A Devilishly Dark Deal. Maggie Cox

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am sorry I said what I said to you yesterday about your clothes. It was not the behaviour of a gentleman.’

      ‘But now that you’ve apologised I promise I won’t hold it against you.’

      Even as he frowned thoughtfully at this response, Grace’s lips were forming an unrepentantly teasing grin …

      Marco’s chauffeur drove them to a three-storeyed restaurant that overlooked the ocean. As they walked up the winding path to the entrance a small group of staff were waiting to greet them—just as if the handsome businessman was someone whose presence lit up their day. They apologised profusely that the manager was away attending his daughter’s wedding and couldn’t be there to welcome Marco and his guest personally.

      Her companion had a friendly word with all of them, Grace noticed, acting as if he had all the time in the world to spare. As she watched him effortlessly interact, she reflected on how different he seemed from the way the press depicted him. She hadn’t read a great deal about him, but what she’d read definitely painted him as some kind of playboy, intent on enjoying the fruits his wealth and status had brought him to the maximum. But now, with the palm of his hand pressed lightly against her back, a more immediate realisation troubled her. The thin top she wore ensured that her spine was sizzling beneath his touch, just as though his fingertips had stroked over her naked skin.

      A strange sense of How on earth is this happening to me assailed her as two of the attentive young waiters led them up the stairs onto the roof terrace.

      The ambience was surprisingly intimate for what was quite a large space. As they were escorted to what was clearly the best table in the house, with a prime view of the matchless sunlit ocean, an equal fuss was made of both of them. Already in her mind Grace was calling it the Marco effect. Even if he hadn’t been as well-known as he was, she didn’t doubt he would draw attention—just like a sudden flash of dazzlingly bright light in a darkened room.

      Having ordered their drinks, they were now on their own again—apart from the inquisitive glances of nearby diners, sneaking a look at her impossibly handsome companion every now and then that was …

      Lowering the leather-bound menu he’d been given, Marco frowned. ‘The emphasis is on seafood here. I should have asked if you were okay with that … If not, I am sure the chef can prepare something you would like more.’

      Having glanced at the extensive menu herself, Grace realised again how ravenous she was. ‘I love fish … in fact, I prefer it to meat. This restaurant was a good choice,’ she reassured him.

      ‘I bask in the light of your approval.’

      ‘I wasn’t being condescending. I’m just grateful that you brought me here. Look at the view—it’s absolutely fantastic!’

      ‘You don’t need to feel grateful or deserving, Grace. The fact is I wanted your company. I want to get to know you better. Tell me … is there a boyfriend at home?’

      She thought he was teasing her, and half expected to see his sculpted lips shape a gently mocking smile, but when she glanced back at him Marco’s expression was quite deadly serious. ‘I’ve been too busy to have a boyfriend,’ she told him. Even though she tried not to let it, inevitably some defensiveness crept into her tone. Her fingers restlessly unfolded the starched linen napkin in front of her on the table, then folded it back again into its perfectly formed square.

      ‘So there is no man to take you out to dinner or to the movies?’

      It wasn’t just this man’s looks that were compelling—his deep, rich voice had its fair share of magic in it too. So much so that Grace was all but mesmerised by the sound of it. ‘I have some good friends. If I want to go out to dinner or to a movie I go with them.’

      She heard his quiet intake of breath and was transfixed by the indisputably intimate tenor of his beautiful dark eyes. ‘And what about those other needs that a woman might want a man for?’ he asked softly.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THOSE needs Marco referred to had been deliberately and carefully suppressed ever since that horrible evening when her then boyfriend, Chris, had flown into a dangerous rage because Grace had refused to give in to his demands to have sex. After accusing her of flirting with another man at the party they’d attended, he’d pushed her up against a wall and slapped her hard across the face. Just as she’d been reeling with the shocking ending to what had been a pleasant evening at a mutual friend’s birthday party, he’d pinioned her to the floor, as if he would force her to give him what he wanted.

      She had been beyond terrified. It was only when she’d made herself not give in to her fear and spoken in a quiet, reasonable tone, urging him to think about what he was doing and telling him he would bitterly regret it in the morning, when he was sober again, that he had seemed to come to his senses and let her go. She’d left him sleeping and never returned.

      ‘The kind of needs you’re referring to aren’t that important to me,’ she said now with a feeling that was a mixture of despair and dread settling in the pit of her stomach. ‘They’re certainly not as important as other things in my life.’

      Leaning towards her across the table, Marco drove every single thought out of her head when he gently caught hold of a blonde tendril of her hair and slowly entwined it round his finger.

      ‘You mean like saving the orphans?’ he suggested huskily.

      Even as her blood heated, and the resultant intoxicating warmth drove away all traces of despair, out of the corner of her eye Grace registered the brief flash of a digital camera going off.

      Her companion had registered it too. Unravelling her hair from round his finger, he rose smoothly from his seat and strode across the polished wooden floor to the smartly dressed male perpetrator, sitting across from them with his female companion. Without saying a word he removed the camera from the surprised man’s hands, pressed what Grace was certain was the ‘delete’ button on the back, then calmly returned it.

      Having obviously identified the couple as British, he declared, ‘If you ever try and do that again I will sue you,’ and only a fool would ignore the underlying fury in his tone. ‘I see that your meal hasn’t arrived yet. Take my advice: make your apologies to the maître d’ and go and dine somewhere else.’

      His point made, and frighteningly succinct, he returned to sit down again opposite Grace, not sparing the man he had warned so much as a single glance to see if he and his companion had taken his advice. Only seconds after he sat down again the couple had collected their things and swiftly exited the terrace.

      ‘Does that sort of thing happen often?’ Grace frowned.

      The broad shoulders that his white T-shirt fitted so mouthwateringly snugly and that accentuated his strong toned musculature, lifted in a shrug. ‘Often enough to be tedious,’ he replied, a thread of weariness in his tone, ‘but it will not spoil our lunch together because I will not let it.’

      Even so, the intimacy that had hovered so tantalisingly between them before the man had foolishly snapped the picture had definitely disappeared. Grace told herself she should be pleased, but strangely … she wasn’t. Now Marco’s dark gaze was clouded with unease, and his shoulders looked tense despite his assertion that he wouldn’t let the incident spoil their lunch. Suddenly she had a glimpse of how the downside of fame and celebrity must so heavily encroach upon the recipient’s understandable

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