world’s greatest innocent, or its most consummate actress. If he had known it was the former, would he still have pursued her?
Of course he would. Deep down he recognised he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself because hadn’t he been gripped by a powerful hunger which insisted he would never know peace until he had possessed her?
He’d been waiting outside when eventually she had emerged from the club and had thanked the heavens for the heavy downpour of rain which had been showering down on her. She hadn’t looked a bit surprised to see him as she’d opened up her umbrella and for a moment it had crossed his mind that she might take a different man home with her every night, though even that had not been enough to make him order his driver to move on. But when he’d offered her a lift she’d refused, in an emphatic manner which had startled him.
‘No, thanks.’
‘No?’
‘I know what you want,’ she’d said, in a low voice. ‘And you won’t get it from me.’
And with that she’d disappeared into the rain-wet night and Renzo had sat in the back seat of the limousine, watching her retreating form beneath her little black umbrella, his mouth open and his body aching with frustration and unwilling admiration.
He’d gone to the club the next night and the weekend when he’d returned from a work trip to New York. Some nights she’d been there and some she hadn’t. He’d discovered she only worked there at weekends and it had only been later he’d found out she had a daytime job as a waitress somewhere else. Extracting information from her had been like trying to get blood from a stone. She was the most private woman he’d ever met as well as the most resistant and perhaps it was those things which made Renzo persist in a way he’d never had to persist before. And just when he’d been wondering if he was wasting his time, she had agreed to let him drive her home.
His voice had been wry as he’d looked at her. ‘Madonna mia! You mean you’ve decided you trust me enough to accept the lift?’
Her narrow shoulders had shrugged, causing her large breasts to jiggle beneath the shiny black satin of her dress and sending a shaft of lust arrowing straight to his groin. ‘I guess so. All the other staff have seen you by now and you’ve been captured on CCTV for all eternity, so if you’re a murderer then you’ll be apprehended soon enough.’
‘Do I look like a murderer?’
She had smiled then, and it had been like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.
‘No. Although you look just a little bit dangerous.’
‘Women always tell me that’s a plus.’
‘I’m sure they do, though I’m not sure I agree. Anyway, it’s a filthy night, so I might as well get a lift with you. But I haven’t changed my mind,’ she’d added fiercely. ‘And if you think I’m going to sleep with you, then you’re wrong.’
As it happened, she was the one who’d been wrong. They’d driven through the dark wet streets of London and he’d asked her to come in for coffee, not thinking for a moment she’d accept. But maybe the chemistry had been just as powerful for her. Maybe her throat had also been tight with tension and longing and she’d been finding it as difficult to speak as he had, as she’d sat beside him in the leather-scented car. He’d driven her to his apartment and she’d told him primly that she didn’t really like coffee. So he’d made her tea flavoured with peppermint and rose petals, and for the first time in his life he’d realised he might lose her if he rushed it. He’d wondered afterwards if it was his unfamiliar restraint which had made her relax and sink into one of his huge sofas—so that when at last he’d leaned over to kiss her she’d been all quivering acquiescence. He’d done it to her right there—pulling her panties down and plunging right into her—terrified she might change her mind during the long walk from the sitting room to the bedroom.
And that had been when he’d discovered she was a virgin—and in that moment something had changed. The world had tipped on its axis because he’d never had sex with a virgin before and had been unprepared for the rush of primitive satisfaction which had flooded through him. As they’d lain there afterwards, gasping for breath among all the cushions, he’d pushed a damp curl away from her dewy cheek, demanding to know why she hadn’t told him.
‘Why would I? Would you have stopped?’
‘No, but I could have laid you at the centre of my big bed instead of the sofa if I’d known this was your first sexual adventure.’
‘What, you mean like some sort of medieval sacrifice?’ she’d murmured and that had confused him, too, because he would have expected high emotion at such a moment, not such a cool response.
Had it been her coolness which had made him desire her even more? Possibly. He’d thought it would be one night, but he’d been mistaken. He’d never dated a waitress before and he acknowledged the cold streak of snobbery in his nature which told him it would be unwise to buck that trend. But Darcy had confounded him. She read just as many books as an academic he’d once dated—although admittedly, she preferred novels to molecular biology. And she didn’t follow the predictable path of most women in a sexual relationship. She didn’t bore him with stories of her past, nor weigh him down with questions about his own. Their infrequent yet highly satisfying meetings, which involved a series of mind-blowing orgasms, seemed to meet both their needs. She seemed instinctively to understand that he wasn’t seeking a close or lasting connection with a woman. Not now and not ever.
But sometimes an uncomfortable question strayed into his mind to ask why such a beauty would have so willingly submitted her virginity to a total stranger. And didn’t he keep coming up with the troublesome answer that maybe she had been holding out for the highest bidder—in this case, an Italian billionaire...?
‘Renzo?’
The sound of her voice dragged him away back into the present and Renzo looked up to see a woman walking through the airport lounge towards him, pulling behind her a battered suitcase on wheels. His eyes narrowed. It was Darcy, yes—but not Darcy as he knew her, in her drab waitress uniform or pale and naked against his pristine white sheets. Renzo blinked. This was Darcy in a dress the colour of sunshine, dotted with tiny blue flowers. It was a simple cotton dress but the way she wore it was remarkable. It wasn’t the cut or the label which was making every man in the place stare at her—it was her youthful body and natural beauty. Fresh and glowing, her bare arms and legs were honed by honest hard work rather than mindless sessions in the gym. She looked radiant and the natural bounce of her breasts meant that no man could look at her without thinking about procreation. Renzo’s mouth dried. Procreation had never been on his agenda, but sex most definitely was. He wanted to pull her hungrily into his arms and to kiss her hard on the mouth and feel those soft breasts crushing against him. But Renzo Sabatini would never be seen in any airport—let alone one in his homeland—making such a public demonstration of affection.
And wasn’t it time he reinforced the fact that nobody—nobody—ever kept him waiting?
‘You’re late,’ he said repressively, throwing aside his newspaper and rising to his feet.
Darcy nodded. She could sense his irritation but that didn’t affect her enjoyment of the way he was looking at her—if only to reassure her she hadn’t made a terrible mistake in choosing a cheap cotton dress instead of the clothes he must have been expecting her to wear. Still, since this was going to be the holiday of a lifetime it was important she got it off to a good start and the truth of it was that she was late. In fact, she’d started to worry
