Falco: The Dark Guardian. Sandra Marton
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smug little smile from her face. To show her, in no uncertain terms, that they sure as hell could play the part of lovers, fool anybody who saw them.
Did she think she was the only one who could stick to a script?
Or did she think a bodyguard was too far out of her class to seem a convincing lover for a woman like her?
She was fighting him. Trying to twist free of his arms, to drag her lips from his. To hell with that. That who-do-you-think-you-are attitude of hers deserved a blunt response. She was wrong and he wasn’t going to let her go until she knew it.
“No,” she gasped against his mouth, but she might as well have saved her breath. Falco speared his fingers into her hair, tilted her face to his and kept on kissing her.
So what if she tasted of honey and cream? If she felt warm and soft against him? Those things were meaningless. This was about nothing else than teaching her that she couldn’t laugh at Falco Orsini and get away with it.
He nipped lightly at her bottom lip. Touched the tip of his tongue to the seam of her mouth. With heart-stopping suddenness, she stopped fighting, stopped struggling.
She leaned into him, sighed and parted her lips. His tongue plunged deep.
The taste of her made his mind blur.
And his body react.
In an instant, he came fully erect, not just aroused but hard as stone, so hard it was painful. Desire pulsed hot and urgent in his blood. He slid his hands to her shoulders, cupped them, lifted her to her toes, drew her so close he could feel the race of her heart against his.
This was what he had wanted since he’d seen her in that first, unaltered ad. The eyes and mouth that promised passion, the made-for-sex body—
The knife that pressed against his belly caught him fully unaware.
Falco went absolutely still.
Where she’d gotten the knife was irrelevant. The feel of it wasn’t. With instincts and sharp reflexes honed by his time in Special Forces, he locked one hand around her forearm and grabbed her wrist with the other, bending it back until the knife clattered to the floor. He kicked it into a corner, saw that it wasn’t a knife at all but the slim plastic handle of a hairbrush. Not that it mattered.
It was the intent that counted.
“Let go of me!”
Her hands clawed for his face. He grunted, shoved her back against the unyielding door, used his weight to keep her in place. The only way she could hurt him was if she managed to throw him off and that was about as likely as the trailer sprouting wings. He had at least seven inches in height on her and probably eighty, ninety pounds of muscle.
“Stop it,” he snarled.
That only made her fight harder. Falco tightened his grasp on her wrists, brought her hands to her sides and pinned them to the door.
“I said, stop it! You want me to hurt you, I will.”
She made a choked sound but it wasn’t of rage, it was of terror. Her face, bright with color a moment ago, blanched. Those enormous topaz eyes turned glassy.
He’d flown out here to protect this woman. Instead, he was scaring her half to death. Kissing her had been a straight and simple matter of ego and he wasn’t into BS like that. He was who he was; he didn’t need anybody’s applause to do whatever job he set out to do, certainly not a client’s. He’d let his pride, whatever you wanted to call it, get in the way.
And he didn’t like it, not one bit.
“Listen to me.”
She wouldn’t. She was lost in her own world, fearing the worst.
“Ms. Bissette,” he said sharply. “Elle. Pay attention. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her eyes met his.
Hell. He’d seen a dog look at him like this once, years back when he was just a kid. He’d found the animal wandering an alley not far from the Orsini mansion in Greenwich Village. Its ribs had showed; there were marks he hadn’t wanted to identify on its back. Come on, boy, he’d said, holding out his hand, but the creature had looked at him through eyes that said it damned well knew his soft voice didn’t mean a thing.
He’d won the dog’s trust by squatting down, holding out his arms, showing his hands were empty. What was the human equivalent of that kind of message?
Falco cleared his throat.
“Okay. Here’s what happens next. I’ll let go of you and step back. You stay where you are. No hands, no fists, no weapons. And we’ll talk. That’s it. We’ll just talk.”
He gave it a couple of seconds. Then he did what he’d told her he’d do. Another couple of seconds went by. She didn’t move. Neither did he. That was some kind of success, wasn’t it? A little color had returned to her face. Another plus. Finally, she took a deep breath.
“I want you to leave.”
Her voice was low but steady. Her eyes had lost that terrified glitter. Good. Maybe now they really could talk.
“Look, Ms. Bissette—”
“I said—”
“I heard you. But we need to discuss this.”
“We have nothing to discuss.”
She was back. He could see it in the way she held herself, in the lift of her chin, the steadiness of her gaze.
“Actually, we do. I’m sorry if I frightened you but—”
“Frightened me?” Her eyes narrowed. “You disgusted me!”
“Excuse me?”
“Putting your hands on me. Your mouth on me.” Her chin went up another notch. “Men like you are…you’re despicable!”
Falco felt a muscle jump in his cheek. He’d been called similar names, a long time back, though they’d been names that were far more basic. It happened when you were a kid and your old man was Cesare Orsini.
He’d learned to respond to such remarks with his fists.
Not this time, obviously. This time, he flashed a cold smile.
“Trust me, Ms. Bissette. The feeling is mutual. I’m not into women who look into a camera as if they want to screw the guy behind it. I was simply making a point.”
“You made it. You’re contemptible.”
Falco gave an exaggerated sigh. “Disgusting, despicable, contemptible. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.”
Elle Bissette folded her arms. “I’ll bet you have.”
“You said we couldn’t fool anybody if we pretended we were lovers. I figured I could save us ten minutes of talk by showing you that you were wrong.”
“Well, you didn’t. And I wasn’t. I’m an actress but playing at being your lover would take more talent that even I possess.”
Her insults almost made him laugh. From poor little victim to haughty aristocrat in the blink of an eye. Damned right, she was an actress.
But he was willing to bet that her terror a little while ago had not been an act.
“Look,” he said in as conciliatory a tone as he could manage, “why don’t we start over? We’ll go somewhere, have a cup of coffee, you’ll fill me in on why you need a bodyguard—”
“I do not need a bodyguard. Are you deaf? I want you out of here, right now.”
She pointed an elegant hand at the door and tossed her head. Her hair, a mane of jet black, flew around her face. He’d bet she’d practiced the gesture in front of a mirror until it looked just right.
“Get out or I’ll scream so loud