One Night In…. Оливия Гейтс
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not to have an audience.’
She gasped in outrage. ‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’
He slid his hand beneath one of the triangles of fabric. Lazily he moved his palm downwards so that he was cupping her breast, and with exquisite, agonizing gentleness brushed his thumb across her hard nipple.
She couldn’t restrain the cry that escaped her.
‘Yes.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘With good reason, I’d say.’
With a barely there touch like the whisper of a butterfly’s wings, his lips brushed hers, then he dipped his head and murmured against her neck, ‘If you want to go back to the shore say so now. Gianni will turn round. But—’ he nuzzled her earlobe ‘—I can assure you, you’re quite safe. I’m a property developer, not a mass murderer.’
The blood was pounding in her ears, matching beat for beat the pulse that throbbed between her legs. Closing her eyes, she shook her head, trying to clear it, but instead arching her neck backwards and offering it to the caress of his mouth.
‘I don’t know who you are. I don’t know anything about you …’ she groaned.
‘Exactly. That’s what I intend to remedy. Give me the chance to show you that I’m not the complete philistine you imagine.’
This was madness. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder, in the sensitive curve at the base of her neck, sending cascades of shooting stars through her, so she couldn’t concentrate on anything beyond the growing need inside her.
‘Tesoro? Do you want to go back to the shore?’ he whispered, his thumb tracing delicate circles beneath her ear.
‘No.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘MAKE yourself at home. I need to go and have a quick word with the captain, if you’ll excuse me.’
Stepping out of the tender on to the deck of a yacht, Anna glanced round at her sleek surroundings and tried desperately to look as if she were the sort of person who had been making herself at home on luxury super-yachts all her life.
‘No problem. Where do I go?’
He gestured up a flight of steel steps. ‘Why don’t you go up to the top deck? I’ll join you there in a moment.’
So this was Angelo Emiliani’s natural habitat, she thought dazedly as she reached the top of the stairs and emerged into a breathtaking space. The deck stretched away from her in both directions—one end housing a seating area with huge white cushions and a steel-topped bar, while at the other a softly lit spa pool glowed azure-blue in the darkness.
She wandered over to the pool and sat on its tiled edge, trailing her fingers in the water. She’d expected it to be cool, but it was warm. Blood-warm. She withdrew her hand sharply and stood up again, scared of the sudden image she had of herself and Angelo in its silky embrace.
God, her senses were on such high alert she’d be getting turned on by her own shadow in a minute. It was as if her brain had been rewired, so that every thought brought her back on to the same tormenting loop of desire. She looked out across the dark stretch of water to the shore. On the beach the party continued, the bass thud of the music drifting across to her, the glow of the fire illuminating the pine forests on the cliff top and throwing the silhouettes of the dancers into dark relief.
They seemed a million miles away, like strangers rather than the people she lived with and had come to regard as a substitute family.
She’d got to know Gavin and the rest of the group when they had camped on the edge of the parkland at Ifford while they’d carried out a protest against a proposed motorway extension nearby. She had been at home recovering from the operation on her ankle at the time, facing a future without dancing. But it was the truth she had found out just before the operation—when the doctors had been investigating a possible genetic cause of the bone weakness from which she suffered—that had shattered her the most. That was why she had been ready to rebel against everything she had been brought up to stand for. Because all of it had been based on a shameful lie.
GreenPlanet had offered her an escape, a purpose and a very convenient way to get back at her father. But she could see now that it had never offered her anything deeper. At the time that had been enough.
Angelo stood at the top of the stairs, watching her for a moment. She was leaning on the deck rail, her face turned towards the bright point on the beach where the party was still in full swing. In the soft glow cast by the discreet lighting on deck he could see a wistfulness in her expression.
Taking a bottle of champagne from the chiller, he walked quietly towards her.
‘Are you wishing you were still at the party?’
Startled, she spun round, a hand pressed to her chest as a small cry escaped her. ‘I didn’t hear you!’
He smiled, tearing the foil off the bottle. ‘I know. You looked …’ he paused, choosing the word carefully ‘… sad. I wondered if you were wishing you were back on the shore with your friends.’
She met his gaze steadily. ‘No. I’m not. I’m glad I’m here.’
Her honesty surprised him. And excited him. He’d expected more of a show of resistance, though from the white-heat that had almost devoured them both back there on the beach he had known it would only be token. That was what most of the girls he knew would have done—made a great show of being uncertain or shy, and then stormed off in high drama when he wasn’t interested enough to play along with persuading them.
‘It was a good party,’ he said gravely, easing the cork out of the bottle with his thumbs. Feeling the release of pressure as it came free and a plume of froth spilled over his hand. Coveting it.
‘Yes.’ It was little more than a harsh whisper.
He paused.
‘Great dancing.’
He watched her close her eyes. Heard her drag in a ragged breath.
‘Yes.’
Benedetto Gesù, this thing could easily spin out of control if he wasn’t careful. His hand was perfectly steady as he poured the champagne into two slim flutes, but he was all too aware of the painful ache in his groin and cursed himself for it. Last night he’d had an actress in his bed whose blonde perfection had earned her the tabloid title ‘cinematic icon’ and had found himself struggling to go through the motions. So why, when faced with this rebellious stranger, was he suddenly like a walking advertisement for Viagra?
He handed the glass to her. For a moment neither of them spoke. She held his gaze bravely, though he could see that she was shaking violently.
‘You’re cold.’
Her chin lifted a fraction but her gaze didn’t waver. ‘No, I’m not cold.’ She drew in a desperate breath.
I’m burning.
How could he stand there looking so bloody relaxed? she thought in anguish. What was it that Fliss had called him? The Ice Prince. It was a singularly appropriate name—obviously thought up by someone who had felt the polar chill of his detachment in the same way she was feeling it now. The passion that had threatened to engulf them both on the beach still raged within her, but he had obviously had second thoughts.
And then she felt him gently take the glass from her hand and put it down on a low table.
Her heart leapt and her stomach tightened.
‘Bedtime, I think.’
His hand stroked down the length of her arm, sending an explosion of tiny sparks along her nerve-endings. Lacing his fingers though hers, he turned and she had no choice but to follow him, back down the steps up which she had come, down on to a lower deck with a huge dining table set out before a wide sliding glass screen. In the doorway he hesitated, looking