wasn’t a woman you married—hell, no: the very idea was ludicrous. This was a woman you bedded. Found ecstasy in her body over and over, until neither of you could walk, talk or summon the energy to breathe.
Hauling in damp air, he silently prayed for his arousal to subside, wishing he’d felt one zillionth of this visceral attraction for the petite q he’d earlier declined.
‘Your mother...? Norwegian? Swedish?’ With that natural colouring she had to be.
If Nic had blinked he would have missed it. That pained pinch of her mouth, that subtle flinch of her flesh. It didn’t take a genius to work out that her mother was a touchy subject.
‘French,’ she said, in a tone so cold it was a welcome blast of air-con sizzling over his hot, damp skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake.
Nic shrugged. What was a couple of thousand miles? ‘European. Close enough.’
Her displeased pout told him to drop it, and even he knew some battles weren’t worth fighting. So he did. Well, sort of...
‘Please allow me to apologise for waking you earlier, querida. Or maybe you should thank me. Your dreams seemed too dark to be pleasant.’
Right there. Ah, yes. She might ooze power and control, but beneath all those chilly layers she was still a woman, swayed by emotions, capable of vulnerability. This was going to be child’s play.
‘What haunts your sleep, Olympia?’ And since when had he ever been interested enough in a woman to care?
‘A mere headache.’
Poised and graceful as a ballerina, she stood and pirouetted on her heels, turning her back on him. No doubt to soothe the raw nerve he’d struck. But what really bothered him was the weird, not to mention scary idea that he wanted to take it back, soothe her pain himself.
Instead his eyes followed her like a heat-seeking missile, and he detonated at the sight of the tight curves forming her lush heart-shaped bottom and the perfectly straight black seams splicing down her sheer stockings.
Every thought in his head exploded with the extra blast of heat to his groin.
Holy smoke. She was the sexiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. He couldn’t wait to taste her. To get up close and personal with that stunning hourglass figure. To mould his hands to her flesh, sip at her skin for days. And he would. There was no woman in the world he couldn’t beguile and lure into his bed.
After she’d taken a turn around the chair she came to stand in front of him. Up close and personal.
Nic ground his back teeth, scrambling for a reprieve from the sexual tension that choked the air around them and took his hard-on from uncomfortable to agonising.
Turned out the fates had had their eye on the ball the entire time—because if there was one sure-fire way to rid him of lust they’d found it.
Olympia bent slightly at the waist—to look into his eyes or to endeavour to intimidate him, he wasn’t sure and didn’t particularly care—and he reckoned he was so far gone he would have begged for her mouth right there and then. If a large black diamond teardrop, spectacular and rare, edged with twenty-four brilliant-cut white diamonds totalling fifty-two carats, with a net worth of approximately forty-six point two million dollars, hadn’t chosen that precise moment to tumble from the sumptuous lace confection encasing her breasts.
Nic jerked as if that bruiser bodyguard was back with a fist in his guts. One punch and a tsunami of anger and hate and pain threatened to pull him under, drag him into the depths of hell. His chest felt crushed and toxic adrenaline rushed through his body, hardening his wide shoulders, searing down his arms, until he was able to contort his wrists and almost pull free of the ropes. Just a few seconds more.
He wanted to rip that platinum chain from around her neck, tear those jewels from the warm cavern of her skin. Just as Zeus’s henchman had ripped it from his mother’s lifeless body.
O Coracao da Tempestade. The heart of the storm. The Santos diamonds.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away. So many memories. So much heartache. So much pain.
Nic had always surmised that Goldsmith owned the jewels, along with the rest of the company. The thought that they’d been separated thoughtlessly, like meaningless pieces of chattel, had broken his heart. He could only presume that when Zeus had sold off Santos he must have kept the diamonds to gift to his pampered daughter like some kind of obscene trophy.
Did she know how her father had come to own them?
A shudder racked his entire body and he broke out in a cold sweat.
Dios, did she know they were smothered in blood?
If she did he would make her life a living hell.
The fist gripping his heart threatened to squeeze the life out of him. It took everything he had to remain calm, not to jump to conclusions or lose the hold on his temper.
Gracefully she straightened before him, and the vigilance narrowing those striking violet eyes told him she was well aware that the Lobisomem now sat before her, struggling to stay leashed.
Not any more.
The rope finally fell away from his wrists and it took all his remaining strength to keep hold of the bonds, control his face into an impassive blank slate so she would be none the wiser. Timing was everything, and he hadn’t bided his for years only to trip over his anger and fall at the first hurdle.
Nic discreetly cleared his throat and turned his voice to a rich, evocative volume that would diffuse her doubt.
‘Apologies, querida, my mind wandered. While I appreciate your offer to relay my business to your father, I stand firm. Let us say the topic is of a delicate nature.’
Olympia took another step back and he dug his nails into his palms to stop himself reaching out, gripping her waist, hauling her into his lap, punishing that seductive temptation of a mouth, taking his revenge on her glorious body.
Instead he carried on—as if his heart wasn’t tearing apart. ‘I don’t know you well enough to discuss it with you. I’m sure you understand.’
Stalemate. He knew it. She knew it.
Agitation leached from her. ‘No’ was clearly not a word she was used to hearing.
‘Then I can’t help you any further, Mr Carvalho. As for this evening—I’m sure you understand there has been a breach of trust, and as you’re unwilling to explain yourself your membership will be placed under review. I can—’
‘However,’ he continued, as if she’d never spoken, knowing it would rile her, determined to gain the upper hand, ‘if I had the opportunity to get to know you I might change my mind. Spend a few days with me, bonita. I’d love the chance to put things right between us. To prove I’m not so bad after all.’
She crossed her arms over her ample chest and arched one flaxen eyebrow. ‘You think me a fool, Mr Carvalho. The way to my father is not via my bed.’
Brainy and beautiful.
‘Maybe not, but I guarantee you
