salacious gossip.’ The last thing she needed to read was the model’s kiss-and-tell account of De Rossi’s sexual prowess when she was nervous enough already.
‘According to Giselle,’ Katie continued undeterred, ‘the guy’s insatiable in the sack. He can make a woman—’
‘Katie, for goodness’ sake, shut up!’ She swung round on the stool. ‘I didn’t read it, because I didn’t need to. This isn’t a proper date.’ Even if the memory of one look from the man was still giving her goosebumps a month after the fact. ‘Dad asked him to escort me. He may not even turn up.’ The hope that he might have forgotten the arrangement had guilt coalescing in her stomach to go with the panic.
She was Whittaker’s only hope. She’d promised to do this thing, even if the computer codes buried in her purse were burning a hole in her conscience.
The sound of the front door buzzer made them both jump.
‘So he’s not gonna show, huh?’ Katie said, looking triumphant.
Megan cursed under her breath, and stood to check out her reflection. The gown was sleek and simple in its elegance, the bias-cut satin snug enough to enhance her curves without offering them up on a platter. Or at least, that was what Annalise had insisted.
Diamonds sparkled in the thin straps that held up the bodice, which plunged low enough to entice but not low enough to give Megan an anxiety attack. Yet. A faux-fur wrap to hold off the night-time chill in late April, and four-inch heels—which were as high as she could go without risking a twisted ankle—an elaborate up-do that held her unruly hair in some kind of order, a five-hundred-dollar make-up session and the delicate diamond drop earrings completed the outfit. Annalise had told her the ensemble screamed sophistication and purpose, rather than panic and desperation.
Megan wasn’t so sure.
She heard the front door of the apartment being opened by their housekeeper, Lydia Brady, and the low murmur of a deep masculine voice.
Awareness rippled up her spine and she grasped her sister’s wrists. ‘Stay here, Katie, I’m warning you. This is going to be humiliating enough without you there making me feel even more self-conscious.’
Katie pulled her hands free, the spark of defiance disappearing for the first time in hours. ‘Why would it be humiliating?’
‘Because I’m not his type and he’s only taking me as a favour to Dad.’
And Dad expects me to seduce him. Somehow. And then commit a crime to save Whittaker’s.
‘What do you mean, you’re not his type?’ Katie’s gaze travelled over Megan’s outfit, the appreciation in her wide green eyes making Megan’s heart pound even harder. ‘You look absolutely stunning. Just like Mum. I wish I had at least a few of your curves.’ She flung her arms around Megan’s shoulders, holding her tight for a few precious seconds. ‘You’re going to knock his designer socks off, you silly moo,’ Katie whispered in her ear, before she drew back. Warmth suffused Megan.
Even when she was being a pain in the backside, Katie was Megan’s greatest cheerleader and her best friend.
‘Which is precisely why you need me there to make sure he doesn’t get any ideas,’ Katie added, in case Megan hadn’t figured that out already after the four-hour campaign. ‘Are you absolutely sure you don’t want me to threaten him with my kick-boxing skills?’
‘You gave up kick-boxing after two sessions,’ Megan pointed out.
‘What if I threaten to macramé him to death instead, then?’ Katie offered—probably only half joking. ‘I did a killer macramé piece for my course.’
The chuckle that popped out of Megan’s mouth was part gratitude and part hysteria. Whatever happened with De Rossi, her life was likely to be irrevocably changed once tonight was over. Because she’d either be in his bed, or in a prison cell. Her sister’s silly joke helped to ground her, though, and confirm what she already knew: that protecting Katie and her dreams, and protecting Whittaker’s, were worth sacrificing her self-respect and throwing herself at De Rossi tonight.
All Megan had to do was figure out how to do that without having a nervous breakdown.
Lydia Brady stepped into the room. ‘Mr De Rossi has arrived, Megan.’ The older woman smiled. ‘You look beautiful, dear.’
‘Thank you, Lydia.’ Nerves screamed across her bare shoulders, and the hot brick in her stomach sank lower.
Letting go of her sister’s hands, she walked towards the dressing-room door, affecting the expression she had practised in the mirror for hours last night. Polite, confident and, she hoped, at least a little alluring.
Her heels echoed on the marble flooring as she made her way down the corridor, but as she turned into the apartment’s plush lobby area all the air seized in her lungs and her steps faltered.
Dario De Rossi looked up from adjusting his cuffs, his crystal-blue eyes locking on her face like a tractor beam, and sending a sizzle of electric energy through her body.
The man looked devastating in a tux. Tall and broad, his powerful body only made more intimidating by the classic black tailoring, which emphasised the magnificent width of his shoulders, the leanness of his waist and the length of his legs.
How tall was he? At least three inches above her father’s six feet.
She took a careful breath and forced herself to carry on walking, grateful her wrap covered her cleavage when the assessing gaze roamed down, setting off a series of mini explosions and making her insides grow hot.
‘Buonasera, Megan.’
His English was so perfect, with only the slightest hint of his Italian heritage, it felt strangely intimate to have him greet her in his native language. The way the deep husky rumble of his voice skated across already oversensitive flesh, though, was not as disturbing as the dark flash of hunger in his eyes as she drew level.
‘Buonasera,’ she said, answering him in Italian automatically.
He lifted her fingers to his mouth, startling her, and pressed his lips to the knuckles.
The gesture should have been polite, gallant even, but for the way his thumb slid across her palm as he lowered her hand, sending arrows of sensation darting up her arm, and into her torso.
She tugged her hand out of his grasp, shocked by her response, as his gaze roamed up to her hair.
‘The colour is natural?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied, disconcerted by the approval shining in his eyes.
His firm lips lifted in a smile that managed to be both amused and predatory, as if he were a panther, toying with his prey.
‘I hope I did not offend you,’ he said, the intimacy of his gaze contradicting his apology. The bright blue gaze then dipped to her toes and back, sending seismic ripples over her skin and igniting every pulse point like a firework.
‘Relax, cara mia.’ The rough chuckle scraped across her nerve-endings.
A fiery blush crept up her neck. Was he mocking her?
She
