is crazy,’ she whispered.
‘Crazy?’ He gave a slow smile. ‘That is not the definition I would have used, mia bella. It was stupore—amazing. And it is going to be amazing again. In fact, it’s going to happen in my hotel room tonight. You know it is.’
He silenced her protest with a finger placed over the soft cushion of her lips, and she could smell her own raw scent on him and her eyes closed helplessly.
And when he took the finger away, she did not argue with him.
CHAPTER SIX
SORCHA’S mobile began to ring, and her green eyes narrowed as she looked at the unknown number. Cesare. She would bet money on it.
Cesare.
After he had gone off to meet Rupert, she had been completely distracted by what had taken place in the boardroom. Had that been his intention? To show off his sexual wizardry and rub in exactly what she’d been missing out on? Hoping perhaps to reduce her to a shivering jelly—as she lived out that erotic encounter, moment by moment? Was he also hoping that she would be unable to work properly so he could tell her that she was no longer required by the company? Perhaps his bizarre idea about having her front the Whittakers advertising campaign was nothing more than a double bluff?
No. Cesare might be underhand and devious—but she doubted whether even he would stoop so low as that.
But she had to claw back some of her self-control—to show him that she wasn’t just some malleable female he could twist and pull like one of those rubber cartoon characters she’d used to play with as a child. She pulled the sheet of figures she’d been working on towards her, so that at least she was properly armed with a few facts in case he tried to interrogate her about how she’d spent her day.
She cleared her throat and clicked the button. ‘Sorcha Whittaker.’
‘Hello, Sorcha Whittaker,’ purred the rich Italian accent down the tinny line of the mobile. ‘What are you doing?’
Had he guessed she’d been thinking about him—or was this just par for the course with a man like Cesare? She swallowed, closing her eyes, trying to rid her mind of the image of his dark, mocking face—the feel of his mouth against hers and his hands brushing against her skin.
How had this happened when it had never happened to her before? That a man could start making love to you and suddenly you couldn’t stop thinking about him.
In the intervening hours he had obsessed her. It was as if he pervaded her every thought and action—as if nothing she could look at in her immediate surroundings would not remind her of Cesare.
‘I’ve been working,’ she said.
‘How very disappointing. I thought you’d be thinking about what I was doing to you a few hours ago,’ he said softly. ‘I know that I have.’
‘Cesare—don’t.’
He leaned against the wall of the Whittakers factory, alone now that the last of the staff had just trooped off home for the day. ‘But it should be interesting to see what you’ve come up with. I’ll pick you up at seven. We are having dinner tonight, remember?’
He had said nothing about dinner—he had merely intimated sex in his apartment. Sorcha shivered. With distance between them it suddenly seemed easier to say no.
‘I don’t know if it’s such a good idea,’ she said quietly.
There was a pause. ‘You haven’t changed, have you, Sorcha? You still like to tease men until they’re going out of their mind. Promising, and then failing to deliver.’
The accusation hit her like a poison dart—but didn’t some of what he’d said ring true? She could not take what she wanted from him like a greedy child and then back away, scared that she was going to get hurt. But if she didn’t want to get hurt then she was going to have to protect herself—and that meant ruthlessly eradicating the side of her that wanted to beg him to be sweet to her, to pretend that he really cared for her. Because if there was no pretence, then she wouldn’t start building up any foolish hopes, only to have them shattered by the harsh hammer of reality.
‘Actually, I wasn’t attempting to tease you at all,’ she said coolly. ‘I was speaking the truth, if you must know—I really don’t think it’s such a good idea. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to come.’
His relief that she wasn’t backing off was only heightened by her cool response, and Cesare closed his eyes and bit back a sensual retort, recognising that he was skating on very thin ice—and that she was unpredictable. But if she thought that adopting an air of faint resignation meant that he might relent and call the whole thing off then she had underestimated him very badly indeed. She owed him—in more ways than one.
‘I will pick you up at seven,’ he said.
‘Make it seven-thirty.’
He was left staring at the phone after she had severed the connection, and it occurred to him that he simply wasn’t used to being left hanging on. Goodbyes to women he was intimate with were invariably protracted, with Cesare usually coming up with the let-out clause: I have to go. Someone’s trying to get through to me. And then he would receive a breathless apology or a pouting little protest on the lines of Oh, Cesare—you’re always so busy!
But he was only busy when he chose to be. He had reached a position of power and authority when it was always possible to delegate. These days he cherrypicked his jobs with the same ruthlessness which had taken him to the very top of the tree.
He had inherited much from his overambitious mother and father—including a need to make it in his own line of business, despite the vast amount of wealth he had inherited after their deaths.
His eyes narrowed suddenly as he glanced around the empty car park and the concrete jungle beyond, inexplicably comparing the scene with his orchards back home in Italy, and suddenly he felt a great pang of homesickness.
He drew out a set of keys from his pocket and looked up at the sky. By travelling the world he was missing all the seasons, he realised—the natural pace of the world was passing him by.
He thought about the August crop of damsons which grew in the gardens of his villa. About how they became so plump and ripe that they tumbled from the trees—glowing on the grass like purple jewels with succulent golden flesh inside. They would be out soon, he realised.
How long since he had bitten into their sweetness and let their juice run over his lips? How long since he had given himself time to gather in the harvest?
And why had this place suddenly made him start thinking about home? Cesare frowned as he thought about the rural retreat he’d bought as an antidote to the cold splendour of the Roman mansion in which he had spent a lonely childhood.
I need sex, he thought, as he loosened his tie and headed towards his car. Just sex.
And tonight you are going to get it, he thought with a slow smile of satisfaction as he climbed in behind the steering wheel of his sports car.
Sorcha stared out of the window to the front lawn, where a peacock was strutting and fanning its deep shiny turquoise feathers, squealing like a newborn
