feet without a parachute.’
He grinned—he couldn’t help it. Despite her unfortunate parentage and the bauble now nestled back in her deep cleavage he kind of liked her. Such a shame she wore a harbinger of tragedy around her delicate throat. He wondered then if she truly knew of its origins, because surely no woman in their right mind would wear it if they were well-versed in the omen it carried. The wrath of his ancestors. Strange, he’d never really believed in any of it. Until now. Because clearly Nicandro had been led to it—to her—to wreak his revenge.
He wanted it back. And he would have it. After he’d taken her. After he’d slid the diamonds from her throat in a slow, erotic seduction she would never forget.
Nic ignored the remnants of his Catholic morality—the stuff that still percolated inside whatever passed for his soul these days—which were suggesting he wasn’t being strictly fair, involving her. Odds were she was as crooked as her father.
‘I could have you in a heartbeat,’ he declared. Exaggeration on his part—she would be hard work. She was feisty and wilful and brimming with self-determination—which would make her final moments of surrender all the more delicious, precious.
‘You will never have me, Nicandro.’
By the time he’d figured out those were her parting words he was wrestling with a bout of what was surely affront—because the little vixen was halfway to the door.
Nic lurched from the chair and reached the door before she did, slamming his palm flat on the dense block of wood. If she was shocked he’d torn from his hold she covered her surprise quickly enough—simply froze to the spot like an ice sculpture and peered at him the way someone would a cockroach.
‘Want to bet?’ he said, making his voice smooth, richer than cognac and twice as heady.
A cold front swept over him, pricking his skin through the superfine material of his shirt.
‘Anyone ever tell you that you’re supremely arrogant?’
‘Often. I’m not averse to hearing compliments, Olympia. And nor do I imagine are you. You really are stunning, querida.’
Up close she was even more exquisite. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
‘Save it, Romeo. You may be infamous for your limitless wants and desires, but I’m afraid you’ve reached your limit with me.’
He might have believed her if he hadn’t trailed the back of his index finger down her bare arm excruciatingly slowly and relished the shimmy rustling over her body. Impossible as it was, her infinitesimal gasp and the ghostly pinch of her brow gave him the notion that she hadn’t known a simple touch could affect her in such a tremendous way.
‘You’re scared. Maybe even petrified. Afraid I will prove you wrong? Or fearful you’ll enjoy every minute of it?’ He was baiting her, but there was one advantage to toying with an intelligent woman: he knew exactly what buttons to push.
‘I fear no one. Least of all you.’
That haughty retort hung in the air, coaxing another smile from him. She was sewn up tighter than a drum.
‘Prove it. Spend two weeks in my company. If you win and evade my bed I will desist in my attempts to meet with your father and resign my membership from Q Virtus with no fanfare. You have my word.’
Because her evasion would never, ever happen.
Those big violet eyes narrowed on his. ‘Together with a full explanation? Because I know there’s more to you than meets the eye and far more to this meeting you desire with Zeus. I want to know why.’
It occurred to him then that she must work for her father in some way. Must have come in his place this weekend. She might have already put two and two together and suspect he was at the root of the dissent at the club. Not that she could prove it.
‘Of course I’ll tell you everything you want to know. However, if you lose, and I take your body as mine, have you at my mercy, you’ll arrange a meeting with Zeus and take me to him.’
Two days and she’d succumb. Three at the most.
For long moments she simply stared at him, and it was shocking to admit but he’d have given half of Manhattan to know what she was thinking. He’d never given much credence to the term ‘closed book’, but this intriguing package was still wrapped in Cellophane.
Finally she gave a heavy sigh, as if she really didn’t have much of an alternative. As if he’d pushed her into a corner with his refusal to tell her anything and she had nowhere else to go but to follow him.
What had he said? Child’s play.
‘All right. Here’s the deal. Zeus will be in Paris in eight days. If you win, I guarantee you’ll meet at a specified time and place. You have my word.’
A smile—so small yet inordinately confident—curved her luscious lips. He wished she’d do it more often—it made his heart trampoline into his throat.
So bold she was, so sanguine, so sure he would fail and she would be the victor. He almost felt sorry for her.
‘But when you lose I will have you on your knees, Nicandro.’
‘If I lose I’ll go down with pleasure, Olympia.’
Eyes locked, they stared at one another. Neither giving an inch. And he’d swear the air sparked with electricity, tiny arrows of fire that bounced from one point of contact to another. One strike of a match and they’d blow sky-high.
‘Then you have a deal...Nic...’
Welcome to three days of torture.
Even the way she purred his name like that, drawing out the N, made him hard.
‘Splendid. And every deal should be sealed, don’t you agree?’
Without giving her time to bat an eyelash he slowly lowered his mouth to hers. There was no better place to start the war, and his body begged for just one kiss, one taste.
Gossamer-light, Nic brushed his lips across hers and lavished the corner of her mouth with a lush velvet kiss. Electricity hissed over his skin, his blood seared through his veins on a scream of satisfaction, and before he knew it he stepped closer. Her breasts crushed against his chest and he fingered her sweet waist while he swept his tongue across the seam of her lips, demanding entry, commanding more.
Dizzy, as if she’d put him under some kind of spell, his mind stripped itself clean and he nipped at the plump flesh and sucked gently, desperate to be inside her warm heaven. She tasted of sweet, hot coffee liqueur, and if she’d just let him in...
After a few more seconds he drew back. Frowned.
Passive, emotionless—she hadn’t moved one muscle and her skin was like ice, her blood-red lips equally devoid of warmth. Even her violet-blue stare was cold and vacant.
The shock of it made his tone incongruous. ‘Olympia, you are frozen, querida.’ A coil of serpents in the pit of his stomach couldn’t have unsettled him more.
Lifting her chin she
