there to cut with her brother, her face covered in make-up she’d clearly had no notion of how to apply, and wearing a dress—which had seemed to cause her family some amusement. To the full-blown assault of her coming into his room.
Kiss me, Rocco.
That look in her eyes … the shadow between her open wet lips. He had wanted to—so badly. She’d blown his mind. But of course he had chased her away. What kind of guy took advantage of a girl five years younger, barely aware of her own sexuality, acting as if she’d never even been kissed? And there was the fact that her family’s hospitality to him had been beyond reproach … She was off limits, and then some.
But in the predawn light she’d woken him again. Naked. In his bed. The memory still packed a punch.
He had been disorientated, but harder than he had ever thought possible. Seconds, maybe minutes had passed as they’d found each other, and he’d done things he should never have done. But thank God he had stopped in time—before it had gotten out of hand. She had begged and wailed and made it even harder for him to send her away. So in the end he’d left himself. After one look back at her, wrapped in a sheet, all eyes and white skin. One look that he had never erased from his mind.
He pushed up off the sedan’s door, walked, paced down the street. He had already drawn attention to himself. He should be waiting in the car. A crowd was starting to gather—people who were wondering what the hell the captain of the polo team that had just won the biggest charity match ever seen in Palermo was doing, tonight of all nights, outside a midrange hotel in Villa Crespo.
He checked his watch.
Forty minutes.
And then
