flaunting myself. You came over to me.’
At this Rocco de Marco flushed a dull red, and for the first time Gracie had a sense that she’d gained a point. But any sign of discomfiture was quickly erased and his face became a bland mask again. Bland, but simmering—if that was possible.
Quickly, before he could launch another attack, Gracie admitted reluctantly, ‘I was with Steven because he was self-conscious about going alone.’
Rocco’s lip curled. ‘I have yet to believe that you are even Steven Murray’s sister. Why does he have a different surname?’
Gracie shifted uncomfortably and knew she must look pathetically guilty. She looked down. ‘Because … because he fell out with our father and took our mother’s maiden name.’ It wasn’t entirely untrue.
‘Not to mention the fact that you look nothing like him.’
Gracie looked up to see Rocco’s dark gaze travelling up her body, over her chest to her face. She could feel the heat rising. ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘I know I look nothing like him. But not all—’ She stopped abruptly, realising she’d been about to say twins. She amended it. ‘Not all families resemble each other. He looks like my mother and I look like my father.’
She crossed her arms too, feeling ridiculously defensive, and knew it was only because for her whole life she’d wondered if she’d looked more like their mother would she have loved her the way she’d loved Steven? Would she have stayed?
The fact that she’d eventually abandoned them both was little comfort and a constant source of guilt for Gracie. She could still remember the long nights of hugging her brother as he’d cried himself to sleep, wondering where their mother had gone.
For a long time she’d felt it had been her fault, because her mother hadn’t wanted her. It was only with age and maturity that she’d realised their mother had had no intention of ever taking Steven—too wrapped up in her own problems and her own dismal world.
After a long moment of glaring at Rocco, Gracie could feel herself sway. Her vision blurred slightly at the edges. Just as she was inwardly cursing her own weakness Rocco emitted something unintelligible and came towards her, putting a big hand on one arm. She stiffened at his touch, hating the incendiary effect he had on her, but at the same time aware of how close she was to collapsing. Like some Victorian heroine in a swoon. Pathetic.
She tried to pull away, but to no avail.
Rocco said, from far too close, ‘When was the last time you ate, you silly woman?’
This time she did pull free, and glared at him again. ‘I’m not a silly woman. I’ve just been … worried. I didn’t think about eating.’
That black gaze swept up and down again and his lip curled. ‘You don’t seem to think about eating a lot.’
He strode away from her and Gracie watched him, half mesmerised by his sheer athletic grace. He flung over his shoulder. ‘There are some instant meals in the fridge. Follow me.’
Gracie felt seriously woozy now. Rocco de Marco was offering her food?
She tore her gaze away from six feet four of hard-muscled alpha male and looked to the apartment entrance, beyond which lay the private lift doors. Suddenly the distance to freedom seemed tantalisingly close.
As if he’d read her mind Rocco materialised again a few feet away, with hands on his hips, and said softly, ‘Don’t even think about it. You wouldn’t make it to the next floor before you were returned.’
Her heart stammered as she looked at him. ‘But … I didn’t see anyone.’
Rocco winked at her, but there was no humour on his face. ‘Haven’t you watched any Italian movies? My men are everywhere.’
Gracie tried to reassure herself that he was just joking, but she had the very real sense that if she did try to leave some faceless person would materialise and frogmarch her back to Rocco. She knew enough from the streets to know when someone meant business. And Rocco de Marco meant business. She was as captive as if he’d tied her to a chair.
He turned to walk away again and with the utmost reluctance, and yet an illicit excitement fizzing in her blood, she followed him.
It was only when Rocco was pressing the button on the microwave oven that a cold wave of realisation washed over him. What was he doing? Feeding the enemy? All because for a moment she’d looked as if she might faint at his feet? Her face had been so pale that it had sent a shard of panic through him, and as much as he wanted to deny it he had to admit that her shock had been almost palpable. And yet every instinct he possessed counselled him not to trust his judgement in this. He’d learnt early how women could manipulate. He’d seen his mother manipulate her way through life right up until she died.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Rocco willed the image away. His hands clenched on the countertop as he heard Gracie come into the kitchen behind him. Why the hell was he even thinking of that now?
He schooled his features and turned around. Something suspiciously like relief went through him when he saw that her cheeks were a bit pinker. Her big eyes were darting around the vast room and he welcomed the surge of cynicism. No doubt she was already calculating the worth of everything. That was what he would have done. Years ago. Before figuring out what he could take.
The microwave pinged and he turned to take out the ready meal, finding a plate and some cutlery. He all but threw it down in front of her, then gestured to a stool and growled out, ‘You’re my only link to Steven Murray, and if you’re going to lead me to him then I don’t want you fainting away.’
Her eyes flashed at that, and her mouth tightened as if she was about to refuse the food. A shaft of desire he couldn’t control made Rocco clench his hands to fists. He hated her for his arbitrary response.
‘Go on. Eat.’
CHAPTER THREE
GRACIE chafed at Rocco de Marco’s high-handedness. She hitched up her chin and tried to ignore the tantalising smell of food. Even that alone was making her feel weak again with hunger.
‘Are you going to leave it in front of me until I eat it? Like an autocratic parent?’
Rocco leaned forward on the other side of the counter and Gracie fought not to move back. ‘I’m no parent and I’m no autocrat. Just eat.’
Gracie looked down to escape that blistering gaze and saw creamy mashed potato and what looked like succulent beef pieces in a stew of vegetables. This was no standard ready meal—this was from a fancy deli. Her stomach rumbled and she went puce.
Defiant to the end, even as she gave in and pulled back the covering she said waspishly, ‘I might have been vegetarian, you know.’
She heard a noise that sounded slightly strangled, but wouldn’t look at Rocco for fear of what she might see. She started transferring the food onto the plate, hating being under his watch but too hungry to stop.
After a moment he said, with over-studied politeness, ‘Forgive me for not checking with you first.’
She cast him a quick glance and something in her belly swooped.
