you’ll place yourself in jeopardy. Under the spotlight. What if he realises you and Zeus are one and the same person? That your father is dead?’
Without thought Pia let her fingers creep up to her throat, where her pulse beat against her palm in a wild tattoo. Such an outcome wasn’t even worth contemplating.
‘He won’t. He’s a man. He’s predictable and he won’t look beyond my breasts. Women are designed for whoring or childbearing in his world—the truth wouldn’t occur to him in a million years. Granted, very few people know Antonio Merisi had a daughter, but my existence is no secret. If he looked in the right places he’d know I exist. When I tell him he’ll think I am merely ornamental—a pampered child—so I doubt he’ll crow to his friends that he was wrestled to the ground by a mere female.’
The man had a superb business mind and a vast IQ, but he was arrogant and conceited and as dominant as they came. Any battle between them would likely stay behind doors.
‘This is my life we’re talking about and the future of a club I swore would stand the test of time.’ Damn the old rules. ‘Damn the dinosaurs that litter the ranks of my club.’
They’d never accept leadership from someone with a sullied past such as hers. Not only that, but the gentlemen’s club was bound by rules—archaic, chauvinistic rules created by troglodytes—that declared only a Merisi man could lead. Only a man could own and control the largest business interests in the world.
Yet here she was. Groomed. Her path decided the moment her father had seen her, semi-conscious in Jovan’s arms. She’d become the son Antonio Merisi had never had. His heir. His corporate assassin. The girl he’d called worthless, tainted, illiterate trash at first glance, making her feel dirtier than the clothes on her back. The same girl who’d then taken his fortune and quadrupled it within the first two years of living under his excessively opulent roof.
She was master of the most exclusive club in the world. Perpetually in hiding. Habitually alone. And that was the way it must stay.
‘If my instincts are right he’s declared war and I’m fighting blind—ignorant of the cause. If I’m to have any chance of surviving I need the right weapon to wield. Turn off the screens, Jovan.’ Her tone brooked no argument. ‘I’m going in.’
The monitors flickered to black and a moment later a faint tap on the door preceded Clarissa Knight, one of the petite q’s, shifting on her feet as she was nudged through the space, a telling flush driving high on her cheekbones.
The pennies dropped more quickly than a Las Vegas slot machine flashing ‘Winner’ in neon lights.
Oh, wonderful. A lovesick puppy.
Pia checked a disgusted growl. ‘Oh, Clarissa, tell me he promised you the world—or at least a permanent position in his bed?’
Simultaneously Clarissa’s eyes fell to the floor and Jovan raised a small, flat high-tech sensor pad in the air, his expression warning her not to underestimate their intrepid foe.
Fingerprint recognition.
Her anger dissipated as fast as it came. She wasn’t going to ask Clarissa how it felt to be used. She remembered humiliation and worthlessness all too well.
* * *
Somewhere in that dark abyss between unconsciousness and lucidity a razor-sharp rapping registered and Nic tried for a gentle head-shake. His temples loathed that idea, twisting his stomach into a tight knot, pleading with him not to even attempt it a second time.
Prising his bruised eye open wasn’t much of a picnic either, but his heuristic brain—not to mention his sense of self-preservation—was keen to know exactly how much trouble he was in.
And he was in trouble. The ropes cutting into the skin of his wrists was a dead giveaway.
Well, he’d been in worse situations. Look on the bright side, Nic. You’re in. Zeus is here. Somewhere. They haven’t thrown you out. Yet.
Neck aching from being slumped forward, he cautiously raised his head to take in his surroundings.
His mind registered the darkness, the shadows prancing around the bare room, before he focused on a single stream of moonlight shining through the only small window, illuminating one stiletto-heeled foot tap-tap-tapping on the floor.
Ah. He suspected that was the culprit responsible for the lethargic woodpecker hammering at his head. Yet, oddly enough, all was forgotten as his appreciative eyes glissaded upwards.
Vintage towering black patent heels with an inch-thick sole. Sculpted ankles and toned calves. Sheer stockings draping long, long luscious legs and disappearing beneath a short, black figure-hugging pencil skirt.
His mind took another detour, wondering when he’d last had sex. Full-on, hedonistic, mind-blowing, erotic carnality usually kept his body taut, but now he thought about it he hadn’t felt the need in months. Little wonder he was famished.
‘Good evening, Mr Carvalho.’
A rush of heat shimmered over his skin like a phantom fire. ‘Well, well, well—if it isn’t my little gunslinger.’
‘We meet again. How are you feeling?’
Mouth as dry and hot as the desert sands, he licked his lips. His voice still came out gravelly with repressed need. ‘Much better for seeing you, querida. Or at least the half that I can see. I do wish you’d come a little closer. You can trust me.’
‘Said the wolf to the lamb,’ she quipped. ‘Was it that charming reprobate tongue you used to gain access to my private suite, Mr Carvalho?’
‘Call me Nicandro, please. I’d like to think my submissive aspect puts us on first-name terms at least. Right now you could do anything you desired to me.’
Straddling his lap would his first choice. Pressing her breasts into his chest and licking into his mouth and down the column of his throat would be the second. The agony of feeling her all over his body but being unable to touch... Exquisite torture.
‘Very well...Nicandro.’
His name rolled deliciously from her mouth with a hint of European inflection. Italian, or maybe Greek. He didn’t miss the fact that she still hadn’t given him her name, but he was too busy imagining thick, dark curling locks and hazel eyes to match that smoky, sultry voice.
‘Let us discuss the misdemeanour of breaking and entering. It stands to reason—our being on first-name terms, after all—that you should tell me exactly what you were doing in my private rooms this evening.’
‘Tell me your name and I will.’
That she didn’t want to was clear. But two could play this game, and he hadn’t needed to hear the safety click of her revolver or the commands she’d issued to the staff to tell him this woman held power. Exactly how much he had yet to figure out.
‘My name is Olympia Merisi.’
Now, that was unexpected. He barely managed to swallow the sharp hitch in his breath.
‘Ah. The little wife, then?’ A healthy dose of disappointment made him frown. What did he care who she was chained to?
