to refute that? He was absolutely right, and for deeper reasons than he even knew.
He inclined his head in a false gesture of civility. ‘Until the morning, Miss O’Brien.’
The door closed softly behind him and Gracie almost expected to hear a key turning in the lock, but she heard nothing. Experimenting, she went to the door and opened it softly. She nearly jumped three feet in the air when she saw Rocco lounging against the wall outside.
‘Don’t make me lock the door, because I will.’
Wanting to avoid any further questioning or scrutiny Gracie closed the door again hurriedly. She moved like an automaton to the window and looked out over the spectacular view, seeing nothing but her inward turmoil.
It had always been her and Steven—even when their mother had still been with them. And then when their nan had taken them in until she’d declared she couldn’t handle two children and had given them over to Social Services.
Their bond had been forged early, when their mercurial mother had cossetted Steven and treated Gracie harshly. One evening, when Gracie had been sent to bed with no dinner for some minor misdemeanour, Steven had crawled in beside her with some food which he’d hidden for her. They’d been four years old.
Steven had always been a target for bullies with his weedy, sickly frame and his thick glasses, so Gracie had got used to stepping in with raised fists. He’d been preternaturally bright, and Gracie knew now if they’d grown up in different circumstances he might well have been nurtured as a genius student. As it was he’d constantly been ahead of his classmates, and yet had patiently and laboriously helped Gracie through the torture of maths and science.
It was thanks to him she’d managed to scrape enough marks in her exams for art college. Even whilst he’d been in the midst of drug addiction and had given up studying himself he’d still been advanced enough to help her. Her belly clenched now when she thought of how Steven had protected her from far worse things than inexplicable maths.
She leant her forehead against the cool glass, and even though her mind was churning with sick worry for her brother she couldn’t get another face out of her head. A dark, compelling face with eyes so intense she shivered even now. And she couldn’t stop a wave of heat from spreading outwards from her core, threatening the cool distance she’d protected herself with for so long.
Rocco looked at the two battered bags that had been delivered a short time before. One was a backpack and the other an old-fashioned suitcase. The kind you might see in a movie from the 1940s about immigrants leaving Europe for America. She’d left her flat with just these? Rocco was used to women travelling with an entire set of matching luggage, complete with personally monogrammed initials. But then he didn’t need reminding that this woman was a world away from the ones he knew. He shook his head and picked up the bags. He’d long ago given up on the notion of sleeping tonight.
Opening the door to the guest bedroom silently, Rocco half expected to see Gracie standing on the other side, as obstinate and defiant as ever, but she wasn’t. In the gloom his eyes quickly picked out a shape on the bed. Standing still for a moment, he registered she was fast asleep.
Putting down the bags, he felt compelled to go closer. Gracie was lying on top of the covers in a white robe. She was curled up in the foetal position, legs tucked under themselves, hands under her chin. Her hair flowed out around her head like something out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, the curls long and wild.
Everything in him went still when her head moved and she said brokenly, ‘No, Steven … you can’t … please …’
That brought Rocco down to earth with a bang. Once again it was as if she’d exerted some kind of spell over him, making him forget for a moment who she was and why she was here. She was a thieving, lying nobody and her brother had had the temerity to think he could abuse Rocco de Marco’s trust.
Rocco stepped back and away from the curled-up shape on the bed, and ruthlessly clamped down on any tendrils of concern or unwelcome desire. He vowed there and then that he would not let her go until he was satisfied that she and Steven Murray had been brought to justice.
When Gracie woke in the morning she had the awful sensation of not knowing where she was or what day it was. Her surroundings were completely unfamiliar and scarily luxurious. She was lying on top of a massive bed, in a robe. Slowly, it all came back. Leaving her awful damp flat after nearly being mauled by her landlord, getting that worrying phone call from Steven, and then coming to his office to see if he might be there.
And then she remembered coming face to face with Rocco de Marco. Gracie groaned and put a pillow over her face. Rocco de Marco. Her stomach cramped at the vivid memory of his hands around her arms, the way they’d felt when he’d frisked her. The intense excitement in her blood at seeing him again.
Groaning even more, she sat up and saw that the curtains were still open. She now had the most jaw-dropping views out over London, with the Thames snaking like a brown coil through the grey and steel buildings.
She turned away from the view and something caught her eye. She saw her two battered bags just inside the bedroom door. Her face grew hot when she thought of Rocco coming in while she lay sleeping.
Feeling seriously at a disadvantage, Gracie scrambled out of bed and dragged the bags over. She pulled out some jeans and a T-shirt and found her sneakers. After washing her face she dragged her hair back into a knot at the back of her head and left the room.
The entire apartment was still and quiet. Gracie checked her watch. It was still early. Maybe Rocco wasn’t up yet? But even as she thought that she got to the doorway of the enormous kitchen and saw him sitting at a large chrome kitchen table. Her heart stopped. He was reading the distinctively pink Financial Times. His hair was damp and slicked back from that strong profile. Skin gleaming dark olive in the morning light. Immaculately dressed in a light blue shirt and royal blue tie.
And then he looked up, after taking a lazy sip from a small cup which should have looked ridiculous in his huge hand but didn’t. ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning,’ she echoed faintly, for all the world as if she’d been some benign overnight guest and not one step away from being locked in her room.
Rocco gestured with a hand to the kitchen. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to help yourself. I’m currently without a housekeeper.’
Gracie tore her eyes away from his raw masculine appeal and helped herself to some coffee and toast, which was already laid out. She hated that her hands were shaking. Very little had ever intimidated her, but this did.
She stood awkwardly at the huge island in the middle of the room until Rocco said, a little impatiently, ‘Come and sit down. I won’t bite.’
Gracie gritted her teeth and reluctantly picked up her coffee and plate and sat down at the other end of the table. She didn’t miss his sardonic look. She felt very pale and washed out next to his vibrant masculinity.
She swallowed her toast with an effort and wiped away some crumbs, studiously avoiding Rocco’s eyes, and nearly jumped out of her skin when he said, ‘I spent a little time investigating your brother last night, and the full picture is very interesting.’
Gracie went cold inside and put down her cup. Frantically she rewound events in her head and froze. She’d told Rocco Steven’s real name by revealing her own. She looked at him with wide eyes.
Rocco looked
