The Virgin's Shock Baby. Heidi Rice
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Think, Megan, think. What would Mata Hari do?
‘That’s for me to know,’ she finally managed, allowing the desire her body couldn’t seem to control to show in her voice. ‘And for you to find out, if you dare.’
‘There’s not much I wouldn’t dare, cara,’ he said, the cynical edge in his tone disturbingly compelling.
His hand dropped, and she couldn’t prevent the tiny sob as her body softened in relief.
She was playing a very dangerous game. But she had no choice. She had to brazen this out, pretend she was much more knowing and experienced than she actually was.
Sweeping his hand out in front of him, he smiled, and she became a little fixated on those firm sensual lips.
‘Let’s get you to the ball, Cinderella.’
She pushed out a strained laugh and walked past him, only to tense as his hand settled on the base of her spine. Sensation flashed down to her bottom, but she carried on walking, acting as if the feel of his hand wasn’t burning through her clothing.
The ride down in the lift was excruciating, the deceptively light touch driving her insane. He kept his palm there the whole time, guiding her where he wanted her to go, and not letting her stray more than an inch from his side with the subtlest of gestures. But even so, the heat grew.
As they walked out of the apartment building, past the doorman, her nerves were screaming, the controlling pressure so light it was torture not to stretch against his hold. Her body waged a battle between wanting to kick off her heels and race away from him down the street, while another, much more elemental urge had her longing to ease closer to him and let the heat of his body overwhelm her.
The night chill caught her hair, making the tendrils the stylist had spent an hour carefully teasing out of the chignon dance against her neck. She shivered, the skin there already oversensitised by the feel of his gaze boring into her from behind.
The sleek black limousine was parked at the kerb, a man in a dark suit and a cap waiting for them. The chauffeur opened the door and tipped his hat, giving her a polite smile.
She eased into the shadowed interior, the split in the long skirt of her dress pushing open to reveal her thigh almost up to the hip.
She heard a gruff intake of breath. And had to tamp down on the desire to escape out of the other side of the vehicle. The cool leather pushed against the backs of her knees through the dress.
‘The guy’s insatiable in the sack...’
‘What if he tries to ravish you?’
Katie’s foolish observations came back to haunt her as De Rossi folded his big body into the seat beside her. His wide shoulders filled up the opposite side of the car and made the spacious, luxury black leather interior feel unbearably cramped and claustrophobic.
He leant across her to grasp the seat belt. She pulled back, his face inches from hers, his scent surrounding her. Sandalwood and musk and man. But as his eyes met hers he only smiled again and pulled the seat belt down to click it into place, his knuckles brushing her hip.
‘Why are you so skittish, Megan?’ he asked.
‘I’m just a little nervous, Mr De Rossi,’ she blurted out, then glanced around the car searching for a plausible excuse. She was supposed to be flirting with him, making him think she was available for a quick fling, not quaking like someone standing on a fault line. ‘About the ball. I don’t want to let my father or the company down. It’s my first time representing them at such a prestigious event.’ Which was actually true; ordinarily that responsibility alone would be reason enough for her nerves.
The warm proprietorial palm settled over her leg, and gave her knee a quick squeeze, touching her again in a way that made her feel owned.
‘My name is Dario.’ His jaw clenched and she noticed the bunched muscle, twitching. Was it possible she was affecting him as much as he was affecting her?
The thought thrilled her on some visceral level, but disturbed her more.
The possibility of playing him at his own game was almost as terrifying as the endorphins careering through her for the first time in her life.
‘We are on a date, remember,’ he murmured.
‘Thank you for agreeing to escort me,’ she said, finally remembering her manners. ‘It was nice of you.’
‘Nice?’ He seemed amused and surprised by the suggestion. ‘Not many women have accused me of that.’
She could well imagine. ‘My father really appreciated you doing us this favour.’ More than De Rossi would ever know. Hopefully.
‘There is nothing to appreciate,’ he said, cryptically. ‘I only do favours when I expect something in return.’
‘What do you expect from me?’ she said, then realised how suggestive it sounded a moment too late. ‘I don’t mean...’ she stumbled. ‘I just...’
‘I expect nothing from you, Megan.’ He cut into her rambling denials with the skill and precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. ‘I did this favour for your father.’
Those staggeringly blue eyes studied her, the knowledge in them unnerving her even more. Sensation skittered down her spine, making her breath seize in her lungs, the car’s interior now devoid of oxygen. Did he know the real reason her father had asked him to escort her tonight? Was this charade already doomed to failure?
‘Don’t look so terrified, cara,’ he said, and she tried to school her features not to give away her fear.
‘I promise not to bite. Unless you want me to,’ he said, before touching the intercom button to inform the driver to proceed.
Pinpricks rioted over her skin as the car whisked away from the kerb and she imagined those straight white teeth nipping at all her most sensitive places.
She forced a smile, attempting to shake off the sensual fog he seemed to weave around her so effortlessly.
This was going to be the longest night of her life. Her physical reaction to him was too intense, too overwhelming. How was she supposed to survive an evening in his company without telling him every one of her secrets?
DARIO DE ROSSI WATCHED AS his date finally appeared from the bathroom on the far side of the ballroom. That was the third time in the last hour that she’d deserted him to go to the powder room. And freshen up, as she’d put it.
She didn’t need freshening up. Her dewy skin was lightly flushed, the colour riding high on those apple cheeks, on the rare occasions when she’d been close enough for him actually to see her face. And when she wasn’t in the powder room, she was engaged in the most vacuous of conversations with everyone but him, her light breathy laughter making every pulse in his body stand on high alert.
She was not what he had expected.
He had known, of course, the second that Lloyd Whittaker had approached him in the club yesterday morning and asked him to escort his daughter to the ball, that the request was part of the man’s last-ditch attempt to save his company. The fool had finally realised who was buying up his stock and had probably thought throwing his daughter at Dario would soften the blow. It wouldn’t be the first time a business rival had believed that he could manipulate Dario through his enjoyment of the opposite sex—or believed the garbage written about his love life in the tabloids. Giselle’s recent hissy fit in The Post hadn’t helped in that regard.
It also certainly wouldn’t be the first time a powerful man had used and degraded a woman he was supposed to love and protect.
The brutal flash of memory had his gut twisting sharply. He took a sip from the bottle of Italian lager the hosts had imported especially for