and leaving her dazed. Every inch of her skin stretched tight over her bones, so that she could feel each millimetre that touched his: the controlling press of his large palm on her hip, the rise and fall of his breathing, slow and steady against her own ragged pants; the thud of her heart, audible above the glide of cello strings marking the beat.
At last the music ended and he came to a halt. She stepped back as he let her go. Grateful for the space, even if his scent still enveloped her.
‘You dance very well.’ She forced the words out. Wondering if inane chatter might be a viable strategy.
‘Do you wish to leave?’ he replied.
Obviously not.
‘Yes.’ The word popped out on a breathless sigh.
He took her hand to lead her off the dance floor. A few people tried to waylay them, but he marched past as if he hadn’t noticed. Maybe he hadn’t, but she had. She felt as if she had a sign on her forehead—‘woman being claimed’.
Her father’s suggestion came back to haunt her. He’d wanted her to seduce this man, and she’d agreed to try, but why did what was happening now feel as if it had nothing to do with her father, or Whittaker’s, or even rescuing Katie’s dreams?
She wanted De Rossi for herself. No one else.
Her pulse battered her collarbone, her fingers clasped tightly in his rough palm, the prickle of awareness shooting all over her body. He paused briefly to pick up their coats from the cloakroom attendant at the entrance to the elaborate Westchester town house where the ball was held.
The chauffeur-driven car was waiting at the kerb as they descended the steps. Megan’s heels clicked on the paving stones like gunshots, shooting down the last of her caution and control.
Dario didn’t wait for the driver but pulled the door open himself. The dark interior beckoned, but she held back, scared to take the next step.
If she entered the car, this man would be her first real lover. And while that hadn’t felt like an event of any significance up to this second, it felt significant now. Obviously this was just lust, some pheromonal trick her body was playing on her. She wasn’t a hothead like Katie, and she wasn’t a romantic either. She didn’t need the conceit of hearts and flowers to justify a purely physical urge. But she’d never had this urge with any other man. And because of that, she couldn’t do this thing while there was still so much deception between them.
‘Get in the car, Megan,’ he murmured, his voice deep with purpose. ‘Or I’m liable to do something that is going to get us both arrested.’
She turned to find herself surrounded by him again, his arm braced against the roof of the car, her back flush against the door frame; she could feel the thick ridge touching her belly through their clothing.
‘I can’t... I have to tell you something first.’
‘If it’s about your father, and the reason he set up this date, don’t bother. I already know.’
‘You do?’ She pressed a palm to his chest, shock overlaid with bone-deep relief.
The clatter of his heartbeat through the starched linen felt like a validation, silencing the cacophony of objections in her mind. He was as blown away by their chemistry as she was. That was all that mattered, surely? If he knew about her father’s plan, this wasn’t seedy, or underhand, or unethical. It was nothing more than two healthy adults fulfilling a need.
He nodded, his dark hair shining black in the streetlamp. ‘Tell me, are you here for him, for his company, or for me?’
‘I...’
For me. I’m here for me.
But even as the truth rang in her head, she couldn’t voice it. Paralysed by words whispering across her consciousness from another April night, spiced with the juniper scent of gin and selfishness, the words her mother had whispered to her before she left. The last words her mother had ever spoken to her.
‘I have to leave with him, baby. He makes Mummy so happy. Daddy will understand eventually.’
‘I... I can’t,’ she finally blurted out.
She didn’t want to be like her mother, she couldn’t be. Maybe she had the same biological urges, urges she’d tried to deny for so long, but she couldn’t sleep with her father’s enemy and do nothing to try to save him.
‘Why can’t you?’ De Rossi asked.
‘Because it would kill my father if you destroyed Whittaker’s.’
The dark scowl on Dario’s face would have been frightening, if she still had some control of her faculties. Instead it only seemed to spike the fire in her blood. Would a man as ruthless in business as Dario consider changing his mind? Would he stop his pursuit of her father’s company for her? Did he want her that much?
‘I promise you, I have no intention of destroying your father’s company.’ He ground the words out.
She tried to control the foolish spurt of emotion at the concession. But she couldn’t help it. As smart and sensible and grounded as she had always been about life and business, and as aware as she was of De Rossi’s ruthlessness, and his cynicism, she was still moved that he would give her this, because she’d asked it of him.
‘Grazie,’ she said.
His brow quirked, then his lips tipped up in a feral smile that should have been terrifying but was instead terrifyingly exciting.
‘Don’t thank me yet.’ He gave her a firm pat on the backside. ‘Now get in the car.’
She laughed, she actually laughed, as she scrambled inside. All the stresses and strains of the last twenty-four hours floated off into the Manhattan night as the car sped through the evening traffic towards his home—his love nest—on Central Park West.
Whittaker’s would be saved. Her father could stop freaking out about losing the company that had been in their family for generations and she could have this night of erotic exploration with a man who made her blood bubble and fizz beneath her skin, without a single regret.
It took ten minutes to drive through the moonlit park, a few hardy and fearless joggers still peppering the well-lit streets as they passed Belvedere Castle’s fairy-tale turrets. Megan felt almost as fearless as those intrepid joggers when the car drew to a stop and Dario got out. He hadn’t spoken during the journey, and neither had she. But the fever of anticipation stirring her blood made her fingers shake as he helped her out of the car.
‘So this is your love nest?’ she said.
‘My what?’ he asked as she tilted her head to take in the two towers of the art deco building, the ornate and opulent architecture a luxury statement from a bygone era.
But the laugh at his puzzled expression got trapped in her throat as he escorted her into the building, past the doorman and a receptionist, until he reached the antique lift. The intricate iron filigree gates opened as the uniformed operator beckoned them inside.
‘Good evening, Mr De Rossi.’ The man in his late-fifties tipped his hat at Megan. ‘Miss.’
‘Buonasera,
