Taken For His Pleasure. Carol Marinelli
Читать онлайн книгу.
a blistering attraction—that much she understood, that much she could accept. She could almost console herself that they had chosen to mix business with pleasure, had been caught up in the thrill of the moment, safe in the knowledge that they were making themselves look convincing to anyone watching…But if Maria was right, if he hadn’t even known that she was a detective, that they were supposed to be meeting, then she wasn’t just out of her depth with Anton Santini she had already been pulled under!
What sort of man had the confidence, the supreme arrogance, to approach a stranger and kiss them so blatantly, so fully, to arouse them to the point of oblivion and know, just know, that she would reciprocate—know that with one touch he would win?
On autopilot she headed for her room, showered and dressed quickly. She closed her eyes, her mind tightened in disbelief, a stinging flood of shame coursing through her body as another question exploded in her mind.
What must Anton think of her?
CHAPTER TWO
THE PRESSURE of the hairdresser’s fingertips on her scalp as she massaged conditioner deep into her hair didn’t even provide a vague distraction—Lydia’s mind was working overtime, trying to fathom how she was supposed to face Anton Santini now. How on earth could she manage detachment, professionalism, after what had transpired in the pool? Hell, right now she’d settle for being able to look him in the eye.
But she had to remain in control—not only did her career depend on it, but Anton’s life was in her hands. And, given she was signed up as his protector, her life too could be on the line. This was no time to be acting like a gauche teenager—she had to somehow regain control of this appalling situation, had to wrestle back her dignity. But for the first time in her life she was completely at a loss to come up with a plan. How could she deny her part in what had taken place? How could she deny the blatant, overwhelming passion that had engulfed her? The sensual, debauched alter ego that had emerged the second he had touched her?
‘So, you’re booked for nails, full make-up and a blow-dry?’ Karen, the therapist questioned her as a warm towel was wrapped around Lydia’s head and she was guided to the make-up room.
‘Please.’ Lydia nodded, lowering herself into the chair and trying to sound blasé, as if she did this type of thing every day. ‘Though I’m not sure if there will be time to do my nails. I’ve got an appointment scheduled—’
‘That’s no problem,’ Karen interrupted, clearly used to dealing with busy clients. ‘Cindy can do your nails while I do your make up—let’s have a look at you.’ Pulling off the towel, she ran her fingers through Lydia’s long red curls.
‘Is it business or pleasure?’ When Lydia blinked back, Karen elaborated. ‘Your appointment? I’m just trying to get a feel for how you want to look.’
‘It’s business,’ Lydia answered firmly. ‘And I want to look fabulous!’
‘Oh, you will.’ Karen winked, tipping the chair backwards and setting to work.
Lydia closed her eyes as a few stray hairs around her eyebrows were deftly tidied and a thick layer of scented cream gently rubbed into her face, chatting amicably to Karen about jewellery and the one-off pieces she supposedly designed, practising the alias she would be adopting over the next few days.
‘How long are you staying at the hotel?’
‘I have to check out this morning.’ Lydia gave a regretful shrug. ‘When I checked in I was hoping to stay for four nights but apparently the hotel’s been booked up for weeks—some VIPs are arriving this morning. The bellboy’s bringing my luggage down now, and while I’m having breakfast the concierges are ringing around to find me alternative accommodation.’
‘That’d be right,’ the therapist muttered. ‘Kick out the paying guests…’ Her voice trailed off as she realised she’d probably overstepped the mark, but Lydia pushed on, more than happy to fish a little, giving a tiny swallow as she tried to sound like the rich little madam she was hoping to portray.
‘Well, I’m far from happy with the situation,’ Lydia bristled. ‘And I sincerely hope that a concierge can find me somewhere suitable—somewhere with a decent salon at the very least. What sort of VIPs are they anyway?’
‘The worst sort,’ the therapist answered in a theatrical whisper. ‘There’s going to be a take-over of the hotel and some of the bigwigs from a massive European chain are coming. We’re all supposed to be on our best behaviour—why don’t we try grey?’
‘Sorry?’ Opening her eyes, Lydia blinked back at the woman.
‘On your eyes. I know you said you prefer neutral, but a deep smoky grey will really bring out the amazing colour of your eyes—they’re more gold than hazel—’
‘I don’t want anything too heavy,’ Lydia broke in. ‘I really prefer a more natural look.’
‘Trust me,’ Karen insisted, a long red nail hovering over an array of tiny pots, her eyes narrowing as she stared closely at Lydia’s face. ‘You’re going to look stunning. One wave of my magic wand and I can create an entire new you.’
A ‘new you’ was exactly what was needed, Lydia thought ruefully, if she was ever going to face Anton. A tiny glimmer of a plan started to emerge. ‘Can you do anything to tone down my complexion?’
‘You’re as white as paper,’ Karen tutted.
‘But I blush terribly.’ Lydia gave a dismissive shrug. ‘And, like I said, I’ve got an important meeting this morning—I don’t want to give myself away when we discuss prices.’
‘You need a green base.’ Karen nodded knowingly. ‘Nothing like what you’re thinking.’ She grinned at Lydia’s rather startled expression. ‘I’ve got this fabulous mineral powder; we have it flown in from New York. Wearing that you can double your prices—triple them, even—and you’ll be as pale and as cool as porcelain.’
‘Really?’ Lydia gave a dubious frown.
‘Really!’ Karen winked. ‘We’ll have to pay extra attention to your décolletage—that’s a real give away when you’re blushing.’
And she would blush!
Just the thought of facing Anton had her pulse pounding in her temples and a scorching, shameful warmth flooding her. But as Karen worked on slowly the horror receded, and Lydia gave in to the pleasure of the moment, knowing that in a few short days she’d be back to a few dabs of sunblock and slick of mascara if she was lucky.
Lydia let Karen transform her as Cindy worked on her nails. She didn’t even glance in the mirror when she sat upright for her hair to be dried—she focussed on a magazine as her curls were dragged beyond her shoulders.
For the first time in ages Lydia didn’t turn automatically to the health section, didn’t read how she could increase her stamina or detox her entire system in a mere weekend. She even bypassed an in-depth article on a recent high-profile court case. Instead, with a flutter of excitement, she flicked to the social pages. She gazed at photos of the rich and famous, at their smooth botoxed faces belying their age, their divine dresses and long, smooth legs that ended in jewel-encrusted shoes. She could almost smell the expensive perfume wafting from their silicone-enhanced bosoms. She looked at the Russian-red lips smiling for the cameras, and for the first time since she’d checked in Lydia smiled back.
The diversity of her career hit home: only this time last week she had been on a stake-out, dressed in a navy tracksuit, a world away from the glamour she was forced to sample now, boxed up in a supposedly abandoned van for forty-eight hours. She had watched pimps and drug dealers infesting the vulnerable with their wares, staring through the bolt holes fitted with telescopes as weary prostitutes willed the morning to come, drinking endless cups of coffee to stay awake as she made small talk and tried to cheer up Kevin Bates—an inspector on the force she regularly worked alongside, a man she both liked and admired.
Forty-eight