One Night: Sizzling Attraction: Married for Amari's Heir / Damaso Claims His Heir / Her Secret, His Duty. Annie West
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“Trust me,” he said, extending his hand.
“You know I don’t trust anyone,” she said, her voice breathless even to her own ears.
“Okay then, right now. Trust me right now.”
She reached out and took his hand, and his fingers closed around hers, his grip strong. “I can do that.”
He tugged her forward, leading her into the shop. Inside they were greeted by a petite Italian woman dressed all in black, her hair pulled back into a severe bun, her lips painted a bright red.
“Mr. Amari,” she said, inclining her head, “I have set aside a few selections based upon your description of both the event and your friend here,” she said, gesturing to Charity. Charity was not sure how she felt about being called Rocco’s friend in quite that tone. She was not his friend. She was his lover. Though, she imagined the woman meant escort or something. But Charity wasn’t that, either.
Are you really his lover, though? What are you really?
She gritted her teeth and met the other woman’s eyes, forcing a smile. She was not a shrinking violet. That much she was sure of. If she had one legacy from her father that she would claim and use, it was the ability to shine in any situation, at least outwardly.
“Charity Wyatt,” Charity said, extending her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
The shopkeeper was clearly surprised by the introduction, but she took Charity’s offered hand and shook it, and Charity could tell she had won a bit of grudging respect.
“If you don’t mind,” Rocco said, “we will continue to the back to begin trying things on. Now that you have seen Charity, perhaps you have a few other selections to recommend?”
The woman could tell she had been dismissed, but because Rocco was so darn rich and powerful, it was also clear that she wouldn’t argue, even though she wanted to. “Of course, Mr. Amari. Everything is set up in the back, and if you need anything at all just let me know.”
“We will,” Rocco said, tightening his hold on Charity’s hand and leading her toward the back of the store, into an alcove that was furnished with plush chairs, a three-way mirror and a little changing area that was partitioned off from the rest of the room by a thick velvet curtain.
“And are you going to tell me what’s going on now?” she asked, abruptly realizing that she had no idea what she was doing here.
“I have a gala to attend tomorrow night. I thought you would like to be my guest,” he said, sitting down in the chair and sprawling out, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his elbows positioned on the armrest, fingers tented beneath his chin, his gaze watchful.
She blinked. “You’ve only just decided you want to take me?”
“I never bring women to such events. This is some sort of charity thing—I’m not sure for what. I don’t really care. I’ll throw money in the box, and it’s good for my name.”
“Why do you want to bring me?”
He frowned. “What sort of question is that?”
“You don’t normally take women to these sorts of things, you just said. Now you want to take me. And I’m wondering what changed.”
“I decided I didn’t want to meet a woman at the event and take her home with me. That is the beginning and end of why I don’t bring dates to these sorts of things. But you are the only woman I want to go home with, so it stands to reason you should come with me.”
Some of the warmth in her chest was squashed by his words. “Oh.”
He looked away, as he often did when she started getting personal or emotional. “Were you expecting something else? I am not a sentimental man, cara mia. You should have realized that by now. Honest, yes. Sentimental? No. I can fully satisfy your carnal desires, but your finer feelings will have to be dealt with elsewhere. Perhaps watching romantic movies?”
It made her angry that he did that. That he minimized then what had, for a brief, shining moment, become such a large thing in her mind.
A chance to be brought into his world. A chance to be part of it. A part of him.
So she didn’t feel so alone.
“You’re assuming I have any finer feelings,” she said, turning and walking into the dressing room, shutting the velvet curtain behind her. “I’m only a con woman after all. It’s very likely I don’t have them.”
She turned and saw an array of dresses hung there, waiting for her. She was having a flashback to that moment in her apartment, when she had realized that she was caught. When she was staring at a lingerie bag, a dress and a demand.
But this was different. This time, she had her choice of dress.
She reached out and touched the hem of one of the gowns, the fabric soft, finer than anything she could have afforded under normal circumstances. She touched each one of them, settling on the one in emerald green, the softest to the touch.
“I never said you didn’t have feelings,” he said, his voice coming from a much closer place than it had been only a moment before. He was standing right on the other side of the curtain, she could tell.
“But it’s what you think, isn’t it?”
“I may have a difficult time understanding feelings, or connecting with them, Charity. However, I never said you didn’t have them. And I certainly didn’t say it was because you were a con woman. You are the one who seems hell-bent on identifying yourself as such as often as possible.”
“So neither of us forget.” She tugged her shirt up over her head, then made quick work of her pants, before taking the green dress off the hanger and undoing the zipper, stepping into the waterfall of rich silk.
“I am not likely to forget as it is the thing that brought us together. What a wonderful story for us to tell our child.”
She pulled the dress up, holding it against her breasts, reaching behind her and trying to get a hold of the zipper tab.
She managed to get it partway up, but could not get the fabric to meet more than midway up her back. She arched, trying to contort herself so that she could get it up the rest of the way, rustling against the curtains as she did so.
“Let me help you,” Rocco said, his voice softer, richer, darker than the crushed velvet that separated them.
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t be so damned stubborn,” he said.
And then she felt his hands on the fabric of the gown, one braced on the base of the zipper, the other on the tab, as he quickly did it up. A lightning bolt of need shot through her as his knuckles brushed against her bare skin, only a fleeting touch, but it was enough. And not nearly enough all at the same time.
“There,” he said, “it’s much easier when you aren’t stubborn, isn’t it?”
She looked over her shoulder and was surprised by how close he was, his lips a whisper from hers now. “Easier, maybe. But it’s not as much fun.”
A smile curved his lips and she suddenly found herself being pushed deeper into the dressing room, his hold tight on her hip as he turned her to face him, pressing her back against the mirror. “You think this is fun?” He pressed his body against hers, and she could feel the hard length of his arousal against her stomach. “A little challenge?”
“What is life without a challenge?”
“Death,” he said, leaning forward, scraping the sensitive skin of her neck with his teeth. “As long as we struggle we know we’re still alive.”
There was no doubt that she felt alive now. Her heart was thundering hard, her pulse racing, her core aching for something only he could give her.
“We