‘It’s decision time,’ Dante said, edging closer, touching the pads of his fingers to her cheek, his touch electric. ‘So what’s it to be? Close down the hotel or warm my bed and give your colleagues a fighting chance? It’s up to you.’
Mackenzi shied away from his hand—more to hide the tremors that resonated through her than from any revulsion to his touch. ‘With no guarantees, of course.’
‘Life doesn’t come with guarantees. The fate of Ashton House is up to you. Decide.’
She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could so easily block out the scent of him and the acute awareness of his presence that fired her skin to simmering heat. It was an outrageous demand, no kind of deal at all, and she should turn him down flat. But in standing up for herself she’d be letting the hotel down. And in agreeing to share his bed the hotel might be spared after all. Did she really have a choice?
‘Yes,’ she whispered through lips suddenly ashen- dry.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ he said, extracting every last shred of humiliation from her.
‘Yes,’ she repeated, louder this time. ‘I’ll sleep with you.’
He smiled then, a smile that simultaneously turned her thoughts to panic and her nipples to bullets. ‘I knew you’d see reason.’
Trish Morey is an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland, and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a lifelong love of reading, she penned her first book at age eleven, after which life, career and a growing family kept her busy, until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true. Visit Trish at her website, www.trishmorey.com
Recent titles by the same author:
THE SHEIKH’S CONVENIENT VIRGIN
THE BOSS’S CHRISTMAS BABY
THE SPANIARD’S BLACKMAILED BRIDE
THE GREEK’S VIRGIN
A VIRGIN FOR THE TAKING
The Italian Boss’s Mistress Of Revenge
Trish Morey
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To my big sister, Toni.
Congratulations on achieving your half-century!
Happy birthday, Sis. Here’s to the next 50 years
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS a filthy night. Which suited Dante Carrazzo’s filthy mood right down to the ground.
The BMW’s windscreen wipers struggled to keep pace with the blinding rain, while its headlights picked out little more in the night fog than the ghostly shadows of gum trees looming claw-like over the unfamiliar Adelaide Hills road. If there was a boutique-hotel anywhere in the area, it sure didn’t want to be found.
Which was probably no surprise, given his plans for it.
He steered the car tight around another bend, his frustration mounting as his headlights met nothing other than their own reflection over a slick ribbon of road disappearing into the gloom.
Tiredness tugged at his senses and stung his eyes, eight hours behind the wheel after a full day’s battling to bring the Quinn deal to fruition starting to take its toll. Dante clamped down on the weakness the same way he did any other, forcing himself to alertness. It had been a long time, but he knew this was the right road. It had to be here, hidden under this blanket of fog, somewhere…
He was past the poorly lit turn-off before he realized it. With a muttered curse, he wheeled the car around at the first opportunity and headed back, pulling the car into the long driveway and towards the distant, eerie glow of lights that heralded his destination.
Ashton House.
At last.
Shrouded in swirling mist, the old mansion turned boutique-hotel looked almost sinister, its windows dark and unwelcoming, the old sandstone walls glowing unnaturally in the muted lantern light. He parked the car, mentally adding to his description the words, “brooding” and “resentful”.
Almost as if it hated him just as much as he hated every last thing it represented.
So be it.
The fog wrapped around him as he stepped from the car, icy droplets stinging his skin. He pulled his bag from the car and strode the few feet to the arched entrance-lobby, leaning against the night bell as he swiped the dampness from his coat. He waited precisely ten seconds before pressing it again.
‘I have a reservation,’ he said, brushing past the open- mouthed night clerk into the warm interior the second the door finally opened.
Behind him he heard the massive timber-panelled door being shut, closing out the swirling mist and cold. ‘I’ll certainly check for you, sir,’ said the clerk, making his way to the polished timber reception-counter. ‘Although I’m afraid we seem to have a full house tonight.’
Dante fixed the clerk with a stare that would splinter rocks. ‘I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve given my room away.’
The clerk frowned, his eyes flicking nervously away to his screen. ‘It will only take a moment to check, sir. What name did you say?’
‘I didn’t. And it’s Carrazzo. Dante Carrazzo.’
‘Ah!’ The clerk straightened as if someone had shoved an iron rod up his spine. Dante caught the smell of fear that came with it. It came as no surprise.
