as though he could peel away her layers and see something deep inside.
‘I came here tonight with a sense of amusement. I am not a man to be baited by a beautiful woman. And yet...’ He lifted his hand to her cheek once more, his eyes roaming her face thoughtfully.
‘And yet?’ Her voice was croaky.
‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.’ He didn’t move but she felt as though his body was touching her, pressing into her, and her stomach twisted into a billion knots.
‘I’m not bait,’ she insisted. If only he knew that her experience with the opposite sex was completely non-existent.
He brushed aside her words with a flash of his eyes. ‘I want you to come home with me tonight.’ Before she could say anything in response, he lifted a finger and pressed it to her lips. ‘It will have no bearing on my decision with the hedge fund. Business is business.’
He paused, his eyes devouring her inch by inch. ‘Pleasure is pleasure.’
His finger against her lips moved to outline her Cupid’s bow. ‘Come home with me because you feel what I feel. Come home with me because you’re as fascinated by this as I am.’ He leaned closer so his warm breath buzzed her temple. ‘Come home with me because you want me to make love to you all night long, until your body is exhausted and your voice hoarse from crying my name over and over again.’
She sucked in a sharp breath. Words were beyond her.
‘Come home with me, Jemima.’
Her knees were weak, her pulse insistent. She swallowed but her throat felt thick; everything was out of whack.
She couldn’t seriously be considering this. Cesare Durante was a renowned bachelor, a self-made billionaire who had no time for relationships that lasted more than a few days. She hadn’t needed to run his name through an Internet search to know that—it was an established fact. He wasn’t offering anything except one night—sex.
He obviously bought into the articles in the press, the ones that made it look as if she spent her life getting hammered at parties and sleeping with any guy that moved. She’d lost track of how many fictional relationships she’d been in, secret marriages she’d walked out of, how many times she’d been pregnant, dumped and broken-hearted. How many times in rehab, fighting with other models, all of it preposterous and laughable—except she didn’t often laugh about it. She simply didn’t read the stories any more.
Her manager had hired an exceptional public relations guru who only contacted Jemima when a story wouldn’t die, something Jemima was required to respond to, but otherwise Jemima let the papers run their fictional pieces while she got on with her real life. And that was about as far removed from the public’s perception as it was possible to get. She spent more time with her hands wrangling tulip bulbs than they did any man.
He had the wrong idea about her. He’d be disappointed if he learned she had precisely zero experience in bed. And she didn’t want him to be disappointed in her.
‘I can’t.’ Her reluctance wasn’t faked.
‘You don’t want to?’ he murmured, and now his lips brushed hers so her knees felt as though they were going to collapse beneath her. A soft moan escaped without her intention.
But she did. She wanted to go home with him in a way that should have served as a warning. Her hand lifted of its own accord to wrap around his neck, drawing his head lower, her eyes hitched to his. ‘I don’t even know you,’ she pointed out, but the words were so quiet she might as well not have spoken.
‘You know it would be good,’ he replied simply, and she nodded, because she did. But he had no idea—he couldn’t know what he was getting.
This was crazy. It was utterly mad, yet she felt something inside her tip, and all she could think of was how badly she wanted to do this.
It wasn’t as though she’d planned to remain a virgin. Saying no had become a habit, one she was glad of. She’d seen more than her fair share of heartbreak and hurt amongst the models she worked with, models who slept with photographers only to discover the photographer was married, or sleeping with half a dozen other models.
But Cesare was different. He wasn’t in the fashion industry at all; they’d never have to see each other again. She could sleep with him, lose her virginity, discover a little bit about the whole sex thing and then get on with her life. Truth be told, she was reaching a point where she felt that her virginity required an explanation and it would be nice not to think about that. Yes, it was a burden, and she’d be glad to be rid of it. And at least with Cesare she could be assured of two things: it would be meaningless and it would be good...
There were a thousand reasons not to do this, but none of them as drugging as the reasons to say yes. Even before she’d come face to face with him, she’d been fascinated by the legend of Cesare Durante, curious about the man who, as the stories said, had gone from being the dirt-poor son of an Italian nanny to one of the richest men in the world. He had the Midas touch, and his confidence was its own source of power and attractiveness. But, now that she’d met him, there was so much more to Cesare, so much more that had caught her completely in his thrall, so she found herself nodding slowly, almost without her knowledge.
‘It has nothing do with Laurence.’
His smile was lightly mocking and, damn it, even that she found sexier than she should have. ‘I would hope not.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘I can assure you, he will be the furthest thing from your mind when I make you mine.’
A frown formed on her features, disbelief and uncertainty being swallowed up by a fierce rush of desire. Make you mine. The words held such a promise of possession and intent that she was already craving him, craving this. Tonight would be the night she lost her virginity and, all of a sudden, she could barely wait.
‘I will make you sing, little bird.’ He murmured the words against her ear, so goose bumps spread across her body. ‘Come home with me.’
Common sense was completely submerged by desire, so she nodded, her hooded eyes finding his a second before his lips crushed hers. ‘Yes,’ she agreed into his mouth, though the word was barely necessary. Her hands wrapped around his neck, her body arching to press to his, her agreement evident in every cell of her body. Still, she said it again, partly to convince herself this made sense and also to reassure herself this was really happening. ‘Yes, Cesare. Yes.’
He lifted his head to stare down into her eyes. ‘Words I am going to make you scream soon.’ The grey of his eyes flashed with a silent promise. Her nipples tightened against the soft fabric of her dress and, when he stepped back, his attention dropped to the tell-tale sign of arousal so that heat flashed in her face. ‘You are going to be begging me to take you, and I am going to enjoy that.’
CESARE EYED THE beautiful model across the table, a tightness in his body that came from the pleasurable spread of anticipation—the certainty that enjoyment was near at hand.
He threw back a measure of the scotch, relishing the depth of its flavour, the aged quality that was full of spice. Cesare liked a good scotch—the finest. There were many things he could do without, many luxuries he could afford but
