deep into her lungs, bringing a flood of memories that made her throat clog with emotion best left untouched. In these close confines she was doubly aware of his control, his power, his sensuality.
Shifting away from him the best she could only brought his intense brown eyes slewing back to her. Her cheeks instantly turned red—she knew they must be because she felt the fire burning her skin.
“Is something wrong?” he asked when she had inched as far from him as possible.
Wrong? He had the gall to ask that when his large muscled form dominated the interior of the auto? When he’d taken everything from her?
She lifted her chin, aware diplomacy was necessary to avoid further conflict. “I was just giving you space.”
His gaze narrowed, his lips pulling into an uncompromising line. “Are you? Because to me it looks as if you’re avoiding my touch, even if that touch was no more than my arm or leg brushing against you. Accidentally brushed you, I would add.”
What could she say to that and maintain this fragile peace? The truth. They’d had a wretched history of avoiding the truth when honesty mattered most. But then when she had been honest with him, he had still walked away from her. He had been the one to turn his back on her.
“Use your head. Less than an hour ago you stormed into my life and took everything from me in the wake of my father’s burial,” she said with a telling quaver in her voice that had her clenching her fingers in frustration, a habit she’d developed as a child when her father was venting his anger on her mother.
She’d been so good at hiding her emotions from her volatile father. But she’d failed miserably at that with Marco.
He knew when she was angry, hurt, cautious. But he never could guess the reason for her trouble and she’d been too ashamed to tell him everything.
Her cheeks burned at the old memory. In that regard he’d been right to accuse her of lying to him. To be angry. If only he had believed her when she finally revealed her shame …
“I’m physically and emotionally spent, Marco. You’ve won. I’ve agreed to come to Italy and plan your sister’s wedding. But that’s all you’ll get from me,” she added. “Is that clear?”
“Extremely! I want nothing more from you than what was agreed upon,” he said, shoulders snapped into a rigid line.
“Good. I don’t want any misconceptions,” she said.
“There was never a doubt of your role or of mine,” he said as the sedan thankfully came to a stop at the airport, ending the torture of him jostling against her time and again. “Ten years ago you were looking for a rich man with status, a man who would measure up to your and your father’s precise standards. I was not that man then nor am I now.”
She gaped, flabbergasted. “You can’t believe that!”
“It is the truth.”
He couldn’t be more wrong, but to admit that would prompt questions she wasn’t about to address. Her trust had been broken not once but twice by this man. She wasn’t about to put it out there again.
Not that it mattered. He’d already slammed out of the car, leaving her alone and trembling. She pressed a hand to her middle and slumped against the seat.
A private jet—she’d never been able to tell one from the other—sat on the tarmac to her left, its stairs lowered to admit passengers. It didn’t dawn on her that this was Marco’s plane until she saw a crewman carrying her small duffel onto it.
Her door was wrenched opened a heartbeat later and cool brown eyes flecked with gold stared down at her. “Let’s go.”
She gave a nod and tried to extract herself from the car without his help. He mouthed a curse and assisted her to her feet, his large hand enveloping hers before she could protest, his skin warm against hers, his touch gentle and strong. Heat sped up her arm yet she shivered, liking his touch far too much and hating herself because of it.
The moment she gained her footing he dropped his hand from her and motioned her toward the plane. The message was clear: he didn’t wish to touch her any more than she wished to be touched.
A lie, if her libido had a say, which it most certainly did not. She crossed the tarmac quickly and hoped once inside she could find a seat far removed from him.
Not a problem, she realized as she mounted the stairs and stepped into the private lair of an Italian wine baron. The interior was dressed in a classic, yet understated, design resplendent in rich browns, ivory and gold.
The flight attendant motioned Delanie to take a seat. She bit her lower lip—so many to choose from. Twin flight chairs. A large curved sofa that was far too intimate. Farther back more chairs and a table, likely utilized for meetings. Beyond that an open door that showed a glimpse of a bed.
Wishing to stay as far away from a bedroom as possible, she claimed one of the deep gold chairs up front with a smile to the attendant and a quick glance at her traveling companion. He passed her without sparing her a glance, the thick carpet muffling his steps yet cluing her in that he preferred the rear of the plane.
Fine by her, she thought irritably as the strategically positioned cushions conformed to her tired back and tense shoulders. He could shut himself up in his bedroom for all she cared. The lack of his presence after such a trying hour would be a welcome pleasure.
“We’ll take off immediately so please fasten your seatbelt,” the attendant told her before disappearing into a cabin up front.
Delanie obeyed without complaint and tried to relax, not an easy feat as she’d never been a seasoned traveler. In the Tate household, the only member who took holidays was her father.
Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad. The interior was quiet and comfortable and the chair was an absolute dream. If she managed to control her stress levels as the plane reached cruising altitude and leveled off then maybe she could nod off en route.
God knew she was tired enough to fall asleep standing up. The past week of dealing with doctors and attorneys and worried shareholders had drained her of her last reserves.
But total rest was still denied her.
Perhaps she could have dozed off if Marco’s voice hadn’t drifted to her. If her body hadn’t come awake at the deep timbre that left her shaking.
He spoke in clipped Italian delivered so fast and fluently that with her meager knowledge she couldn’t begin to translate. Was he really so much like her father, always engaged in some deal? Or was he delivering the news to Italy that he’d succeeded, that he’d brought Tate Unlimited to its knees?
That he had the millionaire’s heiress in tow with the contract that she’d agreed to do his bidding safely in hand?
All of the above, she thought as a small degree of hysteria rippled through her. Could she have dreamt up a more intense working relationship? No!
Marco was the billionaire who had trumped her tyrannical father’s millionaire status. He was the antithesis of power. He was her boss for the next two weeks.
He was the only man she’d fallen in love with. The only man she had ever loved physically and emotionally.
